Inspiration & Anticipation

I realized the other evening while I was feeding Josephine before bed, that my mind, instead of whirring like a hamster wheel or buzzing like a hornet's nest, was instead sort of languishing on moments during her infancy that have stuck with me--images, motifs, scenes, reflections of various sorts. I found myself composing (well, maybe not composing yet, but approaching composition) sentences and paragraphs and lines that might be the beginnings of essays and poems. This was such an unexpected and delightful surprise, as I have not had much confidence lately that I would be getting back to serious writing any time soon. (I mean except for the writing I'm doing here which is serious in a different way, and maybe, hopefully keeping those other writing muscles supple.)

I've been here before, of course, when Rudy was small and I was still struggling with sleep deprivation and all the rest of it. Before he was born, I remember feeling a great pressure (self-imposed) to get one or the other of my manuscripts finished and, preferably, published. Of course, this did not happen because I was so entirely immersed in the strangeness and enormity of being newly pregnant.

But at around six months out--just about where we are now--the same thing happened. My thoughts began to sort themselves out, slow down and also expand at the same time to include things beside pregnancy and motherhood, such that I was able to write again. Yes, the writing was mostly about pregnancy and motherhood, but that was, and is, perfectly fine with me. It's where I am, after all.

So the other night, as I was languishing over those images and metaphors, I allowed myself to long for a time in the future when I might get back to full-time (or, as close to full-time as I've ever been able to manage) writing. I allowed myself to remember the magical--yes, magical, and I don't use that word idly--time I spent at MacDowell Colony four years ago, when there was nothing but the images in my head, the blank page, time and the green woods outside the huge window in my studio.


I started making notes yesterday, just snippets and fragments of ideas, really, but it's a step toward something. It felt good. Maybe it's the six-month turning point as it coincides with the open green landscape of summer in Pennsylvania that is making me optimistic, but today I am promising myself that I will get back, both physically and metaphorically, to my studio at MacDowell.

And soon.