I have these huge dreams that are totally unrelated to mothering, & are just for me. My sweet husband says he believes in me.  Says he thinks I can really make a go of it.  Says if anyone is able, it is me.

And I float.

To this gentle, affirming, inspiring place where I feel full to the brim with his words, and my heart hovers there – drinking in the fertile ventures of my imagination and gasping at the vastness of What Could Be…

But before pen to paper, or finger to key, before brush to palette, or any of these, my thoughts are chased out of my head by those of others.  Bombarding&Banging. Clanging. Eclipsing. Deafening the voice once encouraged.

Words of affirmation do little when the full weight of reality pummels me and all the pieces I know of myself scatter across the floor.  Tears, as genuine and haunting as blood, surge forth as I am choked by a raging guilt mingled with want.

Who are you to think so highly of yourself? That you could possibly birth this gnawing, guttural ache to express yourself?

This. Is. Selfishness.

Let it die.  Give up.  What lies uncovered matters to no one but you.  You are frustrated over worthless endeavours.

Mothering is more important.  These lives are exponentially more valuable than your own.  They are our future.  You are the present, which is, at the moment we’ve read these words, the past.  Pour not from yourself for yourself, but into these, for them.

And in the midst of the chaos of my thoughts being chased away, I am weak.  A fractured vessel. Once full of  lush dreams, rich thoughts & poetry. Inspired. Now, leaking guilty thoughts of Not Qualified for Any.

Not a good enough mother, because Good Mothers don’t mind interruptions. Or lose their patience. Or their tempers. And always place their childrens’ needs(sssss) above their own.

Not a good enough writer, because Good Writers are able to write whenever they find the time, & pick up & leave off with an effortless fluidity wherever they were.

In the midst of this, I tell myself, I have no space for my thoughts in this life, much less room to learn new things. In these moments, I realize that it is a stupid dream – to find My Self again.  This life is a spinning, insurmountable, fortress of Immediate Need, where there is little time for reflection, or savouring that which nourishes.

And then my husband holds me. He freezes the spin, & softens my pace, &  speaks peace into the depths of my ache. It’s in these moments I understand how precisely God planned the assemblage of our hearts.