Musings

My dear girl,
Some time ago, which feels like ages now, when I wasn't your mother yet but had been wishing to become it for a while, when I still used to write every day, I couldn't figure out how life would be with you. While pregnant, I of course cherished the baby I was carrying inside and the seed of that love that is now ever present and luminous already shined in me/us. I couldn't know how it would be like to have you outside and that's why I planned I would continue to work as much as I had before you. I am amazed now at how wrong and short-sighted I was and it strikes me as impossible that I couldn't see it before. Once you were in this outside world, it didn't take long for me to realize that full-time -or even part-time freelance self-employment (which always means working far more hours than what full-time usually means) was highly incompatible with parenting you in the way I so deeply felt I wanted to.
Due to our household economy and the impossibility of turning down my small projects such as book clubs and classes, I haven't had the chance to stay at home with you full time but nearly 3/4 of it, for which I feel really grateful. Now, I find it impossible to imagine how this could have been otherwise.
I cherish every moment we spend together and really empathize with your anxiety when I am about to leave for a class or meeting. Those hours we are apart are not many and never more than 1,75 h in a row. During them it is nearly always your father who stays with you, with very few exceptions when it was your cousin 18 years your senior. And yet, we both feel separation anxiety.
Despite the time when I used to attempt creative writing daily has been gone for a long time, some intimate feeling tells me all this time without setting pen to paper in the mood for writing in a "room of my own" with non-limited time will someday become fruitful, more fruitful maybe than the time I used to spend hours trying and discarding. As every spring, the bloom of almond trees seems to turn on a light for me. Their blossoms whisper the same old song, proof that whatever inspiration is it may wait for the right moment to come. Unlike T.S Eliot, I feel Spring is a season full of hope.