Matter

noun

• [mass noun] Physical substance in general, as distinct from mind and spirit; (in physics) that which occupies space and possesses rest mass, especially as distinct from energy
• [usually with adjective] A particular substance
• Written or printed material
• Printing The body of a printed work, as distinct from titles, headings, etc..
• A subject or situation under consideration
• Law Something which is to be tried or proved in court; a case.
• (matters) The present state of affairs
• The substance or content of a text as distinct from its style or form.
• Logic The particular content of a proposition, as distinct from its form.
• [with negative or in questions] (the matter) The reason for distress or a problem 

verb 
[no object]

• [usually with negative or in questions] Be important or significant
• (Of a person) be important or influential
• rare-chiefly US (Of a wound) secrete or discharge pus.

Phrases 
for that matter 
in the matter of 
it is only a matter of time 
a matter of 
a matter of course 
a matter of form 
a matter of record 
no matter 
to make matters worse 
what matter? 

Origin

Middle English: via Old French from Latin materia 'timber, substance', also 'subject of discourse', from mater 'mother'.

http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/matter?q=matter

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I hung "Mother Nature" on the wall. Each time I'd go up or come down, I'd see her, laying on that with which she was made-- waves of water, cliffs of stone, and brown mounds of earth. 

The matter of her was everything and everything was the matter with her. 

The working title had been "Elements"-- recognition of her natural building materials. When those building materials became a person, "Elements" became "Mother Nature" and that is when I was simultaneously astounded she came to be and hated her for becoming. When what made her turned from pieces into a mother, a force birthing the natural world, everything felt unnatural. 

It sounds like a joke, but I hated her most after I'd glossed her over...literally. Before that, her earth arm and her water arm stretched and dipped their way into themselves naturally. Only small sections were glossed. Her head--the sun--built of sand that had once been stone, rested, glowing and she tossed her wild hair, itself wind, into the wind. In her natural state, she was beautiful, as we all are...a reality I know as reality from the outside looking at other ins and other outs. The outside looking at my own in or the inside of my own in looking at my own out is not reality with which I'm certain. 

I've recently doodled, painted, photo manipulated, and played my way into a series of portraits. I don't decide that's what I'm doing ahead of time. I simply sit down with the tools and the elements. Once I've determined the creation is done, I easily identify them as self-portraits, as I did with these: 

"Investigation of the Fat Girl"

"Light"

"Reach"

"Self Portrait Right Now"

But when I was asked if, in different words, I was in the "Mother Nature" painting, I felt confident in quickly answering no. 

ZERO connection.

She wasn't me but I couldn't say she was anyone else either.

I didn't want to change her, I wanted to fix her. The fix was because she was wrong... everything was the matter with her.  I couldn't stop staring at her. I hated her. For two days I left her varnish-stinky self tied off in plastic grocery store bags, inside one of those reusable shopping bags, and thrown on the floor of the dining room, half-hoping that when I decided to take her out she'd be as broken as I felt she already was. Then the decision to destroy her the rest of the way would be easy. It's a fantasy I entertain when I can't figure out a fix --a fantasy that involves violent destruction with knives or fire or words or pure force to tear and shred.

When I finally took her out, she didn't smell quite as bad. I took down this old self-portrait, this child

"An Outline of Childhood"

and put "Mother" up in its place. In a matter of time, I assumed, I'd figure out what needed to be fixed OR I'd learn to love the "MOTHER" fucker, damn it.

I was determined.

"Mother Nature" has been up since Wednesday, hanging at the bottom of the stairs. I still don't know what's wrong with her beyond the gloss. I still don't know how to fix her. 

Here is what I do know, though:

I love her pieces-- waves, stone, earth.
I love her energy-- peace, contentment, fire, wind.
I love the way every side of her reaches toward becoming whole.
I do not love her.
I want to fix her because I think I am her and because I think she is my mother.

Stupid syllogistic logic follows naturally in my thoughts.

The matter making "Mother Nature" can be magical and can be maddening. Waves in which carefree children play are the same waves from which tsunamis are made. Earth in which we garden and grow flowers and food is the same earth that can slide from the hills burying hundreds of people, pets, and houses.

We are all made of all of it--waves and gardens and tsunamis and mudslides. 

What does that mean? 
What do we do with that?
Why does it matter?

Maybe instead of loving "Mother Nature" to pieces I can love her from pieces. Maybe I can, and should, do the same with my own mother. Maybe I can do this with the matter of myself until I believe I matter.

"Mother Nature"