Home, Home…

Blogging, blogging over an open vein

It’s Sunday night my stomach’s tight sitting to write again

Slogging, slogging through events of the week

News is grim for her and him, they’re on a losing streak...

Actually...

We have been enjoying house guests who arrived from L.A. late Sunday, to do The Painted Turtle Camp Outreach at Bay Area Hospitals. They’ll stay here with us the better part of the week ahead, then spirit my hunny Punny down south to attend one of the family camps there. It’s late as I write. I’ve been cooking most of the day, probably to avoid writing. Tomorrow, I’ll attend two writing classes, one at mid day, the other in the evening. Why does my ink-well feel dry?

While rearranging my office, I came across some lyrics I penned at an APPPAH conference several years ago. It was to accompany the presentation of a quilt to Thomas Verny, then president of The Association for Pre- and Peri-natal Psychology and Health. The quilt was made by the Home Birth special interest group which met during lunch, over the course of four days. 

I remember that it was fun to write the song quite spontaneously. That sort of writing... in a time-crunch box, seems easier, on-fire, all cylinders whirring to beat the clock. Why hasn’t the clock here in my kitchen struck midnight and inspired me to catch on fire?

Sigh... Here’s the song I found in my APPPAH file:

To the tune of Home, Home on the Range

At home, home we arrange

Everything to give birth our own way

Moms and babies will dance

If we give them the chance

And the rest of the family can play

Home, home is for birth

It’s the place all the creatures on earth

Have always gone to, 

‘cause they know what to do

And they do it their own special way

Home, home is not strange

It’s cozy and we want to stay

Where seldom is heard

A disparaging word

And we keep interventions at bay

The Home Birth Committee seemed to like it fine. Six of us led the singing portion, and we had the words projected up on a screen for the assembled three hundred attendees to sing along. Enthusiasm builds easily, when we're preaching to the choir.

I’m up against a deadline for next Monday, March 30. The Embodied Life Stories class I'm part of will hold its culmination, to which we may invite friends, colleagues, and family. I have only an opening line and gesture. Better get cracking on that too!

Meanwhile, in order to procrastinate in a grand way today, I’ve made Broiled Salmon with Raspberry-Chipotle Sauce, Pasta with Zucchini and Basil, Shepherd’s Pie, Chinese Chicken Salad, Guacamole, plus, I’ve cut veggies, washed berries, cleaned house, made beds… puff, puff, pant, pant.


Slightly regretting that I gave away my mother’s “F_ _ K Housework!” poster to my older daughter. Maybe I need to be reminded that the phrase is: "After the ecstasy, the laundry,"  not the other way around. Why I put chores before the writing is a puzzle worth unravelling.