The Beagle For Beauty
The Beagle For Beauty Monthly
Letting Go In Motherhood
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Letting Go In Motherhood

An honest poem to help you feel seen
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This beautiful and relatable poem was written by my talented friend Valerie Kurtz. I met Valerie a few years ago through a dear mutual friend who felt we would be kindred spirits, she was right!

Valerie lives in southern California and is a wife and mother of three children, two here and one in heaven.  

As a mum walking with God, she has navigated the exhilarating journey of toddlers and teens, joy and sorrow, therapies and surgeries, desperation and faith, and holding on and letting go for the sake of unconditional love.

Valerie has worked in primary education, church administration, and in data and technology, but aside from the working world is a passionate lover of music, art, food, travel, nature, and words - especially children's literature.  

You can find more of Valerie’s creative work at valeriekurtz.substack.com

It’s been a huge honour to get to know Valerie and be a part of her world.

(FYI albuterol, is a medication that opens up the airways in the lungs and treats asthma)

Me with Valerie Oct 2022, looking toward north Hollywood from Mulholland Drive.

Therapy
by Valerie Kurtz

Where does this come from?  This need to fix things for people, to make things ok for them?

It comes from motherhood, I answer. 

Because when you grow a tiny soul seed in your womb 
And you cry and push past your invisible limits to bring it forth and introduce the sweet air to breathe
Then you are the one
You are the one responsible for warmth and light and sleep and nourishment
For lullabies
You will sculpt safety and goodness, a hand-sewn quilt, a haven of joy and discovery
A place where the sprouted soul is seen, important, whole, cherished
You must. You are the one. And you wanted to be.

Let go, they say

When? 
When do you release the balloon string of your own heart?
Allow indifference to take root for the lost tooth, the skinned knee, the broken heart? Fall behind and stop placing the road signs 
FALLING ROCKS
Watch them instead, fall into the road?
Cease sculpting the haven and set down your tools?
Let go, they say again

When the sweet air to breathe is not sweet
Albuterol, the gasp of anxiety,
The shallow sobs of disappointment, 
Two rescue breaths
You are the one who remains

I still hear Mama 
In my too-small memory
I’m sorry it’s hard
I wish I could take the pain for you 
I would give my very life for you 
You’ll understand the Great Love someday
When you have children of your own

I have. I do.
The womb inside out
I give my very life, unraveling slowly like a pulled sweater
Stretched further in a torn stitch 
I allow myself to be unmade
And made 
And unmade 

A sweater 

Sometimes lovely 
The right softness
Warm and just enough
And we bend and move together and laugh
Feeding ducks, tying dandelions chains
In the days made for us

Sometimes squeezing too tightly
Wrapped around and swallowing whole
That person, that beautiful person 
Who is mine
And who was never mine at all

Sometimes crumpled on the floor
Forgotten as they run out the door
And I lie still and flat
And see if they will come back

Sometimes relaxed 
As they tuck under the folds and pull me closer
Wrapped in Charlotte’s Web and Winnie the Pooh’s poetry
And a contented story of their own
That I am in, but not writing

Sometimes clutched and pulled too tight
In the middle of the night
Wiping tears
From the fears of a dislodged nightmare 
That I am in, but not writing

Sometimes reaching, wrapping to protect and hug
Working myself to fit around that body that has become too big
And doesn’t want to be protected or hugged anymore anyway

Sometimes overworn, overworked
Sagging to the knee 
Hoping for a moment in the dryer to tighten the knits and the purls
Back to where they belong
To where they were before the wearing

Sometimes faded, dry, empty 
Folded up, away in the drawer
Too threadbare for warmth or covering
The biting air of the world
So I let go
Trusting that Someone else must do it 

Sometimes with sleeves too short
To hold that which I was made to hold
So I let go
And it flies away
And I can’t hold it
Or touch it
Or see it anymore

Sometimes unraveled

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The Beagle For Beauty
The Beagle For Beauty Monthly
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