Just now, I nursed baby S to sleep and as I looked down as his sleeping face - his perfect sleeping baby face - it occurred to me that I had never written about either of my babies. They were perfect - are perfect - but I somehow could not put that into words. Everything I wanted to say seemed trite - how do I describe the perfection in the curve of my baby's eyes without sounding like a love blinded fool?
Instead I wrote about sad things: about my grandfather's death, about the winter solstice and about illness. Although, come to think of it, maybe all of it was about my grandfather's death because the winter solstice was always at his house and we ate dumplings and of course, all that is now gone.
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Today I hunted up the link to Donald Hall's Letter in Autumn because sometimes, you need to read something like that.
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The thought of perfection has been haunting me lately. I have been watching videos of competitive skaters and wince at every fall, every bobbled landing. Can I be like that? How can I work like that? I want to write again and somehow in this place in time, I am not able to do that.
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