Unborne? I guess that should say "unborn" but it seems more balanced with the "e" at the end, don't you think? And it adds the connotation of bearing a burden. Maybe I'll borrow it from nonexistence for this posting.
I have been ruminating on some of MmeBookling's thoughts about the creative journey this morning. It has brought back memories of childhood aspirations and wondering about soul-proximal potential. I have always thought reading and writing to be something very "soul-centric" for me... a stunted creative journey. In the space and luxury of childhood, reading and writing were a mammoth of my days. Their absence in my life now causes me to weigh whether this hiatus is merited... a worthwhile sacrifice? What is the cost to my present, my future, my soul, my family?
As I steal moments with the laptop, Olive is playing with a cup of cotton balls on the floor--moving them one by one from the ottoman to the cup and then dumping them all over the floor. Well, now she has moved on to a ukulele, its dissonant notes almost pleasant.
In truth, the pace of motherhood is not the primary reason the pen and keyboard have remained distant. It is my aversion to producing drab drivel that has kept me away. I don't want to write if nothing good will come out. And time and distance have made me increasingly hesitant. Still, work doesn't usually appeal until you are elbows deep in it. Writing feels much the same to me--as if there is nothing to write until I really "get in there."
So here's my first investment in "getting elbows deep" and in bearing... to the end of something being born.
