“Now is where love breathes,”
an ancient poet once wrote,
and I have this feeling
that now is where I need to be
to transport this baby
from womb to world.
Now in the vivid moment
that has existed since breath first hovered over water:
the now of pain, the now of ecstasy,
the now of the beast’s groan
that echoes the earth’s most inner ache.
For to be now
is to go down:
down down down,
to the bedrock of who I am
(blood and vomit,
shit and sacred water –
not wand of mascara
or even a bra in sight!)
Down down down,
to the bedrock of who he is as well:
he, being my son,
the one I know by the way he stretches out that little leg of his,
and makes us laugh
as he contorts my belly this way and that.
This is where we meet:
not amongst books with lofty ideas,
or an intelligent quip poised on lacquered lips,
or a social media post designed to impress,
but right here
in the wondrous crucible of now.
(inspired by Book Beauty, by Rumi)