sTORIES FROM THE
CENTER OF THE STORM
discovering joy in every molecule
From Pregnancy Journal -
9 months...and counting
I'm one deep breath away from a hailstorming, late pregnancy breakdown. I decide to take Frankie to the park because this option is maybe barely better than any other. I'm too far into exhaustion and discontent to feel any real hope, but I am officially, and mind-bleachingly, bored with my own whine. I feel like Bill Murray in "What About Bob?" when he finally gets himself onto the bus and asks the person next to him, "Hi, can you knock me out? Just punch me in the face..."
The fire is open because it needs more air and I need air too. I find myself clutching at my notebook, as if osmosis might free me. I'm feeling stuck, in my life in general, and ornery in this particular moment. I'm trying to cheer myself up by tearing whole states out of the atlas and feeding them to the fire. Burn Wyoming BURN.
I was cold and a little lost too. This powerhouse baby shaman crawled into my heart via french fries and chilly tiny fingers.
“Fatman don’t want you to see her.” His sister tells me, frankly. Even though Fatman continues to stand within precise french fry distance to me, even though he’s covering his eyes with interlaced backwards fingers so his cold little knuckles are pressed to his eyes while he chews the single warm fry I just gave him.
I find that bright things like to talk to each other.
I meet Carol at my first gas up on a my first solo trip. He’s ninety if he's a day, and he's buying black coffee for a quarter. While waiting in line at a tiny gas station just before the Blue Ridge Parkway, we fall into easy chatting. He looks at the helmet in my arms and I tell him I’m taking my first long ride, we both peer out the window at my Very Creatively packed bike.
I can feel myself pulsating with the special thrill-terror that accompanies any First Stepping towards a brand new, I love this, I want this kind of dream thing.
Sometimes I have to step away from something to see it new.
I am out walking, and then, rather quickly, I am out crawling, because of all the sheep fall off of em' steep mountains here in the Blue Ridge. Mid-crawl, I hear a voice as clearly as I hear my own panting and swearing, and it says “Get off facebook”
Which is not even relevant to mountains. And I am not even in the habit of hearing voices. Especially concerning social media. So I just kind of ignore it, which, I hear is a fairly common initial approach upon the Hearing of Voices. I proceed to think about the farmer boys who had just driven by and paused to applaud my little dance break I'd been having. I liked the jib of the story and all the selfies I'd taken to accompany it. And then it came again. Clearer this time. Get. OFF. Facebook.