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Archive for January, 2009

Life, redefined

Well, the last time I wrote, a new life had just begun growing inside me.  I was overwhelmed with what it all meant, how I got there.

And now?

Today, that little life was four months old. That little life is a person with two new teeth. She’s got a name: Delaney. We made her. Unbelievable.

Life

as I ever knew it exploded into a gazillion little pieces of nothing

Life

started over

Life

is a surprise every new second

What I called life before was obviously legitimate, but so very different from what I live now.

Sometimes Kyle comes home at night and asks,”So, what did you guys do today?” And I’m at a bit of a loss for words, because I no longer count my minutes by the number of e-mails I get or the number of tasks I completed (or more accurately, didn’t complete). I don’t have meetings or days where “you wouldn’t believe how busy I was.”

Time has changed. My experience of time has changed.

Quantum physics states that particles move forward and backward in time as well as existing at all places at once. In quantum physics, time doesn’t move forward. It’s everywhere, and there is no explanation for forward movement of time.

Kind of mindblowing. Whenever I’ve tried to capture that into some kind of understanding, I’ve gotten a headache. It’s too big.

This, perhaps, is the closest I’ve gotten. Not to understanding it necessarily, but experiencing it.

I remember days at work, before and during pregnancy, where one of two things occurred: time passed so fast I forgot to eat lunch or so slowly I’d be falling asleep at my desk.  Both were illusions, because time was passing at exactly the same rate. But the experience was so very different.

And now. How to describe it.

I almost feel like I can hear time passing now: the ticking of each second as it slowly passes. But not in a bored, come-on-you-gotta-be-kidding-me-that-it’s-only-2:30-in-the-afternoon way.

But in this ridiculous I-can-barely-breathe-when-I-look-at-or-smell-or-touch-this-new-little-life-that-we-created. Or in a what-if-my-heart-just-explodes-from-loving-her-so-much way.

Time seems suspended in many moments but also charges forward much too quickly for my heart to adjust or catch up. It leaves me joyous and griefstricken all at once.

The most awesome moments occur when we breastfeed. She has acquired some newfound independence that takes the form of stopping feeding and looking up at me to smile and then coo. The noises she makes are other-worldly, signs of a divine Universe, I think.

So now: life. What about it?

I haven’t a clue. And I believe that will continue for the rest of my life.

One of my favorite monologues is from Six Degrees of Separation, where Stockard Channing’s character, Ouisa Kittredge, starts to open her eyes and heart and begins to question life as she has known it:

But it was an experience. I will not turn [it] into an anecdote. How do we keep what happens to us? How do we fit it into life without turning it into an anecdote, with no teeth, and a punch line you’ll mouth over and over, years to come: “Oh, that reminds me of the time that impostor came into our lives. Oh, tell the one about that boy.” And we become these human jukeboxes, spilling out these anecdotes. But it was an experience. How do we keep the experience?

I can’t really say it better than that. But that’s the question I’m living as I love this little being more than I’ve ever loved anything. Even the word love seems so limited. It’s one dimensional.

So, life.

This thing called life.

The more I live it, the less I understand it. But I know it’s a blessing in every way. And I guess that’s enough.

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