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mythopoetics |
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first published to tellingmystory.com in The Theatre Although these thoughts were born from a male perspective, a male philosophy, a male psychology, a male mythology, I can't help wondering about this notion of timelessness and immortality that exists between a mother and daughter. I think about turning this immortality from a feminine perspective, a feminine mythology, a feminine psychology. In those dreamy myths the story remains vibrant: a daughter becomes a mother who bears a daughter who becomes a mother - an endless mythopoetic expression that lives on and on. Regardless of whether or not this is a physical reality (I have no real-life daughter), I think it is an imaginal reality, that is something vibrant and alive that pulses through life and softly shapes what becomes, what is, what will have been. Yes, this is a kernel that I know I'll be pursuing for many years to come as I continue to work the relationships between myths and psyche. I did not mean to have this piece turn so immediately philosophical. Because the truth is, this morning I am in a personal moment in which my relationship to my mother becomes crystalline. I've written before about the notion that my mother had an imaginal daughter who loved pink hearts. That daughter was never me. I never liked the images of pink hearts, thinking them silly and sappy. And I never liked the pink heart birthday cake my mother insisted on baking me for my birthday, pulling out, once a year, the heart-shaped pans that she bought when I was born. I didn't like the pink heart crepe-paper decorations that always showed up at my birthday parties or the tasteless little pink hearted candies either. I just was never that kind of little girl. I love chocolate, deep, dark, and rich. But the pink-heart daughter persisted in my mother's world until that day, years ago when she presented me with a pink heart vase that was her very last craft of a crafty life. Then she died. I realized then how much of a role that imaginal pink-heart daughter played in the relationship between my mother and myself. I think it drove a wedge between us as my mother in her frustration with my refusal to conform to her imaginal notion, grew angry with me and somehow pushed me away. She was not alone in this imaginal relationship, because I had an imaginal mother who would somehow realize that pink hearts were just never going to be my thing, a mother more smart and intelligent, rather than merely clever and crafty. But you know, perhaps my mother knew me better than I thought. Because here I am, years after her death, thinking about my birth and my mother and how ![]() Note: Copyright ©2005, Maggie Macary - all rights reserved. Originally published on MythandCulture.com |
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additional links For more essay by Maggie Macary see the additional links here Essay Archives |
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