I know these things happen for a reason. I know that we have the ability to use our heart to tune our ears, focus our eyes.
My book pull of the day is “swollen with honesty.” Words typed out by Ann Voskamp on her blog. Or perhaps it would be the quote from Anna Quindlen found here: “The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.”
I am continuing on this journey to weld the bits of my life together. To create my own patchwork self. Patched together–not kept in separate boxes. Thus I read, I scratch down notes between soy milk and spinach on scraps of paper. I turn the pages of my incomplete mixed media book in my mind while I add items to purchase orders.
Driving on the Loop again, I am circling back and around again in my life. Through my work and the work I declared not my work. (Not that I didn’t create the photographs, that they weren’t images I worked for, that I constructed.) Listening and recalling the words of mothers, authors, my child. Turning them over and around–looking for straight lines that are distinctive to edge pieces–the frame of my days.
And this is what I can’t avoid. I crave pregnancy. I dream of it. (My sincerest apologies if you bring your newborn to church and sit anywhere near me. I will stare. I will cry. You have been warned. I am one of those women who will want to touch your pregnant belly.) Dreams that underline my incomplete portfolio, blank journal pages, piles of books without so much as a bookmark spreading the pages.
In days past, I have feasted on fiction, become fattened from fibs. Hearing harsh words, I swallowed hard. Forced untruth to take cover in the deep recesses of my thighs. I have also learned that to lose some kinds of weight I had to flush lies from my life before the pounds would leave my body. Cups of tea and trips up North Mountain were tools in my box of tricks.
Pondering pregnancy. The labor of creativity. Reading about creative journaling. Stumbling upon words in an archive of someone else’s days. Swollen with truth, I am flooded with the electrical firings that signal the cusp of creativity. To discard perfection (a flat stomach) for the stretchmarks of labor. To work on that which isn’t work but yet is my life. To declare it truth and my life as art. And to thank the Creator for making me what I need to see.