Don't Worry.

This blog has been inspired by my son. I can think of nothing more compelling than writing about his downy little head with his prominent cow lick, the space in his neck that smells of curdled milk and baby soap, and his gummy delight when he wakes from a nap and sees me anxiously bending over him checking on his breath. In any case, his presence has inhabited my mind and body to such a degree that I find myself incapable of writing about anything else.

But while he is the inspiration, the actual impetus to write was provided by a poem, or more accurately, a poet. Over the past few years I have been putting together a small collection of poetry. I have some Billy Collins, a Rupi Kaur anthology and some Pablo Neruda. I read more poetry these days. I have always marveled at how a poem can economize on space and deliver sharp, incisive little truths. As I now read in the brief moments while the baby naps, the brevity of the form is a virtue.

So - the poet in question.

A friend came to visit me after the baby was born. Those first few weeks were harrowing. It was January, and cold and dark outside. I was sore and anxious and frenetic. The neat order of our tiny apartment had given way to baby swaddles, milk bottles, and a hospital grade pump machine. I barely knew my son, but I was expected to care for him. Everyone gave me unsolicited advice. I took the baby’s wailing as a personal affront, a judgment on my parenting. If I’m honest, I was ambivalent about this tiny little person. I had a desperate need to keep him alive, but I did not feel the rush of affection that I expected.  I felt adrift on an unchartered, unfriendly sea. I snapped at everyone.  I clutched possessively at the baby, and watched jealously when other people handled him. I bridled at criticism but yearned for some kind of manual. 

And then this lovely friend arrived, not with presents for the baby, but for me. One slim volume of Mary Oliver’s poetry. The cover - a muted grey sky over a golden wheat field - immediately offered some kind of solace. I could almost feel the rain on my face, the fresh cold air. The first poem was titled “Don’t Worry.” This felt like a sign from another wiser, forgiving world. “Things take the time they take,” whispered Ms. Oliver in my ear. “Don’t worry.” I handed the baby to my friend, who competently rocked him to sleep, and pored through the book.

So it is with Ms. Oliver’s blessing that I take these tentative steps. This is my first foray into blogging. I have not written anything in a long time. Because this is (largely) about parenthood, I feel as if I am exposing a raw and vulnerable and unformed part of myself. This blog will be composed of questions, and I may not be able to answer them all. I'm not entirely certain about how to edit things on this platform, and don't have any idea what html is. But Mary Oliver’s words ring true and I feel that I should pay heed to them:

There is nothing more pathetic than caution

When headlong might save a life,

Even, possibly, your own.

I may as well rush headlong into all of it - parenthood, writing, and whatever lies beyond. Wish me luck.