A mother's heart

A 'thank you' to this tearful, entangled, time-travelling, tolerant heart

Life has been topsy turvy this past month, leaving little time to write. A number of incomplete drafts lie in my SubStack dashboard, most of them containing disconnected phrase that are impossible to develop into coherent writing. Churning out articulate writing feels difficult right now. But, since putting out my writing without over analysis has served me well for several years, I decided to develop one stub into a short essay this morning.

I started writing this on a morning that felt very difficult. A morning when I went through the regular motions of life while reeling from a fight with my teen that felt like a toxic pattern impossible to break out of. This morning, I woke up reflecting on last night’s long-overdue conversation with a dear friend on the tribulations of navigating multigenerational neurodivergence. Flooded with gratitude, the only emotion that could make sense of it all, I was finally able to write! So here goes…

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I have a mother’s heart, and it is always - beautifully, but also tiresomely - brimming with emotion. It is vast and can hold many feelings at the same time. It is deep and wide, able to contain a veritable war of contradicting emotions.

The purpose of this excessive emotional capacity is not always clear to me. On difficult days I wonder if this is a divine diabolical design to punish mothers for taking on the impossible task of motherhood. But surely, my uncynical mind believes, a purpose must exist, which I must find and understand, if only to preserve my own sanity.

Birth Altar by Clarity Haynes

Tears

My mother’s heart is always driving me to tears. My children’s achievements bring tender moisture to my eyes. When they are in distress I cry for them, with them. And when they are defiant, stubborn and on the path to self-destruction, hot frustrated tears line my cheeks. Even when everything is hunky dory, tears are prompted by a lurking fear, an anticipation of the next setback, the next challenge.

Tears are a constant companion to my heart. No matter why they appear, their familiarity leaves me comforted, pacified even. Tears are the language of my mother’s heart.

'Mother and Child', an eternal theme in art - By Pablo Picasso, Egon Schiele, Gustave Klimt

Tangled

My mother’s heart is always tangled with my children. It doesn’t seem to matter that they are not wee little creatures anymore, but young adults finding their way in the world. My senses remain keenly attuned to every ripple and wave, up and down in their lives. My mother’s heart remains watchful. It knows when my children feel heavy, carefree, pensive or confused. And happy.

Too invested, too intertwined, bordering on suffocation? Yet, a shadow that never walks away. A constant, predictable outlet. Emotional dustbin? Or, I prefer to think, scaffolding.

By Indian artists - P T Reddy, M F Husain, M V Dhurandhar

Time-traveller

My mother’s heart remembers everything in the past and imagines a hundred futures. It time travels effortlessly. Watching my daughter and her father chatting on the couch catapults me to a scene from a decade ago, when she hung on his shoulders monkey-like, the essence of the interaction similar, charged with lightness, frolic and ease. Sitting shotgun while my son drives evokes an imagination of an older us. I see a mature, steady and purposeful young man, more self-assured and just as caring as he is today. I see myself as calmer, more grateful, less afraid.

The heart recalls the past to sharpen the present, to put things in perspective. It opens windows to future possibilities, to visualisations of tomorrow that make today more meaningful. The time-traveling heart conjures up past and future imagery to steady today’s turbulent mind, to replace despondency with fragrant hope. My mother’s heart knows what realms of time it needs to explore to make sense of the present, to pull me through tough times and celebrate the good moments.

Women artists' portrayal of motherhood can be different - Alice Neel, Carrie Mae Weems

Tolerant

My mother’s heart is a stretchable, malleable organ that accommodates an exhaustive set of plans, ideas, emotions and memories. Capable of absorbing all the pain, uncertainty and harshness inflicted upon it, it is just as adept at holding space for what others feel. In a moment, it can transform from a sponge for pain to an emitter of joy and hope.

Everyday, this heart navigates the highs and lows of personal achievement and struggle, while simultaneously absorbing, participating and supporting the trials, tribulations and joyful experiences of family and friends. It is always taking on more, and then some. More anxiety from the tasks that pile up on an already full plate. More joy from the progress made by children. More pride from a partner’s gentleness and generosity. More grief from a dear one’s passing.

And through all this, it beats steadily. Lub-dub lub-dub. My mother’s heart is strong, steady and clear. It is tolerant, predictable and certain, guiding home errant thoughts and emotions safely, like a lighthouse on a turbulent coastline. I could not be more grateful for it.