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Archive for December 3rd, 2007

Here’s something new…

Okay, I’m strange, and maybe a bit conflicted. I admit it.

If you’ve been reading my blog at all, you realize that sometimes, I talk about gardening. Sometimes, I talk about the rest of my life. And sometimes, I talk about infertility. This is kind of a problem for me, because I don’t want to define myself by my infertility, I don’t want my life to be about infertility, and yet it’s always there. And I have a lot of friends who, frankly, don’t want to read about my infertility. They have lived through the worst of it with me, and they are ready to move on.

And not only do I not want my life to be about infertility, I don’t want my blog to be all about infertility either. See that tag cloud to the right of the page? I’ve worked really hard to try to get the other tags to be larger than “infertility” and yet I can’t seem to manage it.

But when I do post about my dealings with infertility, I get a lot of responses from readers, sometimes very personal, and always very anguished, comments from other women who are going through their own struggles. And because infertility is very isolating, I really do feel that we need each other. Infertile women are the only people who really understand what it’s like to be an infertile woman and all that entails.

So I did the only thing I could think to do. I started a new blog, just for discussing infertility issues. For discussing life issues. For discussing hope issues.

blessedarethebarren.wordpress.com

It’s a strange name. It’s a strange thing to even consider that, as infertile women, we can feel blessed. Stranger still, we can be blessed. It’s the hope I cling to, that there’s meaning in my suffering, and blessings for my life.

You’re welcome to visit, to stop in, to converse if you want to. Occassionally I will still post something here about my feelings as they relate to infertility. Afterall, it’s still a part of my life. Sometimes I’ll cross-post, because although I don’t want my life to be about infertility, infertility can’t be pigeonholed into just one area of my life.

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[I apologize for being so long between posts, but the honest truth is that a) the end of the semester is here, which means extra work and papers for my two classes, and b) because I’m either locked up in the language lab doing extra work or chained to my computer at home writing papers for my two classes, nothing very interesting is happening in my life right now. I’ve been meaning to get this one out for the past four days!  In fact, the very fact that I haven’t been able to write this post is further evidence of just how much I –needed– to write this post.]

What many people may not understand is how incredibly -luxurious- it can be to live in the country.  What we may lack in terms of convenient coffee-shops and ready-made entertainment is more than compensated for by the abundance of peace and the space for reflection.  As my professional life speeds ahead and I get caught up in the urgencies of the end of the semester, I must take account of the many luxuries my life affords me, if for no other reason to be sure that I don’t forget to take advantage of them.  Here are but a few:

Davis RoadQuiet.  It’s so very quiet in the country.  When I step out of my door into the night, I don’t hear cars or trucks, but only rarely the distant sound of a train whistle.  The incessant clatter of the network printer that haunts my workday is far, far away, and the repeated interruptions by students and faculty alike are replaced by undemanding calls of owls and the social-networking of coyotes.  I could take a bath in quiet.  I can feel quiet run down my head and face, filling my ears with the quiet-ness of it, washing away noise and clamour and machines until they run off my fingertips in pools at my feet.  Quiet is a luxury.

Green.  Even in the late fall, green is a luxury.  Moss glows brightly green against the clay of the earth, and with the loss of the hardwood leaves, the green of the pines stands out in stark contrast to the grey of the wood’s skeletons and the sweeping grey of a wintery sky.  In the city where I work, the token trees have also lost their leaves and the unrelieved grey of concrete and asphalt reach upwards into the grey of the clouds, but at home, in the country, green needles tickle the sky on the breeze and remind me that winter is but a pause.

Air.  The air in the country is crisp and cool and clean, and it transforms the mundane of breathing in and out, in and out, to a luxurious act of living purposefully.  The air is so fresh that you can smell the smoke from a winter hearth far off in the distance and imagine the warmth. 

Reflection.  Time slows once I get home to my place here in the woods, and with it, my heart can slow, and my thoughts can slow so that I can turn one thought over and over until it is smooth like a river stone, the sharp edges ground away and polished into reflection.  And with reflection comes humility, in which I can see my life as a small thread in the vast fabric of the universe, and thankfulness, so that I can be thankful for things that might have passed unnoticed.  Like a gravel road that’s just been graded, like a rainfall that washed away the dust of the drought, like a quiet country night, when the air is still, and the stars are bright, and the coyote pups sing me to sleep.

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