It’s been a tough week—nothing crazy, just a lot of rough edges. It helps that Iris is cute. It helps that Carl keeps up with a lot of the cleaning and dishes. It helps to have a Jane Kenyon omnibus on hand (fifty pages of which—FIFTY—I read while sitting under a paper sheet on an exam table at my doctor’s office on Monday. Boo).
Am still trying to find more focus for the year. It’s tempting in the middle of a Kenyon binge to stick with poetry for a while (funny how everything sounds like a great subject for a poem when you’re reading one of the effortless greats). The truth is that poetry’s not a particularly comfortable space for me. I like writing it, but I never really feel like I know what I’m doing. I don’t trust my sense of what’s good and what’s not; revision is always a nightmare. But it would be hard to do something consistently and attentively for months and not get better at it, right?
And how great to have a poetry collection for the year. A time capsule of poetry!
On the other hand…. agh.
And this is the evening Carl and I keep looking at each other and saying, “only one more day as a family of three!” Which is both lovely and terrifying. I will be 41 weeks tomorrow, and I’m scheduled to be induced on Thursday. Maybe the baby will be my art project this week.
I did sort of make him, right?