my home is in empty spaces.

Tending my nephew on weekends instead of blogging. This gives my sister some time to rest. He can turn his head now to look straight at you when you talk to him. He still likes bright objects, and doesn't know what his hands are. He loves being sung to.

This afternoon my nephew was fidgety and kept waking up after we'd put him down to sleep. He fell deeply asleep only after I left my hand on his abdomen for 45 minutes while I tried to spend time productively by reading my work. After 45 minutes, I was too keyed up from glancing at him every time he moved and soothing him, to continue reading. I spent the subsequent half hour unfreezing my shoulder. Another half hour after, the nephew woke up refreshed and promptly started bawling, sparking off a frenzy of nappy-changing and bottle-feeding, followed by the endless time getting him to burp. Thus went an entire Saturday.

By the time the nephew was a happy baby I was still awake enough to observe it but too miserable to appreciate it much. I really can't imagine how parents can sacrifice so much peace of mind to raise kids.

Good. I like the part about putting a handful of real people near the center of everything.

To fully understand what the following is for, read it out loud, slowly:

Thank you.
Please forgive me.
I love you.
I forgive you.
Goodbye.

Perhaps noteworthy.

Many years ago, when I first staked the claim that my home is in empty spaces, I meant it as how it was then, characteristic of its time as events in my personal life were unfolding, young leaves to the ageless sun born out of night.

I enjoy empty spaces, still. This is somewhat unexpected. Somehow I'd thought (or my younger self had thought, rather) that I could have a fulfilling life accumulating feelings in moderation, being loved, being blood-bonded to close friends and carrying on pleasant conversations with my wide circle of acquaintances. And that working steadily on some task and tribulation that consumed me utterly would be not only secondary, but an unthinkable prospect, a horrific life. I'd thought that the young leaves would grow and become rooted, the entire plant blooming as the sun rose in its sky circle and night faded to both a distant memory and distantly foretold chill. I'd thought that my happiest life would be one essentially of floating in comforting and comfortable peace, pricked occasionally but never hurting.

Instead I have come to realize that for myself at least, a peaceful life of equilibrium is one involved in battle. A contradiction in terms. But after three months of what I'd thought would be a living embodiment of grounded peace, I am bored to tears of pleasant conversations and pleasant tones. I long to scythe through the knots and dead-ended patterns that have come up during the course of these past few months' work. Yet that slicing moment is only one moment out of long hours of throwing pillows, and even that moment does not always come for every pattern. I have faded in these past few months of pillow fights, softly asphyxiating the life out of me. This setting is not for me. A life of unceasing comfort is not for me. Possibly, marriage is not for me.

I am grateful to return home, in a week's time. Unbearably, sharply grateful.