Where is the longing?
This year, as I meditated on my longing, my pregnant hope, I located it on that table, somewhere between the salad and the ravioli, when our imperfect lives came together.
Each Advent, I sit in the near darkness of early hours and locate the longing. Where does that flame pierce the night? Is there hope growing in my belly? Am I stumbling around with the crust of pig slop, searching for the arms of a loving father? Where is the longing? Can I feel the birthing pains in my gut?
I located it, this morning—the primal yearning that has a different shade every year.
I’m facing the repercussions of writing. It happens, no matter how careful you are to talk with family members and hide the identities of others. When you dig deeply into things that matter, your writing exhumes ancestral wreckage, and you can only pray that the words will not do too much damage. In parts of the book I wrote, I recalled the turbulence in our home when I was growing up. I’ve been working on the book forever, so even though my family knew it was coming, maybe they thought that I would keep writing it and never quite conclude. I do allow perfectionism and procrastination to get tangled up in all of my endeavors.
