I wrote a long paragraph while the baby napped about figuring it all out Colombia, about God and rebirth, and wrote a few too many sentences and deleted the irrelevant words. Then, exactly 77,777 word count. The wind blew on the cold spring day but we walked to the library with the puppy, who’s not such a pup anymore. The baby’s getting heavy but she’s going through a phase (I hope) where I can’t set her down for a minute or else she’ll cry. So I try to load the woodstove one-handed. Fold laundry, crack eggs over the frying-pan, go to the bathroom, type.
But this is the stuff romance is made of, and, having visited the summits of many mountains, I’ve seen it, and so have always believed in the romantic view of the way things are. I’ve seen some disturbing movies lately about parents, including mothers, who don’t love their babies. I cannot believe it. Is there anything so wrong about being tucked away into this safe mountain town to bring up my daughter in her first year of life? Something’s been moving Joshua to be done with it, but I’m not so magnetically charged.
Little things, like Henry and Julie from Santa Fe sending us all four of their sons’ albums, and telling us that we’re “a breath of fresh air”, is it wrong to believe that we can actually be part of a community and be loved? It’s what we’ve always done, moved on, seeking out the ideal, but for some reason (and maybe the child has something to do with it) I’m exhausted by the thought of starting over once again. Though I cannot see us here our whole lives, I’m not quite ready to revert to transience. Truly we just want to do God’s will and shut up what we think we want. Meditate! There has been far too little time spent in communion with God; even the writing is mainly reliving the past in old journals.
But the baby is here and I cannot tune her out. And I know I am supposed to glorify God in my role as a mother, in the countless readings of ‘Goodnight Moon’ and the one-handed tasks and in everything from the sincere smiles to the dirty diapers. Yet, if I can only have a few moments a day as I used to, resting with my dear Lord…
© 2015, Amaya Engleking