Pro Creation

Perhaps over all there is a great motherhood, as common longing. The beauty of the virgin, a being that “has not yet achieved anything,” is motherhood that begins to sense itself and to prepare, anxious and yearning. And the mother’s beauty is ministering motherhood, and in the old woman there is a great remembering. And even in the man, there is motherhood, it seems to me, physical and spiritual; his procreating is also a kind of giving birth and giving birth it is when he creates out of inmost fullness. And perhaps the sexes are more related than we think, and the great renewal of the world will perhaps consist in this, that man and maid, freed of all false feelings and reluctance, will seek each other not as opposites, but as brothers and sisters, as neighbors, and will come together as human beings, in order simply, seriously, and patiently to bear in common the difficult sex that has been laid upon them.

RM Rilke

A Woman for Gods (1938) by Paul Klee

I have a secret. I hate my writings. Really really despise them. Most times, my sentences don’t flow, don’t make sense, and my words don’t rhyme nor click nor give me pleasurable sensations while listening to them. They look unstrung, on the whole, a hot diarrheal explosion. I get intensely jealous of how Rilke or Neruda or Woolf effortlessly breathes life into verses and prose. This must be the sole reason why I don’t wanna get any of the stuff I write published any time soon. I’m afraid I will never be able to reach that level of confidence where I will be able to get my stuff out there unless it’s a peer reviewed science article which I don’t consider as real literature by the way. See? I can’t even properly write a worthy introduction to what I am about to discuss.

This is not about my bad writing. This is about the complete 360-degree turn of Six’s character. What happened to me? I think I am broken. For the past months on hiatus, I’ve been seriously thinking about becoming a mom. Not even the sexy ho kind of mom. A good mom. At first, I thought, maybe this is because of the added estrogens flooding my body. But it has been 2 months since I stopped taking oral contraceptives so there must be some other reason why my maternal instincts have been maniacally kicking. Surely, I am not pregnant. In fact, lately, I’ve been feeling like the purest virgin ready to deliver the spawn of the devil.

I have another secret. I am not a virgin. Hah! That’s not really a secret. My other real secret is that I am terrified of getting pregnant. No, not at all afraid of experiencing immense pains caused by waves of contractions during long hours in labor. I love pain. Instead, I fear that pregnancy might take a toll on my body and mind, overwhelming me. Moreover, my petite stature raises concerns about the physical strain of delivering a child, like bearing the weight of an alien growing inside me. Nightmares haunt my thoughts, envisioning a scenario where I lie on a hospital bed, drenched in my own blood, while a doctor poses the impossible question: "Ma'am, if you continue to bleed profusely, would you choose to save your own life or that of your child?" In the past, I would have instinctively answered, "Save me first, Doctor!" Yet, lately, an unexpected selflessness has taken hold, and I know deep down that my response would be, "Doctor, regardless of the outcome, prioritize my baby's life over mine."

Womanhood and motherhood intertwine, beckoning me towards a path that would redefine my perspective on life and the act of giving life. Although caring for a human being may seem daunting and beyond my capabilities, growing up in a predominantly matriarchal family has ignited a desire to embrace the journey of womanhood and motherhood, surrendering myself to its transformative power. However, cautionary tales from other mothers warn me that the road to motherhood, though rewarding, exacts a toll on youthful exuberance. Yet, I find myself in disagreement. If "spunk" is synonymous with unyielding courage, then mothers who dedicate themselves tirelessly, parenting round the clock, possess more spunk than the laziest of teenagers. The matter at hand revolves around the reallocation of energy—the cyclical life process. We spend one phase of our lives in inactivity, foraging, seeking companionship, idling in bed, or enduring the trials of a pandemic, only to transition into the phase of nurturing and raising children. True, motherhood demands relinquishing much of the time and energy previously dedicated to self-serving interests, which is why I already anticipate the baby blues merely by imagining myself as a mother. Thus, if I were to embark on the journey of motherhood, I would want my primary motivation to mirror that of writing, painting, or dancing—a serious commitment to creative, or in this case, procreative endeavors.

The path to womanhood and motherhood parallels the path to manhood, both laden with anxieties, agitation, loneliness, confusion, and sadness. However, they share a common goal of creation. Just as women give birth to infants, men, through their creative endeavors, birth the monsters that gnaw at their insides. Procreation, creation, is a universal aspect of life, transcending gender and socioeconomic boundaries. Yet, we must always be mindful of our motivations for creating. If ego, lust for power, fame, money, or rewards drive our creative impulses, then it becomes absurd to expect recognition or to be hailed as a genuine artist.

The power to create emerges patiently from within and should never be forced to the surface. Its only impetus is the necessity of expressing and sculpting our own truths, regardless of their simplicity, banality, complexity, anger, or even their seemingly ridiculous nature. We can employ any medium available to us, capturing our truths in its rawest form.