![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Moo. (Round women, full of promises.)
Been sort of chewing on writing this one for a while. So, on with the moderately literal omphaloskepsis.
(I ponder whether I'm writing this at the moment because I'm grouchy at being repeatedly told that people don't see any Het-Herw energy in me. Hah.)
About five years ago, I wrote a poem called "Promises". Some of the feeling of that poem was a fair bit older than that.
Promises of round women.
I don't remember how old I was when![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
teinedreugan and I first discussed children, for certain, but I'm pretty sure I was seventeen. We'd talk about it occasionally, snuggled up together with his arms around me, hands resting on my belly.
It's always been there; like there are some people who know from fairly early that they're not interested in having children, I'm one of the ones who've always known. It's an odd sort of wistful ache, not, as of the moment, a particularly intense one, but every so often I'll go through periods where everywhere I turn there are the promises of round women. Which can make the insides of my head very, very peculiar for a while.
Whenteinedreugan and I got married, something clicked in my head, or started to; it's a slow transitional phase, one I described (Wiccan-influenced) as transition from the white to the red. These days I feel like a slowly deepening pink. I wore a red dress at the wedding; this was the thing that I was commemorating and celebrating, the stepping over the line in the direction of motherhood.
It's been a while since then, but in that while, there are people around me who have taken further steps. And it's . . . a strange and reassuring thing, this community, seeingwiredferret's writings about both Nano and Baz, raingnosis's writings, seeing meranthi's thoughts and transitions, reading what porcinea writes. There are women around me who know these things, know what's on the other side of the boundary between the white and the red. I'm not alone, and when it's the right time for me to take those steps, there will be people there who know what it means. People who know the risks, who will understand whatever happens, because they've been there, for a whole bunch of different 'there's.
Initiation rites, perhaps. Or just the simple community of knowing women, wise women, women who begin to know the secrets and painful trials that go with the fluttering cravings that I can fold my hands over and wonder at.
I've had dreams. In some of those dreams I knew, knew what was on the other side of the curtain there. There's a weird ache in my mind from when I awoke and fell back through the curtain of these mysteries. I know these things are knowable, I remember having known, but it's not a waking knowing -- round contemplations, full of promises.
The nesting urge ebbs and flows, and sometimes it gnaws at me like time, with all the wanting coiled up and foiled, striking like Kunda at the glass wall. I want to nest, I want my family with me, I want to build my community up and teach my children among them. I want to have conversations about names in earnest, not just in play.
I know I'm not ready, but the hunger doesn't care. And the distance doesn't care, a continent between.
But there is community here, among the round women and their promises. I will learn from them -- not brave enough nor healthy enough, I think, to be among the first, but I can learn from these and learn enough that I will be ready someday.
I hope. I'm frightened, but I continue to hope.
Until then I will settle myself in caring for my children furred and scaled and possibly feathered, and sing lullabyes in my mind. (Need to write to the breeder of black-winged Jardines, I do.)
(I ponder whether I'm writing this at the moment because I'm grouchy at being repeatedly told that people don't see any Het-Herw energy in me. Hah.)
About five years ago, I wrote a poem called "Promises". Some of the feeling of that poem was a fair bit older than that.
Promises of round women.
I don't remember how old I was when
teinedreugan and I first discussed children, for certain, but I'm pretty sure I was seventeen. We'd talk about it occasionally, snuggled up together with his arms around me, hands resting on my belly.It's always been there; like there are some people who know from fairly early that they're not interested in having children, I'm one of the ones who've always known. It's an odd sort of wistful ache, not, as of the moment, a particularly intense one, but every so often I'll go through periods where everywhere I turn there are the promises of round women. Which can make the insides of my head very, very peculiar for a while.
When
teinedreugan and I got married, something clicked in my head, or started to; it's a slow transitional phase, one I described (Wiccan-influenced) as transition from the white to the red. These days I feel like a slowly deepening pink. I wore a red dress at the wedding; this was the thing that I was commemorating and celebrating, the stepping over the line in the direction of motherhood.It's been a while since then, but in that while, there are people around me who have taken further steps. And it's . . . a strange and reassuring thing, this community, seeing
wiredferret's writings about both Nano and Baz, raingnosis's writings, seeing meranthi's thoughts and transitions, reading what porcinea writes. There are women around me who know these things, know what's on the other side of the boundary between the white and the red. I'm not alone, and when it's the right time for me to take those steps, there will be people there who know what it means. People who know the risks, who will understand whatever happens, because they've been there, for a whole bunch of different 'there's.Initiation rites, perhaps. Or just the simple community of knowing women, wise women, women who begin to know the secrets and painful trials that go with the fluttering cravings that I can fold my hands over and wonder at.
I've had dreams. In some of those dreams I knew, knew what was on the other side of the curtain there. There's a weird ache in my mind from when I awoke and fell back through the curtain of these mysteries. I know these things are knowable, I remember having known, but it's not a waking knowing -- round contemplations, full of promises.
The nesting urge ebbs and flows, and sometimes it gnaws at me like time, with all the wanting coiled up and foiled, striking like Kunda at the glass wall. I want to nest, I want my family with me, I want to build my community up and teach my children among them. I want to have conversations about names in earnest, not just in play.
I know I'm not ready, but the hunger doesn't care. And the distance doesn't care, a continent between.
But there is community here, among the round women and their promises. I will learn from them -- not brave enough nor healthy enough, I think, to be among the first, but I can learn from these and learn enough that I will be ready someday.
I hope. I'm frightened, but I continue to hope.
Until then I will settle myself in caring for my children furred and scaled and possibly feathered, and sing lullabyes in my mind. (Need to write to the breeder of black-winged Jardines, I do.)
no subject
For us, it was finding a place between impatience and longing and desire to be able to manage the sordid details of money gracefully.
no subject