I am an intense woman, an intense, wife, an intense mother. I am an intense cloth diaperer. I am an intense dieter. I am an intense worshipper. I am an intense everything. There is not one thing I care about that I do not COMPLETELY, ABSOLUTELY, CARE ABOUT. And if I care about it, I have to know everything there is to know about it. And if I know about it, I can’t get away with not DOING it.
It’s very dangerous, my brain. It’s like a boa constrictor. It unhinges it’s jaw and swallows subjects whole, then sits for days, sometimes years, just digesting, slowly picking information apart piece by piece, breaking it down, crushing it until every useful part is assimilated. Snakes, owls, the Borg. You know.
Writing, like bodybuilding, like composting, like mothering, like all the things that sit in my gut and build who I am, takes a lot of time. A lot of hidden time, full of all sorts of processes I cannot see. Makes me angry. Makes me want to change course. But inevitably, yet somehow always surprisingly, the time is up — I lift heavier, my kale thrives, my three year old no longer throws herself on the ground in shrieking protest when it’s time to move on to the next thing, there’s a period at the end of a sentence. And then I’m just hungry again.