SUPPORT<\/b><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
They crash into each other with simultaneous fury and tenderness. A frantic run towards each other, an animal jump, and at the point of maximum proximity, the gentle caress on the withers, the heel caught in the palm.<\/span><\/p>\n Scream, gasp, pulsate. They bump into each other, lean against each other and lose balance. They come closer, embrace and break away in bursts of stretched muscles, bare soles and loose hair.<\/span><\/p>\n Some people have this power of not being in their minds all the time.<\/span><\/p>\n Some people live in their bodies, and as they move, they release matter into and around them. <\/span><\/p>\n They pulse, vibrate, shake, push and pull, hit and hug. I describe with my body what I cannot explain in words.<\/span><\/p>\n This freedom is scary. This movement of the proto-man who does does not say that he does. Muscles and ligaments and bones and skin tremble. Tense faces, and constellations of expressions, clash and defuse.<\/span><\/p>\n Voices, but not voices, sounds not voices. Yelling. Vocal cords vibrating under the pressure of a pushed air, a contracted diaphragm in the spirit of do now and we find out what it means next.<\/span><\/p>\n Is this what it means to be someone’s mother?<\/span><\/p>\n To make room and leave room. To show what courage means but to judge from a distance. To show what abandonment means but never to abandon.<\/span><\/p>\n Does it mean being the fulcrum? <\/span><\/p>\n Support that doesn’t just mean the solid trunk you tie your hammock to, but the wind that swings it. The support that means that invisible border that defines space and the laws of physics, that keeps us alive and healthy. <\/span><\/p>\n Being a mother means building a shelter and then watching the baby tear it down.<\/span><\/p>\n Support. A chest next to the chest shaken by crying. A knee to lay your head on, an outstretched arm to stand on. A cry that chases away ghosts, a heel caught in the palm. <\/span><\/p>\n