It's been two months since I've posted here. I've tried and failed posting a video a couple of times, but beyond that I've felt relatively uninspired. And herein lies the rub. I know better than to wait for inspiration. I know that motherhood, with all its sweetness and tedium, all its beauty and need, will suck me in and pull down into a place I find difficult to climb my way out of if I'm not careful. But here I am again. It's been months since I've written any fiction beyond a page or so. Even longer that my hands have created anything that wasn't edible. And so I'm sinking.
I'm accutely aware of Yonas' impending arrival, that I'd better get my ass in gear and figure this out before we bring him home. And so my gut is in pain, my breath short, my body in a perpetual state of panic. In short, I'm a mess.
The problem is that the balance I seek is one that must be perpetually sought if you are a woman. The balance of self-care over caring for others. We are by nature and by nuture, caregivers. I have long felt that a huge part of my path in this life is to learn to make peace with and find space for my maternal and creative selves. I believe they can not only co-exist, but inform and buoy each other. But I also know that for that to happen, one must fight the good fight of finding time for self, time for silence and solitude, and for me, time to create. And it's not happening. And there is no blaming children or laundry, or lack of time. There is only me looking back at myself wondering how long I'm going to let this continue before I do something about it. I've been a mother for alomost eight years. It's not like I haven't had this conversation before. But this is a conversation that needs repeating, that must be screamed, that never goes away.
I don't know what the answer is for me right now. I know it starts with loving myself enough to take the time to figure it out. I think it might end with a metaphorical swift kick to the ass.
Genre and Nonfiction
2 days ago