Minotaur

I need you to pay attention

Lean in close and examine every word. The letters

have been sewn with thread.

Follow the thread, it leads you

deeper to a cold and frightening place

but do not stop. Crawl, if you must

Face to the floor, listening to things flapping overhead,

searching for you.

They are the guardians of this room

but you must not stop.

Crawl. Keep the thread between your fingers and scrub

your flesh against the stone

you will shiver

you will cry.

Keep going.

In the labyrinth, they say, there is a Minotaur.

Do not stop.

They say that it was once a man, or maybe it is only part of one.

You don’t know, you’ve never seen it.

But the villagers whispered of it.

Inch by inch you will shiver and mewl along the path

The threads will take you deeper.

It will be hard- your palms will sweat.

The cold damp dark does not end.

After a time, the flapping sounds may stop. Maybe they sleep,

Or maybe you’ve passed through their realms.

You will not be able to see, yet.

You may try to stand.

Maybe you will keep crawling, hands and knees,

afraid. You’ve been cold for so long.

Please do not stop.

You’ve never been this deep before.

It is too quiet. There is nothing to stop the memories.

This may be worse than the flapping sounds

of god-knows-what above you, seeking your flesh.

The voices you hear are cruel

whimpering lashing gnawing lies

But they feel so true.

You have been cold for so long.

The creatures sleeping behind you

were better than this,

you think. And maybe they were.

Do not stop. The threads are still there.

In the labyrinth is a minotaur,

it is huge and awful,

the way only fairy tales monsters are.

Once someone saw it, and lived.

But it was so long ago, that no one is sure

what is real, anymore.

How did you come to this place?

You listened and followed the threads

that slithered like snakes from the dark

and stitched you up like a patient

etherized upon a table

The threads you follow,

That hurt as you walk,

you realize they are wet and warm in your hand

But you have been cold for so long-

There are voices in your head,

the memories that hurt,

they are slopping out of you like guts

like a patient whose stitches have come loose.

You understand now why the threads are warm.

Pieces that were a part of you are falling out

splashing on the stones

Do not stop. Keep crawling.

You may be weeping

but you do not need to see

Follow the threads.

You feel it in your chest,

the bindings which kept you whole

are coming loose.

There is nothing to stop the voices.

There is nothing to hold you together.

Do not stop. The threads are still there.

You remember being wrapped tightly

and told that if you were,

the minotaur would not get you.

They lay you down and strapped you tight

and began to sew.

It was terrible. It hurts now like it did

that first aching hour of needles and threads,

no child should endure.

Everyone, they said, has been sewn together like this.

It will keep you safe.

When you walked with a limp,

They all wondered why. When you curled with a hunch,

they all wondered why,

out loud, to each other, the same hands

that held you down

and punched iron through flesh

the same hands that strung the needles with thread

They all wondered why.

You are afraid to move. You cannot stop sobbing.

The noise of it will draw down the monster,

you are sure. But you cannot stop weeping.

they never did give you anything

for the pain. Not at first.

And then all there was was numbing

against the hunch, against the limp,

the hobbled legs and crippled back

They told you there must be something wrong with you.

still, they slipped you herbal teas

and you slept.

How did you get here?

You followed the threads

Do not stop. They are still there. They will take you deeper.

You may not want to keep going.

You feel so raw. As if every needle hole was fresh

You may want to run, hobble tilt, towards the opening

but you cannot tell where it was.

Do not stop. There is more.

And that’s what frightens you most.

You could not see what fell out of you

when you pulled the stitches loose

but it sounded so wet. And you hurt so much.

Do not stop.

They all told you not to wander far

keep close to home and hearth

the fires will keep the monsters at bay

and they handed you another cup

of

something.

You slept.

You may rest, there in the dark.

But do not linger. There is more. There is

So much

More.

The threads tug a little at your hand,

As if there is something on the other end

drawing you in. You are so afraid.

But you have come this far

And if the minotaur were to eat you?

Well, that would be an end, wouldn’t it?

You stand.

The threads are dry and slip through your calloused hands easily.

There is tension at the other end, and you can walk now,

Quickly, even, towards it.

There is light curving around a stone bend. The threads lead you to the heart of the maze,

Where there is warmth, and light. You shiver

Some more, as you warm, and as you steady yourself

For death.

