A month ago, I wanted to see the future. I wanted to look into the unknowable and know.
This week I got what I was looking for, an answer to a big question. But that’s only opened more cans and more worms and I want more more more. The details, the minutia, the timeline, specifics. I want to know particular smell, pungent and ripe, on the North-East street corner of my future. I want to know the sound of the taxis and motorbikes, the dust, the exact weight of the humidity at 11:37 AM. I want to know what the light will look like, filtered through what kind of smog, and at what angle the sun will hang while my girl naps, and who her friends will be, and will she go to preschool, and will I be able to find peanut butter and chia seeds. I want time to speed up while I eddy and billow around my apartment, and put things in boxes and check things off lists. But I can’t yet.
I want to tell you about the thoughts swirling around my mind. I want to write about how I filled five pages of my notebook with things that need my attention. I want to tell you of adventure, heat and chaos, and newness and hopes and dreams and fears. Maybe I also want to tell you that trying to be mom enough almost broke me. I want to write about what I know about attachment parenting and feminism, and how potty training is going, and what it taught me about instincts, achievements, and “shoulds.” I want to tell you how I haven’t been writing because I’m too afraid. And that when I sat down and made my to do lists, under the heading of Writing, there was one dash. And nothing else except butterflies.
Some of these things I can’t talk about yet. Some, I just don’t know where to start.
Instead I closed my computer, I sat on the floor, criss-cross-apple-sauce, and counted my breaths.
Then I lifted my screen and I could just write.