My poor, neglected virtual square footage.
Today, over a bowl of soup, I sat down in the middle of the floor and considered this place. I moved the furniture around, with hopes that this space will be alive and welcoming and once again serve as my retreat.
Tomorrow, I will be twenty-six weeks pregnant. Twenty-six. I have told myself that I didn't want this place to become The Daily Bump and then I excused my own absence.
But the barefoot truth is that I have been hiding. I cannot be accused of failure if I am merely holding my breath. And every obstinate toddler knows that holding one's breath changes the game entirely.
I still write nearly every day, stacks and stacks of Moleskine journals bursting with witless revelations and the daily drivel of a writer-in-hiding. But I feel like a pyjama-clad gypsy, crouching in corners, scribbling observations, and moving on with no sense to be made of any of it, really.
I want to go home.
I want to return to a familiar place and feel the warmth of knowing you're in the right zip code, a brightly lit corner with a window facing west and soft pillows, should you need them. Where you can make the most outlandish proclamations or sit quietly and examine the seams of things. Where there is a quiet hum from the bustle of good intentions and piping hot pots of chocolate and feet propped up on the furniture. This is home.
So, welcome back. Scoot that stack of books to the side and have a seat. The over stuffed chair by the window is nice. There will be talk of belly laughs and belly flops and big, round bellies in general; of leanings and aspirations and inspirations and failures and heartache; of cabbages and kings. And sometimes we'll sit and admire the view. And cake. There will be cake.