During my pregnancy, I became a bit obsessed with my growing womb: that tiny, secret place inside of me that expanded, as if by magic, to fit an entirely new life. Now that my literal womb is empty, I have started to think about metaphorical wombs. That is, the tiny secret places inside us where we nourish any new creation: writing, emotions, music, art, whatever. I'm sure some readers will find this metaphor distasteful, however, I feel compelled to mention it here. After all, we use the expression "brain-child," is it too much of a stretch to talk about a "brain-womb"?
As I go through this process of rediscovering my inner writer and poet, I am tidying up my symbolic womb to make it cozy for the new thoughts that will take up residence there. I am hanging wallpaper and glow-in-the-dark stars, I am stocking up on fleecy blankets, I am choosing soothing music. Most importantly, I trying to keep the noisy, angry thoughts away from this sanctuary, this nursery.
(edited to add that the photo is of Henry Moore's Mother and Child, on display in St. Paul's Cathedral)
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