Reading this blog post this morning reminded me of a quote I copied in the front of my journal on February 2, 2010:
"Freed from the demands of decision and intention, adrift on some inner sea, we observe our various movements as if they belonged to someone else, and yet we admire their involuntary excellence. What other reason might I have for writing this . . . ridiculous journal . . . if the writing it did not have something of the art of scything about it? The lines gradually become their own demiurges and, like some witless yet miraculous participant, I witness the birth on paper of sentences that have eluded my will and appear in spite of me on the sheet, teaching me something that I neither knew not thought I might want to know. This painless birth, like an unsolicited proof, gives me untold pleasure, and with neither toil nor certainty, but joy of frank astonishment I follow the pen that is guiding and supporting me."
From The Elegance of the Hedghog by Muriel Barbery
And yet. The first time I copied those lines I had to stop in the middle because my 4-year-old was yelling at me to get him a drink of milk and starting to get hysterical. I wrote: "Though the 'painless birth' of this journal is lovely, I still had to leave it to go remember the daily toil that awaits me downstairs, the fruits of three painful (and joyful) births. But I came back up to finish writing, believing that for me, in the writing comes the perspective I need to see the joy amidst the work, the unfinished, the frustration, the pain, the lack of control that means I am mother."
The second time I copied those lines (just a minute ago), I heard some splashing in the bathroom, and ran in to find my baby splashing in the toilet that my older baby had forgotten to flush.
Lovely.
It's never-ending fun around here. Good thing there's more than a pen to support me.
P.S. Sorry that the next few posts seem to be missing the first ten days of our trip. Sorry—got interrupted in the middle of posting and lost the first part of my blog and didn't have the heart or time to start over. You'll just have to wonder for the time being. Or be glad for less travelogue.
"Freed from the demands of decision and intention, adrift on some inner sea, we observe our various movements as if they belonged to someone else, and yet we admire their involuntary excellence. What other reason might I have for writing this . . . ridiculous journal . . . if the writing it did not have something of the art of scything about it? The lines gradually become their own demiurges and, like some witless yet miraculous participant, I witness the birth on paper of sentences that have eluded my will and appear in spite of me on the sheet, teaching me something that I neither knew not thought I might want to know. This painless birth, like an unsolicited proof, gives me untold pleasure, and with neither toil nor certainty, but joy of frank astonishment I follow the pen that is guiding and supporting me."
From The Elegance of the Hedghog by Muriel Barbery
And yet. The first time I copied those lines I had to stop in the middle because my 4-year-old was yelling at me to get him a drink of milk and starting to get hysterical. I wrote: "Though the 'painless birth' of this journal is lovely, I still had to leave it to go remember the daily toil that awaits me downstairs, the fruits of three painful (and joyful) births. But I came back up to finish writing, believing that for me, in the writing comes the perspective I need to see the joy amidst the work, the unfinished, the frustration, the pain, the lack of control that means I am mother."
The second time I copied those lines (just a minute ago), I heard some splashing in the bathroom, and ran in to find my baby splashing in the toilet that my older baby had forgotten to flush.
Lovely.
It's never-ending fun around here. Good thing there's more than a pen to support me.
P.S. Sorry that the next few posts seem to be missing the first ten days of our trip. Sorry—got interrupted in the middle of posting and lost the first part of my blog and didn't have the heart or time to start over. You'll just have to wonder for the time being. Or be glad for less travelogue.
