The confessions of a domesticated wild woman
As we head into a New Year, my soul is calling to be free. I am so sick and tired. Literally and metaphorically. Tired, tired, tired of the complications of emotional relationships on every level. Tired of family. This Christmas season has been fraught in just about every family relationship I have, and I am SO done with it. All I want is simple – no feelings, no misinterpretations, no needs made of me, no demands or requirements. I am fit to run from home and hide in a cabin in the wild woods of Alaska.
May I add as a side note that I am not overdoing it with work, nor with house or social commitments. But even the little I am doing is too much. I feel the New Year hovering and with it big new work, new creations to be gestated, others to be delivered. I feel the need to clear and cleanse myself in a way I never have before.
This is not easy as a mama of three little ones. Especially one who wakes throughout the night and does not want to be weaned. And another who demands me to do everything.
It’s all just TOO full on in our little world right now – I just need an emotional detox from everything I can and to step back all requirements made on me that I can. I want to dive into my creative life head first.
And so, with those that understand, I am asking for space. Little kiddies do not, it must be said, understand. So I shall have to do my best. Though in reality I despair of the mother I have become to them. I cannot even justify it many days as “doing my best”. The truth is that I am here. And that must be enough. I am coming to a rather late conclusion that I am not great long-term mother material. And that does make me feel sad. My creative spirit calls me. I try to keep my heart with my kiddies, not to burn too many bridges. But the call is loud and strong. And I am aware that I am kindling the flames of mother-hate within them, flames that will be fanned by the winds of age and independence.
The voice of the wild calls. I want to be free. The louder it calls, the stronger I feel my weakness as a partner, a mother. My gaping lack of ability. I want to run away, to fly to a far distant land, to be free of my captivity, my drudgery, from this life I have so willingly chosen for myself, from this domestic bliss I have so carefully constructed, piece by piece. It feels like shackles to my soul. It chafes and confines. I long to be free. Just me. Pure, and free. Me and the wind and the moon and the trees, and my trusty pen. Free. How that word sings. I long for freedom. Can taste it like the memory of ice cream eaten on an exotic beach. Everything about my life as a mother is far from free. My day is wound carefully around the needs of others.
I feel like a domesticated wild woman. So often I just want to run. I don’t belong here pairing socks and making pancakes, wiping bottoms and lulling fractious children to sleep. I want to be off, wild and free, with no one to answer to, to be nice, polite to, to make a nutritious meal, carefully cut up for. I wish to wake when I want, and sleep when I want. Alone.
I want to write all day, then to sit and watch the fire and eat chocolate and drink to much wine, then walk in the woods by moonlight, before curling up alone in a warm bed with a book that makes my soul soar before going to sleep for a night full of uninterrupted sleep.