The heart of the labyrinth is round, circled by torches. In the center is a rug,

Hand woven

That looks familiar. There is no minotaur. That you can see.

There is only

a child.

A boy.

He is afraid of you. You are afraid of you

Covered in grime and tears and snot

But you will not look down to see what fell out of you

It would be too awful.

The boy holds the strings in his hands.

He is relieved to see you.

He weeps with the abandon of childhood.

You do, too.

You speak of many things with him. He is smart,

for a child.

There has been terrible pain

In getting here

But when you ask him about the minotaur

He is surprised

And tells you that it is he.

You laugh and say

The minotaur is a monster

With iron teeth

And a voice so loud you can’t think

Arms so strong they crunch your bones

So you can’t walk

Breath like a sleeping poison,

So you can’t get away.

The boy laughs and says he ran away to hide from that monster. Here,

In the labyrinth. Where it is safe.

But he couldn’t go too far

Because of the threads

What threads?

The ones they used to sew me up. I couldn’t go away, he said,

So I went in. And then the cave got longer and longer

Until it was a maze. And I was very lonely.

He puts the threads down, as if they were snakes, and walks to you.

When you look down at him, you cannot help

But see yourself.

There are no gaping wounds, nothing

Horrible to see. The holes where the threads once were are healing,

Even now.

You see that your legs are straight, and with one hand, you touch

Your back, unbowed.

You are whole.

The boy runs to a chest you did not see before

And opens it, and asks you

for your help. You are so much stronger than he.

Inside is a sword, blade unmarked and gleaming.

A hero’s sword,

You say.

The boy shrugs. You can take it if you’re going to leave.

Why?

There are monsters along the way. He says, and points to the door

Of the heart of the labyrinth

Where you suffered and wept and fell open

And instead of darkness

You see the doors of all the villagers standing open

And they are afraid.

The maze is gone, and there is sunlight on the boy’s face

For the first time

In many many years.

On the wall, where you never noticed it before,

Is a glass, and in it you see

A man

He is tall, and strong looking,

You think he must be quite a hero

A real slayer of monsters,

But when you ask the boy about it

He looks into the glass, and says

I see myself.

You ask if there’s a shield for this sword

And he shakes his head.

You don’t need it anymore.

You tell the boy he should come with you

And he says he can’t

Because the monsters will eat him. When

They are all gone

He says, I will be able to visit you.

Outside the heart of the labyrinth,

You see the doors of all the villagers standing open

And they are very afraid.

The sunlight is blinding after all this time in the dark.

You go towards it.

You can hear the villagers screaming.

They will stop, soon.

Very soon.

Life, or something like it.

I could talk about the beautiful eggplant Parmesan I made tonight- the custardy slabs of eggplant, the salty acidity of the fresh tomato sauce, the meaty hot mozzarella, and sopping up its juices with crusty Italian bread.

I could tell you about the sexiest jelly I've ever eaten in my life, the Concord Grape and Walnut Conserve that I made myself and canned myself, or the thick buttery lemon curd I made.

I could tell you about all the lovely foods I've made, lingered over, planned, crafted and devoured. The pear jelly that burbles even now on the stove.

Or the way Tristan is growing, the physical and emotional and psychological leaps and bounds. How he is emerging from those chubby little baby parts into a sweet, giving little toddler who likes to help mommy clean up ( ha ha!) and who LOVES throwing everything into the garbage pail or the toilet bowl. Somewhere in my tiny apartment is a toilet lock that I desperately need.

Tristan is teething, so gobs of pale green snot are flubbering out of his cute nose. He blows his nose, now, too, which is pretty funny. Today, while cooking, he asked to be picked up, watched me and then swooped low to kiss me on the mouth! Whoa! talk about a sweet little surprise!

A woman from Persia once said, in an exquisite voice, "His skin is like milk." and she is very right. I like to think that she meant more than it's color or creaminess. I like to think that if milk could become flesh, Tristan is what it would be like. Sigh.

evidence of a smart boy

This is Kevin...first time I'm on here to give actual life details.

I'm frequently impressed by Tristan's developing abilities. From squirming to crawling and now walking, from 'gu-gu' to 'hi da-di' and "dattt!" (used to indicate any source of light), every couple of days he's made obvious advancements.

