Yesterday I went to look at those shoes I mentioned in the previous post, and they were $20 more expensive in the “brick and mortar” UO store than they were online? They also had astonishingly short toes. And I was so irritated I didn’t even try them on.

I had just come up from downstairs, where there was a big sale going on, and had tried on several different things that would have looked really nice on me except that I’m now lumpy and egg-shaped. Like, I really understand Plath’s strolling watermelon, now. I kind of laughed, and then cried on the way to the car. I don’t know how to get my brain in line with what’s really happening to me. It’s a miraculous event, getting/being pregnant, but I’m so longing for it all to be over. I feel the ugliest I’ve ever felt in my life.

I got all organizy last night and inventoried all the material things we already have for the baby, and it’s so nice that we don’t really need a whole lot. I mean, except for the expensive things, like car seat and baby carrier and whatnot. But several people have told me, “People want to buy you stuff.” So, I accept it. And make a registry. I actually hang out on the registry a lot. Agonizing about whether there’s too much on there or not enough. ?  And after a couple hours of doing this I feel so mentally ill.

More than I long for my pre-pregnancy body, my pre-pregnancy sense of physical well-being, I long for a new house to rent. Marshall, now that he has a new job, is leapfrogging all the way into looking at houses that are for sale, which seems quite premature to me. But I can totally understand it, because rent is so, so high if you want a nice house kind of close to town. I mean it feels high to us. And our friends Mark and Elizabeth just bought a house that is—and I hesitate to say stuff like this but in this case it’s just so awfully appropriate—perfect in almost every way. I went over there during the second half of the dumb Vols / Gators game on Saturday, and wanted to basically lie on every surface in the house, the walls, the floors, the butcher block counters, the antique sink, the tilled ground in the backyard, the wooded hills behind the neighbor’s barn. Are riches like this in store for us, too?

We denigrate our apartment every day, now. We insult it, belittle it, despise it. We feel like Alice in here, with our feet in the fireplace, arms squashed into window-panes, shoulders wedged into corners.

I’m later and later to work every day, now … because it’s proving just impossible to get up and be presentable as early as I used to. I mean, of course, that it’s been impossible to make myself get up and be presentable. Things are winding down at the farm, and I feel my body winding down, too. Mentally, I’d rather be getting ready for this life change that’s happening—I feel so incredibly behind. But at the same time, I think working, harvesting food crops and touching soil and being in the wide open spaces of East Tennessee are probably saving my life in some way. I just haven’t connected the dots. And I don’t guess I will for another six months, probably. Since I always feel “half in tomorrow and half in today,” I usually don’t really know the present moment until it’s lived in me for months.

I’m feeling such a chaotic mixture of inner movements, this morning. I started this post in order to scratch out some cramped & miserable lines of discontent—which felt odd after having posted that last exuberant entry—but after a long paragraph of bitchfest I felt super gross and logged out and went to check my email real quick before turning off the computer and brushing my teeth. And I’d heard back from one of the literary magazines I’d sent poems to, months and months and months ago, and was sure it was a rejection (all the others in this batch had been), but it was an acceptance. They’d taken “A Hell of a Year,” probably a bad title but still one of my favorite poems to come out of my years at UT. And it was from Fourteen Hills, a nice magazine, not a lame one like Rockhurst Review (who had nevertheless accepted one of my favorite poems a year or two ago)! It’s astonishing. Like the weather has changed so quickly that I don’t believe it.

I’d just recently expressed to Marshall and KG my secret belief that I was going to give up writing altogether—whether it was happening this year, or whether it would happen when I was 40, I didn’t know—but that I’ve been feeling this creeping inevitability over the past year. I don’t know, anymore, what to believe about “signs”; does God wait and wait and wait and then mail the long-awaited letter, or are the movements on the universe a web of symbols to which we assign the meanings we hope for (or, alternately, fear)? This is a rhetorical question, one I bump around once a year or so until an answer surfaces.

I really want, I want so much. I want to live well, to manage well, to govern myself, to cultivate my inner garden, to open myself to the inexplicable, the mystical. I don’t know why it’s so hard to get the wheels moving, sometimes. These small rips in the day’s fabric are affording me an opportunity of some kind—I’m going to try to take it.