I keep looking at the clock amazed at how time is dragging today. I�m so very tired. Last night we gathered at My Darling�s brother�s house to celebrate the birth of his oldest daughter. It was very pleasant. Unfortunately we didn�t arrive till almost 7 and then stayed through to almost 9 which in turn delayed my bedtime until after 10 pm. As if that weren�t enough I neglected to take my acid reflux medication until right before bed which meant, of course, that I was destined for a horrible case of AR shortly after midnight requiring that I prop myself up on pillows and attempt to sleep sitting up for a few hours. Needless to say I�m worn to the bone today. Einstein�s relativity seems so real on days like today. This comes on the heels of my bragging at what an easy time I seemed to be having when compared to some of the other women whose experiences are also posted on the web. At 32 weeks there are some women who can barely move around and suffer from constant back pain neither of which is an issue for me. It�s just that darn AR that kicks my butt.

Eight more weeks to go; seems like forever, I�m so very tired.

I forgot to mention something when I was telling the Shower tale (BTW pictures are on the flash drive they just need to be downloaded onto the computer and then I can select and post a few). My Mother made the family doll (known as a crybaby, named by yours truly when I was just a tiny little thing) and included a photo of the doll and a poem that I had written to accompany the gift of the doll for a friend of mine and then passed on to my Mom to do the same when gifting the doll. I read the poem aloud to the folks there. Now I didn�t receive any feed back directly about the poem (of course the rush to leave the event didn�t leave much time for chatting) but I realized how much I really liked the poem. I wonder about the ego part of it sometimes but mostly I just have certain poems I have written that I just like, I am proud that I wrote them because I actually really like them.

Of course this transitions me into wondering when I am going to start writing again. I have never written continuously, I have always been creative in fits and starts. It is only the invention of the Internet that has lead to me keeping a real honest to goodness journal with any semblance of regularity. I have started more journals than I care to count and have only been faithful here. But this writing doesn�t really count to me. It is expression and for that I reap the mental benefit of a level of emotional stability that has been lacking in the past (the writing AND the medication, don�t forget the medication) but it isn�t the kind of writing that fulfills me. It�s the difference between painting the walls of your living room and nice warm color and painting a mural. One is nice but the other is actually art. I need art in my life and the packed up nature of my current living conditions makes the act of creation even more difficult to produce than usual.

Now you might remind me that by creating life I am producing the ultimate work of art but that is a long term project whose results will be cloaked for many years to come as I chip away, sand and soften the edges of my creation. And much too depends on the material itself, he will affect the overall end product more than anything I will do to bring it about.

No, I need to express myself separate from him, make my art so that he can see how and why it is done. Understanding beauty for the sake of beauty and finding that beauty in everything.

I think maybe I should return to Haiku. Simple and yet complex, involved yet dashed off and let go.

I think I will contemplate the summer around me (in between the more and more frequent naps). Come the end of summer I will have so much to occupy my time, yes now is the time of contemplation.

Still too many hours till the end of my day but I must return to the grind so I�m off.

I wish you Peace

~alison~