Today he had two that wowed me so much I just had to come and tell everyone. First, while I held him with Brig standing next to me, he, with a grand smile, gripped my nose, then hers, then mine, then hers, with clear recognition of the similarity. Then, just now, I gave him his little set of keys for an old combination lock, and set him down on the floor. He walked directly to the front door and held the keys up to the doorknob...this kid is putting it all together pretty fast!

Anyway, I love being a dad, very proud that my boy is now a whole year old. I usually get annoyed at the inevitable refrain of "Doesn't it go so fast?!" and usually I acquiesce with a "Yep, yeah it does!" just because I'd rather not delve into details with most people. But here, let me say - I believe that if you're paying attention every day to how your children are growing and changing, it will seem less fast. So because I'm spending the time I want to with my son and experiencing him a lot, I will say the time is going at a normal pace, and as to where it all went, well, it went where all time goes, and I'm ok with that.

Parenting

Oh, where to begin?

I have been going through so much- our family has been growing in leaps and emotional bounds...

All the small things, the things with which I pass my time- the house plan browsing, the recipe hunting ( too many things to link to, so I can't pick just one. Sorry.) the constant reading I have been doing lately-

But there are a few big things, such as Tristan's first birthday (!). On Wednesday, our son will be a full year in existence, and what a delight he has been! I find myself saying constantly "He's such a good boy." He is behaving as a child who is thoroughly assured of love. I am amazed at his growing personality- how cheerful he is, and how serious.

When he was six months old, he started crawling, and the world was wide and exciting. There was little interest in sitting still those days. Now, my son is walking, and he has started choosing to show me affection, to reach out and be touched, to be loved in a tangible way, and his choosing is what delights me most. I know that by seeking to sit in my lap, he is looking for affirmation himself, but I cannot help being thrilled because he knows that he can get it.

What great satisfaction in being the kind of person others go to for love and affirmation- to be a person who is so safe. I am not yet this safe in all my relationships (ask my husband) but I am growing in that direction.

Some of my reading has led me to a resource that describes healthy parenting as a "one-way valve" where resources flow from the parent to the child, but not the other way around. I have come to thoroughly agree with this. I can affirm my son, but I must never look to my son for affirmation. At least not directly, and certainly not as a goal in our interactions. My son will love me, but I must never depend on his love- for he is small, and he is very vulnerable.

The healthy flow chart of love- from God to me, from God to my husband. From my husband to me, and me to my husband, and then from us to our son (and possible future children). Just as God does not depend on my love to be who He is, so I must not depend on my child's love for me.

This is in no way saying that my son's love for me is unwelcome or unwanted- but I am saying that I must not lean on my son's love for me. Do you understand the difference? I am starting to.

Recently, my husband and I discussed a passage in a book that read "Whenever I hear a client say that they 'love being a parent' I get suspicious and start looking for clues that they are using their children to meet their own needs."

While Kevin said he disagreed, I had to admit something that had caused me some source of black shame-

I do not love being a parent.

Hear me out- I love being Tristan's mother, and I love Tristan, and I love my family. But being a parent is the very reason I stopped my schooling, stopped working, and live a somewhat rigorously scheduled existence that has very little to do with my own gratification. I do not write that way I used to.

Oh, the hours spent at coffee houses, journaling, writing poems and drinking coffee! Spending money on frivolities! The road trips, the nights out at parties, at clubs, the life that then seemed a bit solitary now seems utterly hedonistic!

So when I am asked if I love being a parent, I am liable to say yes, but the truth is a little more complicated. Do I love sacrificing everything for the first three years of my son's life, focusing my energy on others?

No. Yes. No- er...Am I a masochist? No. Am I a human being, selfish mostly? Yes.
But am I also a mother? A principled woman who believes strongly in causes bigger than me? Yes. Do I believe that while I may never get a return on my investment into my son, it is still worthwhile?

Yes.

All this ferocious rhetoric to justify the simple thought that I am not such a fan of self-sacrifice. But you see, to be a mother in this culture is to be riddled with guilt, any way you turn. How can I say that I do not want to live for my children? ( inner guilt brigade gasps at even uttering such a statement.) Ah, but I can. I can say that I refuse to live for my children. I can say it and accept it as a healthy statement.

