I had this long discussion with a jeweler friend of mine
and in it the subject of blogging in only one's finest moments was parsed:
I know I sure do like to take pictures of the lovely things in my home,
of the recipes that turn out great
or the pieces that fly away to their intended owners,
beautiful and loved from start to finish...
I treasure the art of celebrating the best in life
and I don't see it as a lie, even if the laundry pile doesn't get snapped
along with the triumphant souffle, still risen
I also think there is a danger in avoiding the pitfalls
of what ails us as humans, each set unique to the woman or man who journeys...
I think there is nobility in revelation.
I feel the need to be here today
smelling of Dial soap (a nose craving)
in my sister's pink turtle shorts
(because it makes me feel like she's near when I wear her clothes)
telling you, my friends
that I am hugely sick to my stomach and I want to cry.
That my work has been mostly left alone these past five days
(a series of feathers and wings)
while I drifted
through time-wasting websites
and Netflix movies I've never wanted to see
In my vulnerable moments I am nervous that this morning sickness will not pass, and I will be one of the few women I know who get and stay sick up to the very end.
In better ones, I feel content even should the above be the case: we do these things for our children out of love, even if we have not met them.
I think that what might be coming on is a big, giant, hormonal cry, the kind where you want your mom to come and give you a hug
and I think that all of this is ok
as the perfect tomato
I wanted to show you
instead of my sleeve.