Mindfully Mothering

The monkey is so close to walking. Watching him, I can feel my legs tense, muscles firing into readiness. It’s kinda like when your kid’s nose is full of snot so you keep blowing your own, just to help.

He paces the house, walking from object to object, holding on tight. As long as one hand is resting on something solid, he is good to go. He has the balance, strength and control to just go ahead and take off. He is, thus far, lacking the gumption. And maybe the confidence.

I am reminded of myself. (Of course. If you haven’t figured it out yet, these little beings are flesh and blood metaphors for our own stuff.)

I write short fiction. Rich in character development, a tendency towards quirkiness with a lyrical writing style. I write because I can. I write because the characters wake me up at night and talk to me (and to have some justification for my pricey-I am still paying the student loans-Creative Writing degree).

But, like Liam, I am still holding on to the furniture. My stories are tucked away into files on my computer, sleeping peacefully, safe.

Someday soon, he will let go and take a few stumbling steps. He will likely move towards something he really wants, like me or the dog or even more enticing, my cell phone. I wonder what would make me let go and pop a story or two in the mail, sending them off into the world of possible rejection letters, possible criticism, and even, possible publication?

Anyone want to dangle a carrot?