A friend joked that I currently have Schroedinger’s uterus – I may or may not be pregnant. That’s exactly how it feels. I ovulated 7 days ago. Sometimes I feel pregnant. I’m queasy, my nipples are tender, and there’s a slowly kindling sense of hope that we’ve been wildly fortunate and conceived on the first cycle. A deep peace settles in my bones and all the noise and fuss of life goes quiet, like someone has closed a window on the traffic noise. It’s beautiful. Other times there’s nothing there, no sense of a presence, just an empty box, an egg timer with no sand in the glass. More painfully, sometimes there’s the fear that a tiny life was present that has gone or is fading. I find myself talking to it and begging it to stay.
I’m busy at the moment, following up all the wild interest in the Hearing Voices Network. I’ve been to conferences and workshops before where there was this huge surge of potential connections afterwards (although that’s not always the case) and I was too shattered from the travel and my own crash following it all, and my anxiety about putting myself out there to follow any of it up. This time I’m determined to ride the wave, write back to every email. follow every lead. But although I’m busy I also feel like I’m not rushing. There’s this even pace, nothing frantic, a kind of quietness. My head is full of network and plans and new friends and book drafts. But beneath it all I have one ear cocked towards the shadows, listening for my baby. Are you here yet? Are you with me? I love you. It’s like working in a house on the beach, listening to the roar of the ocean and always quietly alert for the tide to bring something in, for the waters to rush back into the darkness and leave something precious glistening on the shore.