I wrote my first column on mothering and motherhood. Only 536 words. I agonized over them all afternoon. While I played tea party with my three-year-old, wearing a hat and saying the right things that made her laugh and snuggle close to me, my thoughts chased after words. I was overwhelmed by all that I had to say, by the ordinariness of all I felt.
Sometimes writing is like picking a scab: painful, grotesque, self-mutilating, but you just gotta.
This is part of that column:
I write because mothering is charged with loves, hates and raptures too big for thought and too fast for the heart. Writing connects me to parts of myself engulfed by deadlines or harassed by the day’s cares. I look for words to shape thoughts, so that each day falls into place, sometimes painfully, sometimes joyously. Like all mothers, I am a fractal art—color geometrics that are difficult to pin down, irregular but harmonious, a mix of order and chaos, creative, requiring effort and intelligence, and mostly better appreciated from a distance.
* Borrowed from Lisa Garrigues’ wonderful Writing Motherhood