I thought that first new blog post of a couple of days ago would be the hardest one. It seemed, at the time, that I need only put myself back in that old spot and somehow the urge would reawaken naturally; a new rhythm would begin. Odd that I would have such strange ideas given the stops and starts that occurred before I finally almost gave up for good, but there it is. Much as I am a natural cynic, an optimist lies in wait somewhere inside me, hoping to be born.
Truthfully, coming around to writing this one has been much harder. Despite the skip I surely would have had in my step following the elation of that last successful publish- were I able to skip at all at this point in time- I couldn't use the pride I felt to push me forward once again. In the interim I have been far too overcome with the usual feelings of despair that helped to thwart me in the first place.
Thirty-two weeks pregnant is a tough place to be when it banishes you to your bed for long lengths of time in a fruitless attempt at honest-to-goodness rest, and leaves you on the sidelines feeling helpless and useless the rest of the time as life continues to go on around you. Indeed, life even goes on far away from me, where my two oldest continue their first ever mom-and-dad free journey and extended visit to the abode of Nana and Papa.
I try to stay involved with what I can in the super-simplified single child version of our new and temporary "ordinary," but my part is ever one of spectator. I hear the hum of other people's voices as they soothe my youngest down to sleep, the giggles, conversation, and occasional fussing as they change her diapers. And on many a night and afternoon I find myself truly alone in the house, only imagining the look of wonder on Amelia's face as she takes in the sights and sounds of the neighborhood from her vantage point in the little orange stroller she so loves to ride.
The silence, the time, and the space should seem a perfect opportunity to slip away and write with the rare advantage of environment conducive to concentration. Instead, they seem foreign and empty. They bring me sadness rather than inspiration.
My head knows that on a day not so very, very long from now, this will all be behind me, and the reward will be a brand-new, healthy daughter that I did my best to keep that way. However, my heart struggles along as it always does, full and empty all at once. The trick will be, I think, to keep my fingers moving along the keyboard, regardless of which direction my head or my heart have managed to wander.
Perhaps, so long as I am writing, inspiration will come.
