A tough read, but powerful. Karen Carpenter: Starved for Love.
If anorexia has classically been defined as a young woman’s struggle for control, then Karen was a prime candidate, for the two things she valued most in the world – her voice and her mother’s love – were exclusively the property of her brother Richard. At least she would control the size of her own body.
Loved this article about how Octavia Butler literally wrote her life into existence.
I’ve been thinking about this topic myself for the past few weeks. Knowing that I was born with all the eggs I’ll ever have, it means that my children were in my mother’s womb when I was. And that I was in my grandmother’s womb. Turns out my cells stayed with my mother as well.
Fetal cells you contributed to your own mother may be found in her blood, bone marrow, skin, kidney, and liver. These fetal cells appear to “treat” her when she is ill or injured. Researchers have noticed the presence of these cells in women diagnosed with illnesses such as thyroid disease and hepatitis C. In one case, a woman stopped treatment against medical advice. A liver biopsy showed “thousands of male cells” determined to be from a pregnancy terminated nearly 20 years earlier. These cells helped her body recover just as fetal cells you gave your mother rush to help repair her from within when she’s unwell.
I love this: Literary Travel. And also, learning about where you’re going through local literature.
There is no urgency on the path to healing. A beautiful reframe.
While there is a very genuine part of us that wants to change, to rewire, and to heal these old patterns, there is often another part that is not so sure. This is the case, I believe, as on some level we know that to truly transform these archaic organizing beliefs would require that we come face to face with every feeling, emotion, and sensation they have helped us to avoid. No more hiding. The only way out is through. Additionally, such transformation can trigger a certain primordial, existential anxiety and groundlessness – who would I be if I was not the unworthy one? The unlovable one? The guarded one? The complaining one? The one who can no longer blame my experience on another? What sort of responsibility would I have – toward myself, others, and the world – if these old identities dissolved?
Cheryl Strayed. Baby Weight.
And most of all, I wanted to tell her that now that I was a mom, I understood something that had never occurred to me before: that when she had raved about the smell or weight of a baby in her arms, she hadn’t really been talking about that borrowed baby, she had been talking about me.
But I couldn’t say that to my mother. All I could do was pour the love she’d given me into my son. I could also finish my novel, which, as it happened, was essentially an ode to her.
I would please like all of these NASA travel posters.