Torch and Ocean

Florence Miller’s “Centrifics,” 1938. Oil on canvas.

​Last week, we celebrated my daughter Helen’s birthday. It was especially meaningful because I’ve been writing about being pregnant with her twenty-eight years ago.
 
In celebration of our combined birthday seasons (my birthday is next week), I’m sharing an excerpt from my work-in-progress: RIPE: An Intergenerational Pregnancy Memoir in Micro and Flash Stories. In “Torch,” I am five months pregnant and recently learned I was carrying a girl.

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Torch
 
We decide to name our daughter Helen after Jim’s deceased mother and grandmother. I use her name in conversation, which makes Jim uneasy. 

“What if she comes out looking un-Helen-like?” he asks. He wonders if naming her too soon might jinx anything.  

But the more I use her name, the closer Helen feels. 

I hold my tongue in Jim’s presence but continue to address her as Helen in private. I doodle her name in my journal and write her notes and letters. 

Dear Helen, do you know your name comes from the Greek word “torch?” 

One night, while soaking solo in the hot tub—well, Helen’s here, too—under a starry sky, I feel a warm flutter near my heart. 

“Helen? Is that you?” Two more gentle flickers—her first kicks, which I take as affirmation. Helen approves of her name and is already glowing. 
 
***
 
​​Today, I am glowing, too—with gratitude for the writer and teacher I’ve become, the woman Helen is ripening into, grateful for Jim, my extended family and friends, every person who has bared their soul in my writing circles, my community, mentors and editors who hold me accountable, and those who publish my work. 
 
When pregnant and questing for a writing career, I worried I wasn’t qualified to be a mother or a writer. I thought I wasn’t good enough; nobody would listen to me, or I’d get into trouble expressing my truth. I’d learned to tell lies to spare other people’s feelings and ignore my own. I looked outside myself for answers and didn’t trust my instincts. I attended writers’ conferences where I felt like the puniest fish in a sea of stars—or floated aimlessly like plankton. 
 
It took time to understand the power of constraints, which fuels creation. At first, motherhood seemed like the ultimate hindrance. But it forced me to carve out, value, and defend my writing time. It taught me to appreciate deadlines, accountability, writing groups, and workshops. These containers helped me make sense of my chaotic life. 
 
We don’t suffer because we have nothing to say; we struggle because we have too much to say. People, responsibilities—and thoughts—clamor for our attention. We’re unsure how to focus and translate the formless into form. 
 
But when we are given a condition or restriction, the field narrows. We’re squeezed out of the thinking mind and compelled to lean into innate wisdom. This is why I use guided meditations and timed writing exercises in my writing circles. Don’t think—write, I say.
 
Lorne Michaels, producer of Saturday Night Live, famously said, “The show doesn’t go on because it’s ready; it goes on because it’s 11:30.”
 
I never felt one hundred percent equipped to become a mother, and many folks don’t feel prepared to write, but when we shimmy out of our busy, judgy minds, leave them on the beach, and dive into the water—when we say “yes” to creative challenges—we become the ocean. 
 
***
 
Congratulations to writing circle member Trisha L. Bernard, whose microfiction, Frazzle Framp was published in MacQueen’s Quinterly.
 
***
 
Check out “All of My Accepted Stories Started with Rejections: I Can’t Sacrifice My Writing for the Business of Advancing My Career” by Benjamin Schaefer in Electric Literature. I found it illuminating and supportive.
 
Stay warm. Spring is on its way. 
 
Thanks for being part of my journey.
 
Blessings,
Bella
 
P.S.
As my winter writing circles wind down, I’m grateful for and amazed by the energy, talent, and heart each person brings. I’m inspired and impressed every week and touched when people say nice things about the circle.
 
My spiritual writing mastermind sister, Jonelle Simms, who surprised me by joining one of my winter circles, said after the third or fourth week, “People coming together in small groups to listen and share is healing. Bella’s writing circle gives me hope for humanity.” And Judith Antelman, author of The Pugilist’s Daughter, says, “This circle is my oxygen.” 
 
Some folks don’t want to wait five weeks until the Spring session, which begins April 21. I remind them time passes quickly. It’ll be here before we know it. I have a few openings. Please let me know as soon as possible if you’re interested. Seats are limited and fill up fast.
 
Meanwhile, I will continue to work on my memoir, honor my birthday, perhaps dip into AWP’s annual conference, enjoy family time and wine in the Napa Valley, and cozy my bones in Calistoga’s hot springs.