Pregnancy and the Liberation Front

Pregnancy and the Liberation Front

It keeps ringing in my mind, the question—will this satisfy? Does this satisfy my bearing body, mind, and soul?

A while back, just after some new friends asked us to bring poems to their party, Berry’s “Manifesto” entered my ears. Thank God, too, for I felt I had lost my mooring; I did not find my bare and pregnant footing secure on the Liberation Front, but felt instead tucked away somewhere in the back behind selfish sentimentality and careless caution, shut in the “mothers’ room,” it seemed, away from the unction and the action.

And then I remembered those words, words that had once called a congregation to worship through me, through my all-woman, dress-clad, wild-haired body. I remembered those words, that question—“will this satisfy a woman satisfied to bear a child?”

Love Marks Me

Love Marks Me

Noticed today that Aaron's mark of love and troth rounds my finger even when the gold hasn't been there for a week. I kinda dig that.

I haven't been wearing my wedding ring because between the dry winter air and my amazingly frequent trips to the bathroom my hands reach for lotion almost of their own volition. Maybe that's another way love is making its mark on me.

Pregnant people pee a lot. For me it's up to 3-4 times an hour or absolutely any time I stand up, whichever comes first. Like the marriage signified by that band about my finger, the thing that does not go away even when the gold is gone, this process of creating new life challenges my notions of control and self...hood? Sufficiency? Self at all?

Marriage asks me to bend and try, go and stay--to do wild things and tame things outside my own perspective, ingenuity, initiation, and will. In responding I find that I am caught up in something bigger than myself where any notion of "control" is truly absurd. It just doesn't fit.

Pregnancy is like that, except it doesn't even ask first--though it doesn't compel, either.

It just happens…