I keep getting torn between writing a random, light little post or...I'm not even sure what. Sometimes what I want to write about it buried so deep even I have no idea what it will look like, I just feel as though my spirit is a little more dense or something, as though I weigh more on the inside. If I try to write about it too early, it won't take form. So I've been sitting around for a couple of days feeling the weight of creative energy but not able to harness it.
This whole trying to get pregnant thing has really made it impossible for me to ignore how much I want a family. I used to be able to just focus on my life right now, with a few moments of intense longing. But I could bridge over those moments and refocus.
It is impossible to refocus when actually trying so hard to get pregnant that one artificially manipulates one's own body. There's no where to hide from that. I was actually talking to my body the other day. Basically, I was hoping that my egg was dropping and hoping that it would get fertilized and trying to coax it to implant.
"You would like to stay here," I was telling...what? a figment of my imagination, really...as I was washing the dishes. "Stay, stick around, make yourself at home. It's very comfy in there. It's a safe place to be."
I was reading this blog the other day called "Passionate Homemaking," and was gripped with all kinds of incredible longings. Basically it's all about young families, natural homemaking, cooking, cleaning. It slayed me.
I mean, those mothers bake their own bread and smear their own nipple cream on after and before breast feeding and use chemical free cleaners. I love all of that except the bathroom cleaners. Color me old fashioned, but I just don't believe a clean toilet is possible without bleach.
I was talking to my mother the other day and it left me with the same feeling. I had no idea that my mom is so chock full of excellent advice about babies. And breast feeding? Look no further. She knew about positions and personalities and timing and clothes.
And I just felt so...empty. It was as though I discovered this whole treasure trove of good things that my mother could pour out to me, but I had no where to store it. It just poured straight out through my fingers.
My own body image has drastically changed. I used to take my body gloriously for granted. I knew I was healthy, strong and attractive. Whether walking or sitting, I would stretch on my legs with ease.
If I wanted to put on a dress and some make up, I knew I would transform into a head turning hotty. If I wanted to apply the full force of my strength, I knew I could lift anything I had to, lift or push or pull. I felt strong and capable and streamlined.
Now, I feel like my body is broken. There is some vital link in my body that is missing. It's not able to catch or create life inside. It's just this empty vessel that isn't listening to me.
Years ago, I would sometimes let myself think about my own children, what they would be like, what it would be like to be around them. I would imagine, for example, having my daughter in the car beside me, looking out the window or telling me a story. This would produce such a depth of joy and longing that I would package it right away again and not think about it further.
But I can't package it away anymore. The only thing that I can rest my thoughts on is my faith that it will all work out as it was meant to be worked out. All I have to do is to keep going down this path. If we get pregnant, than we get pregnant. If we don't, than it simply leads us into adoption.
There's just no where to hide from the pain on this particular bend of the path. If I don't get pregnant this month or next month then it's right in my face. I am dreading the end of this month.
