There is another storyteller I met once and have kept half an eye on over the years. She was interesting, and close to my age. I've been staying up too late reading her blog, tonight. It was a bit shocking to realize just how deeply the reflection of my own personal disconnect was found in her words... and yet, was not. She is still working on her stories, and writing poetry and doing so many other things that I have allowed my children to be the justification for quitting. Part of my soul is drying up, and I am allowing my family to be the reason. One day I will resent them. Maybe I already do.
When did my name become "Mama"? I don't remember. Honestly. Even Josh doesn't use my name anymore.
Names are important things. A name holds power over the person or object that it is given to.
There is a verse in Revelation that I've always found especially interesting. It says, "He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To him who overcomes, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give him a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it."
I don't really understand this verse (or much of the book of Revelation, for that matter) but there is something I understand about being given a new and special name. It is something to be cherished- and I do cherish being called Mama. It is a term of the deepest love and endearment- a word that has deeper meaning and greater connotation than any other word I can think of.
But I was given a name by my mother when I was born. That name, along with parts of myself seem to have been stolen.
When we were children, my mother would get so tired of hearing us say, "Mama! Mama!" that she would change her name. She told us that her name was Griselda. We couldn't say Griselda, so she would pretend not to hear us for a while.
Who was Griselda, really? I think I may be becoming my own Griselda.
There's a story here.