"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well." Psalm 139:14
It has taken this long to crawl out of my hole of solitude with wounds significantly licked and adequately mended.
Ernest Hemingway said when one is having trouble writing, write the truest sentence one knows.
The above statement is factual. The first Tuesday of November did send my exerted full sails into irons. But it's not the truest sentence I know.
Another truth is I don't like my desk position. I look into a sheet of vanilla curtains. Curtains that are drawn but beyond them my conscious mind knows looms a tradition brick ranch house filled with pale faces of a young growing family.
Where once I perched over the wilder side of the United Nations on skateboards and speed Street, writing narcissisticly seemed appropriate for the scenery. My observation of the politics of experience was relevant and noteworthy.
Now I listen to the songs of courting Cardinals under a live oak in my wool socks with a bulging belly and question the novelty in that image. Are my encounters with a kicking two pounder in my uterus uniquely profound or is it mundane minutiae not worth mentioning to an audience that has felt the flutters of another viable being?
These are the thoughts I chastise myself with as I try to find the ideal position to place my pulled pelvis on my overworked heating pad. Will I let my stereotype of small town America significance serve me in one aspect yet rob me in another?
I write about my life because this life is short. Not glamorous or abstruse. Just short. And solely mine.
Did I mention I'm having a baby in three short months?
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