Some days I have no trouble letting my mind wander as I play with my child. I brainstorm ideas for my latest project as she throws my shoes down the stairs. Most days however, with a child, I find myself firmly rooted in the present moment, unable (or unwilling) to access the mental space I need to go elsewhere.
Earlier this week I had the opportunity to run errands on my own. I did a few things, then, as it was midday, I took myself out to lunch. All I’ve wanted lately is to eat a meal while seated, without trying to respond coherently to my partner while also trying to figure out what my daughter is yelling about. Without jumping up every two minutes to fetch a napkin or get the kimchi (the one food Maya is guaranteed to eat). I want a meal that doesn’t feel like a race, with a food-splattered kitchen at the finish line.
So for a glorious thirty minutes, I sank into a version of myself I haven’t spent time with lately, the self who loves to read while eating (and drinking). Unfortunately, that’s not a family or relationship-friendly hobby, but when the opportunity arises I won’t complain. At this lovely solo lunch I pulled out a book I’ve been carrying around for a month, a gift from a dear family member: Jasmine Elizabeth Smith’s South Flight. The poems are a series of conversations—letters—between a woman and her lover who has left the south to try to make it in the north.
I am warmed by her first poems, introducing me to the characters and the setting, 1920s, Oklahoma. I feel like I’m being let in on a conversation that’s not meant for my ears. It’s not only the way the poems are crafted as correspondence between two lovers, but the way it falls so far beyond the white gaze. Most of what I read is written for me (middle class white lady) or written with the intention of being relatable to a wide audience (see Audre Lorde). Smith’s poetry feels like I’ve discovered a crack in the wall where two folks are talking and if I stay quiet I might hear something more true than anything that could be said to me directly.
A few days later I pick Smith’s book up again. This time my little companion is at my side. Actually I’m letting her sit in my lap as I type, letting her see the machine that dominates so much of my non-parenting life. Despite my reservations about screens, I want her to see me work, to know that I do more than laundry and dishes. I type a few lines, dodging her persistent paws, then move to the floor to read some poems aloud.
I’m caught by certain lines, backing up to reread silently: “How can a strangled chord / progression picked in love // sound like something other / than violence?” writes Jim, the distant lover, in “Love Letter on the Eve of Revolution”. Later, in the same poem, he says, “I know this blues // sounds mean, / but how can I love on bended knees?”
Beatrice responds to Jim’s love letters with tales of rotten teeth and wild dogs. “Beatrice Contemplates the Wild Dog Killing Prey” begins:
Yesterday, under scuffed moon a few wild dogs hungry followed the trail of prey miles over.
Maya lets me read three-quarters of a poem, staring at my mouth as I read, curious about the relationship between the sounds coming out of my mouth and this bound stack of paper I hold. She grabs the book, holding it like I did and boldly pronouncing her version of the words. It becomes an object to hide behind, mischievous hazel eyes peeking out above the front cover. Soon Maya is waving an empty plastic bag in the air, entranced by the crinkly music. Our afternoon of reading: we make words and sounds and then take breaks to cuddle and tumble around.
I reclaim the book and read on, my brain split between the distant, visceral world of Beatrice and Jim, and this room where I spend so much of my day. I accept that this is the way life is right now, that for me, mothering a small child means giving up the opportunity to let my mind wander freely. Knowing that it will always come back to the baby, where is she, what is she doing, why is she trying to climb the stairs with a flowerpot in her hands?
Attention drifts back to her with love too. Of all the beauty in our backyard, why not let eyes fall on this precious child? Yes, I do want to stare at the empty planting beds, visualizing the colors and textures of plants filling in the brown space, but then I hear a clank behind me and there she is again, tugging a watering can across the brick.