Because, let's be honest, a one year old sure ain't a conversationalist. He cannot sustain me, and I will never ask him to. I look forward to my husband's arrival home like a thirsty woman leans towards a glass of water. I eagerly await my emails from friends, my rare and oh-so-thrilling girl's nights out, when I am not a mommy.

Here is the main lesson I want to really learn, to suck the marrow from its bones: I and my children are seperate beings at very different stages of development, and as such, we will not be friends for a very long time. I have been entrusted with this one young life, and I am not here to be his friend. I am here to be his mother, to train him up, to direct him, to lovingly tend him, and to teach him how to be on his own. I will respect him as a seperate person, even as that personhood is growing, even as he is not sure who he is.

This, I am coming ot understand, is a healthy place to be. I will not be consumed by my role as mother- I would rather be consumed by my role as human being. Complex, maturing, growing, encouraging. Supported and loved by husband and friends, so that I can then support and encourage my son with all my needs already met. We should never burden our children with our needs, or our desires, or our longing for companionship. My children are not here for me.

My children are not here for me.

Free at last, free at last, I thank God I'm free at last.

Projects

I am clearing up today, running around, bending, heaving, shoving...yes, just some lite cleaning. I'm preparing for a visit by Kevin's mother and grandparents, just trying to get some last minute decor done.
When people visit, it gives me great motivation to clean up. And to finish those decorating projects I've just lacked the energy to do without a deadline.

Other than that, life has been ticking along with regularity. I have always been one who revels in the comfort of a routine, like cats roll in the sun.

Kevin and I recently celebrated our two year anniversary of marriage, by meandering around on Elmwood and picking up our gifts for one another, and going out for Mexican. A vastly better Mexican experience this time than last time- but I think that might be another post. I should start a resteraunt review series. I should review a whole bunch of things, like movies and recipes. Oh well.

But, of all the things I'd love to talk about, there is one for sure I'd like to throw out, test the waters, run up the flagpole see who salutes it...Whatever metaphor you want.

Of late, I have been thinking over the concept of generational sin. I was raised with the idea that generational sin was some kind of poorly defined largely mystical sense of sins in your family that seem to run in your blood. In my family, it was always lust. People just couldn't seem to keep their pants on, despite the hurt they did to themselves. (Interestingly, no one committed adultery that I know of. Considering how easily they told me about bed-hopping, I doubt they'd leave out wife-stealing.) This idea was that in my blood was a ferocious predilection towards lust.

I have come to decide that this is not true. The article listed above does justify me in this. You know what I think generational sin REALLY is? I think Philip Larkin said it best.

This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.



Whike I thoroughly disagree with the last two lines, I think the man had a better concept of generational sin than most pastors today.

So the question is, how to two very damaged people raise a child without their particular brand of damage?

I think I know- do you?

home decor, on a dental floss budget

So, of late, I have been performing my own version of self-help reading, which is to say I have been going to the library and getting out gardening and decorating books. And cook books, which hopefully each of these topics will get it's own post.

As you all know, we are a young couple with little money (mostly used for living on) and a budding little toddler. We are both pretty fresh out of college, and have the furniture to reflect that. Oh, the joys of Ikea and the metal frame futon. Our art is mostly posters stabbed through at the corners by multiple years of thumbtacks. Everything else is either loaned to us or bought at discount stores. When we are actually able to purchase our own furniture, it will probably come from Wal-mart. Not saying this is necessarily bad or intolerable....

It's just that when you take out books by Better Homes and Gardens, also known as We have crap loads of money and time to decorate our homes and gardens....Well, if you followed the link, you get the idea. I love the sample rooms they show you to give you ideas, like this bedroom, for instance. Or these living rooms.

Honestly, when your home looks like this, is it so hard to make it look good? Frankly, I want a decor book that's the equivalent of starting with a toad and turning it into Kate Moss. Show me that book, and I'll buy that sucker, not just take it out of the library!

So I decided to start getting things together for your basic Section 8 decorating plan. I'm learning basic principles, and trying to implement them. I went to Goodwill, and made some serious finds for picture frames, (because you cannot paint your apartment, thank you.) And I'm going to post on making your own canvas art. I heart Jo-Ann's fabrics!! Target is also my friend.

Here's to being poorer than dirt and struggling to be stylish. "Fashion for all" let's not forget.

a few photos

lots going on, lots of daily life. Will be updating very soon- be ready for terminal cuteness on my son's part.