Exercising my brain to vent a pressure cooker

Discovered an interesting writer and website today thanks to A Room of Her Own Foundation post: Spiritual Memoir. The author, Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew, posts weekly writing exercises designed to engage writers in their craft and its connection to their spiritual growth.

Very cool if you ask me.

This week’s exercise is “overwhelm.” Considering that I “coincidentally” feel exactly that way right now – thought I’d give it a go.


I am 43 years old and the granddaughter of a life-long seamstress. The fact that I do not know how to sew a hem randomly boomerangs tears of grief while walking around in extra long pants. I miss her and mourn the time I did not spend with her learning.

I wear my responsibility girdle on top of my big girl panties hidden beneath my emperor-wolf’s clothing all day, most days. It only takes a moment of self-induced authoritative direction in a time of multi-directional conflict to make my hands tremble and my voice quaver. Extricating the acceptance for the need of more girl friend time again emphatically strikes unexpectedly.

The car behind me honks. I begin screaming at the rear view mirror, “What?! What do you want? The light just turned green and my foot is on the accelerator! Give me a chance to go! I was about to go! Give me a chance! What more do you want from me?!” The familiar salt sting grinds around the edge of my glasses.

“I have decided to dissolve the Quorum of 12 and as of this moment have declared martial law.” ~ Colonel Saul Tigh. Even though he really did frak things up when he did that, all of it had happened before and all of it would happen again. I allow myself to be mesmerized. Anon.

Remaining open to messaging from the Universe in a kaleidoscope of signals is most difficult when I believe myself overwhelmed.

Like when in a vegetative state of status scanning, I see a link to a website about spiritual journey writing and click through…


Untitled Post because I just don’t know…

I have always wanted to be a mom, to have babies. When I was a little girl, I used to dream of getting married and having four babies – two boys and two girls. I had some names picked out like Christopher Richard and Anastasia. My sister and I used to pretend we were having babies (i.e., in “labor” – when you’re about six or so, who knew it wouldn’t be “fun?”) with our Baby Tenderlove dolls. It is one of the few memories I have from our house in San Antonio.

Even  my dreams of being a famous actress came in second to being the world’s greatest, most loving and ultimately cool Mom. I would imagine myself onstage accepting my Tony Award and looking down at my children in the front row, dedicating the award to them, telling them how much I loved them and was so glad they were my true life.

The greatest part of that dream has come true – I am a Mom. I have two beautifully amazing children – one boy, one girl – about nineteen months apart. They are currently nine and eight. As far as being the penultimate parent? Well, you’ll have to ask my kids about that (but not today, as I am a bit grumpy). And, no, there is no Tony Award in my near future. (still holding out hope to work that in someday…)

Why am I writing this? Good question. I don’t know other than why do I write about anything here but to wrench out some meaning behind feelings, dreams and/or occurrences in my life. And hormones. I may have written a few times about those. ;0)

I have been having dreams lately about being pregnant again. Just last night I dreamed of myself with a full, round belly excited at the prospect of another child. One of those surreal dreams where I could almost touch the stretched, smooth surface and feel the baby moving inside. I was also heating cinnamon rolls and lettuce via a refrigerator toaster oven while my entire extended family gathered around a large table. It was an odd dream.

Odd especially because – not sure why it matters, but feel the need to state it – I am 41. I haven’t tried to get pregnant for, well, about nine years now. My husband had the v-snip about four years ago to ensure our family size maintained its status quo. I agreed to and even had to legally sign-off on that decision way back then. Getting pregnant again has long been out of the picture for me.

And, oh yea, one other thing – I had a hysterectomy about a year and half ago. I may still have my ovaries, but due to the fact that it was on its way to falling out and I needed other reconstructive surgery to repair damage during childbirth, I have no uterus for a womb. My tubes have been shut off to any egg deliveries and there is no cervix to dilate. In short (which, I know, is not possible for me), I am no longer a physically functioning instrument of human reproduction.

There. I’ve said it.

Then why the dreams? Why the twinge of heartache when I feel whatever eggs I have left being expunged into the empty cavern where my uterus used to be? Am I doubting a decision that is irreversible? The time for that was nearly two years ago. Could it be that I fear my track record so far as a Mom and would like a do over? Is it grief – still? If so, how does one properly grieve a uterus? Should I have kept it and buried it under a budding tree as a way for it to continue it’s sole purpose of supporting fetal development?

I have actually wondered what happened to it. I was, of course, under general anesthesia and have no freaking clue what went on after I was wheeled into the operating room other than to comment about all the massive amount of stuff they had in there. I felt so calm that day, so sure it was all going to be all right.

And it is.


My body is different – feels different. I have residual pain from one of the other surgeries they performed that day which doesn’t help matters and can get debilitating if I am not careful. Though, it is nice not having to worry about when I can go swimming or plan a vacation around a 28-day cycle.

And yet…(think long pause – like the one in Aliens where Sigourney Weaver’s cigarette ash was two inches long…)

So, now that I’ve reached the end of the blog arc, what’s my usual conclusion that I can pull into my psyche all wrapped up in a curly-q bow in order to move forward and find some peace about my withdrawn uterus?

Unfortunately, all I’ve come up with is this haiku.

Altered instrument ~
What life can I produce now?
Spring winds move the trees.