‘I Am’ was made when I first moved to the mountains. The black mountains near Hay on Wye, home, like the Yorkshire Dales. A feeling of self crept in, maybe even contented self.
I didn’t care who I was or wasn’t. I just was. I Am.
I woke in the dark this morning, just below the mountains, a few days after mother’s day and words arrived.
I will never be a Mam, a Mummy, a Mum.
I will never be a Nana or a Gran or Granny.
I am a daughter now but as we both get older there is no hiding the space opening up behind us. Filled for Mummy by my sister’s children but empty on my line.
Cavernous is too small an adjective.
Head on the pillow, over and over the words churn, not unhappily, because when words come they mend, darn an irritating hole, express and lighten an unmapped heaviness. Mothers Day, Easter, Christmas, Summer Holidays, they come round, I am used to the large empty caves. I don’t even want children now but the echo is always there, ready to rise up for special occasions.
Warm bed, warm flesh, skin on skin in a dark cold room brought the words of a new sculpture I am making called ‘You and Me’. Simple but huge.
Three words are etched into bronze over and over like a chant or prayer, as if in the confusion of moving to a big city we may loose each other but in this new place we are strong, you and me….and Molly. Three words muddle until I become you and you become me and
I am not me.
In half sleep these words became a happy merry go round.
Part of me is you.
And I thought about the weekend, tonight and I know I am a friend.
Maybe a few times over.
And I thought about my family and I know I am a sister.
But where am I. Self hatred beats I. I is loathed.
And I know it is true because it makes me suddenly sob. Pathetically.
Deep from the core of my hated self.
I makes sculpture.
They have frailties, they are not shouters,
they are quite and amazing and strong.
Maybe I could be like them.
Standing tall, outstretched arms.
I could be I Am.
We all could be I Am.