Christmas is coming. Holidays. Gifts for people, the pressure to make, the pressure to buy. For others.
I want records and love and incense for my birthday.
I want candles and red wine and good boots for Christmas.
Come spring I want seeds for the ground and seed for my womb and enough money in the bank.
With summer I want a plan for publishing my novel and too many days at the farm and a wonderful journey to England for our anniversary and someone else’s wedding.
And then we’re back, back in the fall, when I’ll want wood for the stove, warm socks, and squirming stretching kicks from within my belly
I want to write more and knit less.
I want to reread more amazing things and read fewer postmodern tales of drugs and woe and disappointment.
I want more dinners that I make when it’s convenient during the day and finish off in the evening when my patience is spent and my son and husband need me.
I want more evenings under the stars, however cold they may be.
I want more drunken conversations.
I want to remember the value in a house uncluttered, smelling of lemon and mint.
I want, I want.
In exchange, I am willing to drop the worries over finances and the sharp temper of sleep deprivation. You can dispose of the hours wasted on thoughtless movies and anxiety.
I will give to you, though, light and love and new ideas. I will rain down poetry and stories and smiles and bread baked with joy. I offer flirtation and worthwhile conversation and an excellent cup of coffee.
It is my intention, this November, to light more candles, work on my novel, and do yoga every day.
A year and a month since my son came into this world. A year and a month of making due until I had the time and inclination and energy to figure It all out. Time for a little figuring.
(I have photos I might post, too, but the cord for my laptop was chewed by a dog last weekend. Perhaps a week without my own computer might have something to do with all of this?)
mothering in the raw 