Coming back

Pick a barn, a whole barn, and bend more slender accents than have ever been necessary, shine in the darkness necessarily.

[Gertrude Stein, Tender Buttons: Objects]

Coming together. Tying up loose ends. The shift from second trimester to third. From this year to the next. A week in transition. I feel like I’ve just woken up today from a very long spell of dreaming. My center is a creaking, aching shell, but I am stretching into and through it. It just means the baby bird within has already begun the process of seeking its (her) freedom. Spoiled by the holiday, I have a few more very lovely things in my life, books and snow boots, earrings and kitchen luxuries, coffee and tea. I have a husband home for two whole weeks, longer than usual. I have a son who can’t seem to stop singing to himself and who loves his new trucks and who wakes up excited every morning when he realizes that Mama and Dada and Thomas will all have breakfast together again.

I’ve pushed past the job doubt. Today I’ll put in my notice at the terrible job. I want to assemble and proof online courses. Who knew? Who knew such a thing would leave me more energized than before after hours of working on it? Who knew that I would be inspired, here, pregnant and mothering and 28 and a devoted lover of liberal arts, to learn computer programming if it means getting to make a living bringing information to students through the Internet? Who knew the appeal it would hold? It’s a gift I never anticipated.

At the same time, I can feel myself swinging back toward art, toward poetry, toward baking, too. Gertrude Stein and Ani Difranco and Pablo Neruda and the power of the perfect phrase and the pride of a perfect rise. My mother-in-law bought Thomas the Stein book linked above, knowing that it was mostly for me.

Potted tulips and paperwhites stretch skyward and droop low under the weight of their own gorgeous blossoms. Smoky earl gray and light, sweet pizzelles. Simple, delicious dinners. Pine needles scattered underfoot, turning the living room into a wood. A little boy playing T Ball with his father, running the bases, stopping to point out the pink moon hanging above the house, promising to fly up in a rocketship airplane to get it. Two pounds of unborn baby rolls in my belly.

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