What have I shaped into?

What have I shaped into, I don't exactly know.
I desire form, substance, understanding.
Understanding of self... yes.
To pinpoint "me."
In this way, perhaps there would be
a revelation, a profound "ah-ha!"
Or, an identity so certain of herself
that wondering ceases.

The shape, as she stands -
well, let's admit she is sitting -
is often harshly judged.
Too short, too wide,
too loud, too intense.

But why the "too"?
Is there even a shape that is
too much of anything?
How could that be, really?

This earth is large enough that
no-thing has been too anything
to loosen her orbit.
So why, then, do I assume "too"?

Shape indicates form and sometimes
I prefer the formlessness.
The expanse of space and
infinity and dreams.
Ever-unfolding.

So perhaps I shapeshift?
Indeed, I do.
I must.
As the confines of this body,
this life are far too limiting
for the bigness of my being.

The shape dances and bends
and knows and weaves and
does her best to open her heart.

The shape nurtures and cares
and is sometimes a bit self-sacrificing,
molding her form around
the needs of her children.

What I have shaped into is a
fifty-something mother of
four young adult children...
all of whom cradled
in these arms,
each nursing from the love of
tired, misshapened breasts.

There is no more milk.
Am I depleted?

Not really.
Worn, perhaps,
and often wondering
about what is forming next.

Is it possible to reshape a form
that has been set in identity
for half one's life?

I imagine a small ball of clay.
I see the impurities.
I wonder about my skill.
The ball is small, solid,
and full of potential.
I press my thumb into its center,
whatever a center might be in a ball,
and feel the suppleness.

Hesitance. Hope.
I slowly form with the assistance
of careful fingers.
I try not to judge.
Find the balance between
intention and allowing.
What shape is calling
to be formed next?

Inspired from a line of a Lucille Clifton poem: "what have I shaped into."

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