I admit that I don’t have the best track record with my daughters at age 8. They seem to bloom into hormonal rage at the drop of a hat and I return the volley to the best of my abilities. Afterward, sometimes in the midst, I am shocked by my own vitriol.
Then, they cry. And, I want to cry, too, but I can’t show weakness or maybe the tenuous grasp I have on the ability to influence them disintegrates. I am stuck in an age-old vortex of confusion and they are warriors, like me. It could be a fight to the death.
So, I bend. I bend and wind around them like an invasive vine, wrapping them in my arms, disguising myself as every ounce of love I carry for them.
The mother-daughter connection sometimes feels as if it will snap in two, yet it endures. And, as I bring my daughter back into the space of her first earthly home, love envelopes us both.
They say Sekhmet, they say Kali was so enraged that they had to intoxicate her through the blood to bring her back to her senses. Perhaps that is the patriarchal re-telling. It’s more likely that her daughters grabbed onto her waist, tightened their grasp in a fit of love, and the rage simply left her body.
Daughters are the antidote to everything that ails a mother.