THE SEASON OF MY BEING

The season of my being

I slip in and out of this

This place I’ve long held as my haven

Amorphous, known only in dreams

Felt more so than understood

My son, only four

Speaks with simple wisdom

And asks at bedtime

With eyes wide and knowing

“Mama what’s behind your eyes?”

I answer without much forethought

My brain.

“Mama what’s behind your brain?”

Love.

“Mama what’s behind love?”

God.

“What’s behind God?”

Everything.

“What’s behind everything?”

Nothing.

So these conversations

Question and answer times

Stay with me

Fill me

Define me

Me as person

Me as woman

Me as divine being

Me as nothing

Me as Mama

And I return to where I began

As I slip into my

Season of being

Not always a perfect fit

Sometimes defined more by fear than love

Still the season of my being has arrived

And I ask myself

Have I?

(Written November 5, 2004 for Aidan, my youngest, inspired by his abundant, unstoppable curiosity and cheefulness)