Over Winter Break, I spent several days sorting through papers and boxes in preparation for our move back to Oakland right over New Years (yay, diversity!). In those sortings, I came across much of my writing from my graduate program in creative writing, one part of which was apparently to define and refine what my purpose was in my writing. In one notebook or another, I repeatedly recorded that my purpose was, in essence, to illuminate my own experience that I may grow and heal, and that it may inspire others to grow and heal as well.
Apparently, that’s still my purpose in this writing. As, in that spirit:
J. bought me flowers on Monday.
Before you die of envy, to be specific, he bought me “I’m sorry you’re not pregnant” flowers.
On Sunday, 40 days into my cycle (yes, late for me), with the repetition of October’s “boob heaviness” and fatigue and slight baby pudginess, I experienced some pain in my low abdomen. It went on throughout the day and I knew that sometimes there is cramping when a fertilized egg implants into the wall of your uterus. I kept my spirits light (also knowing that it would be a little bit late if that’s what was happening), and when some spotting came in the afternoon, I spent time on the internet reading about implantation spotting… hoping.
It became clear the next morning this was not what was happening. And so, as my body flushes out whatever may or may not have existed, and my temperature dips back to its normal level and my boobs return to their still awesome shape I assure you, I made an appointment with a doctor and will follow up with their fertility specialist today. And have been relatively going on with my days.
But yesterday at the end of my workout class, the teacher asked us to bring our attention into our bodies. What were we feeling? What was our body saying? I closed my eyes, breathed in. And my body swarmed with emotion from my feet and nearly out my eyes. I welled up; I nearly cried: It appears my body was sad. I was sad.
It’s been a pell-mell dive into the new year, with the resumption of school and also did I mention a cross-county move?! It’s been a week of writing things on and ticking things off a to-do list (where is that bottle brush anyway?). To feel last night that I am experiencing some emotions was a bit of a surprise, frankly. It’s natural, if not easy, to feel busy. It’s hard to slow down and ask what’s really going on.
So, I’m grateful to that workout instructor who went off-script. I’m grateful to J. for being such an understanding partner. And I’m glad that I do have a purpose — to share, to shine light, to heal, and to create community through that sharing. I’m not grateful for the hardship I go through, but I am grateful that I don’t ever have to go through it alone.
Namaste, b*tches.
Yesterday morning, I was silly enough to check my work email before I completed my journaling, or meditating, or blogging.
In a somewhat delightful role-reversal, it was J who offered the optimistic viewpoint yesterday after my riled-up blog post. Having shared that a neighboring school would be joining ours in a show of solidarity yesterday morning—and my feeling angered that these types of gatherings only occur in times of atrocity or within the boundaries of our personal identifications—J said that maybe one of those kids will one day be in a situation where others are speaking antisemitically and that kid will get to say, “You know, the school across from mine growing up was Jewish, and they were pretty normal and fine to me.”
Because of the change in my commute status (insert gif of woman doing backflips), I no longer have to slog through an hour of bridge traffic anymore, but I also don’t get to participate in the morning phone call with like-minded folks I’d been calling in to for 2 months either. So, I’ve had to make some adjustments.
I had a strange occurrence this week: I received help.
Owning Voice 