Written 2 years and 8 months ago, just one month after I declared January 10, 2014 the first day of the rest of my life.
Looking up and peering outward she sees all is arranged in proper order. Perfection does not exist, but maturity and gratitude whisper that she has arrived in a place as utopian as any.
If she knew then what she knows now she would be foolish to bear children.
If she knew then what she knows now she would be foolish not to.
The mindless ordinary, the kind of mundane rooted in the deepest desires of many. She has wallowed in it, face-down, tear-stained, and in deep recesses, ever-grateful.
The bubbling resentment and defeat of a lioness confined to a cage while life in the savanna, broad and stimulating, continues.
The awakening of purpose beyond pleasure, beyond companionship, beyond mothering.
The surge of a soul who is more. More power, more richness, more kindness. More who she might be in her winter years.
The feel of the pieces slipping into place on a timetable of neither her design nor her desire.
Waking up each morning in content anticipation of the day’s unfolding.
Of her life’s unfolding.
Of their life’s unfolding.