I'm a professional when it comes to miscarrying. This last time I spent only five minutes crying opposed to my usual week in bed sob fest. This last time I merely informed my husband that when our kids make it to this earth, they are all grounded for life for making me wait so long.
I've been with child more times than I'd like to admit.
each time I felt that life slip from me I felt like I was giving back a slice of femininity to god; thankful that he let me hold on to it as long as he did. But these days I'm feeling as though I have little femininity left.
and it's rendering me useless when I try to create.
sometimes I feel like there is this great pool of women who were given a divine right to create. To mold. To give birth to ideas. To nurture concepts. I missed the memo.
my creations miscarry on the page. My words don't pull together. The paint bleeds through. The tinctures don't settle right. The melody doesn't flow. The photo doesn't focus. The baked bread doesn't rise. The colors on the wall clash. I feel as though I'm pretending to be.
I want to say I'm a writer.
I want to say I'm a pianist.
I want to say I'm a herbalist.
I want to say I'm on my way to being a mother.
but right now?
I'm feeling like I took a wrong turn on my way to the rite of passage into womanhood.
I didn't earn the cute little badge for my vest.
makes me think I ought to create my own rite of passage.
but what would that look like?
