Something strange is happening. When I am quiet, I feel it: a slight discomfort in my solar plexus, a hollow dent in my heart; distant rumblings from a far off place: a place I once lived in, perhaps..? And it’s a gift – this strange something happening, this happening of something strange – requiring thought and introspection, time and space, permission, surrender, effort, work… I yawn: already I am tired. I also wonder… “will I pass; will I be good enough or brave or strong enough?” Expectation sends me inward – head over foot, arms tightly wrapped around. It’s like time has sped up or continued to move without me, creating worlds in my absence, deleting countries in my sleep, causing things that were small and insignificant to grow ripe carrying things that were old and no longer significant along with them in order for them too to be changed.

And now there is this new life growing inside of this old life, this already mostly grown life that to me has always remained the same, forcing me to accommodate shifts in accepting and seeing, trusting and believing, feeling and making, baking, creating… along with an awareness that in a not-so-very-far-off ‘away’, there will be this arrival of this presence that was not and now is, transforming everything that then happens in thousands of ways.

Spreading its essence like the roots of a tree; touching and growing into pieces of her and pieces of me, pieces of them and pieces of us… it will become interweaved, one of the same, and from that moment on there will be no separation – no it without her, her without it – and the person I knew and spent time with, still occasionally spend time with, will be indelibly tied and chained, never to be seen as an alone or an independent separate self again.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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