My muse is up to something. She’s mixing and stirring and whisking, deep in the cooking pot of my belly. A new idea always starts right in the middle of me. If I extend an arm of inquiry gently down to it, the fluttering subsides, so I’ve learnt to leave it be, let it brew and grow rich in its own juices.
It’s an amazing feeling. The desire to reach into the thickness of it is almost overwhelming. And yet, I love all this activity below the surface of me. I go about my daily life with a small and private smile that fills me with delight. I imgine that this is what being pregnant feels like.
I am pregnant with story. I’m almost certain that this is my own story. I tread with care. I am careful not to look downwards and inwards too soon. Demand before time. Dilute the narratives that are truly mine. These stories steep within me. Soon they will prompt my belly to nudge my hand to ready my fingers to bypass my brain so that my heart is free to speak my truth.