I had already read the book, but I watched the movie Wild recently. From the book, I understood how much it was about her mother. The hero’s mom had been so central to her life that when she died, Cheryl came unmoored.
There was something about that enormous backpack. All the things she would need to sustain life strapped to her body–and at first she was so misguided about what she was going to need–her huge pack so evocative of the heavy burden she was unprepared to carry.
Her mother had to carry the burden of Cheryl and her siblings. Then Cheryl had relied on her so hard, she stumbled under the weight of her own life without her mother.
But somehow, watching the movie, I felt the weight as she pulled on the backpack. I suddenly found myself crying, because of the strange looped infinity symbol. That’s what motherhood feels like to me so often. I can’t put it down, because I can’t find any other way to be myself without it.
It’s too big. And it’s essential. Imperative.
Romantically, I’d like to think I would be so loved and needed by my daughter. Also, I pragmatically hope that I would provide her with more self-reliance than Cheryl had.
I had more than she had.
But I had different shoes than she did. All God’s children got shoes.
The movie really had a lot to say about motherhood. And daughterhood.
More than anything, it showed how you just have to keep showing up. Which is probably the most primal thing about motherhood I could say.