I emerge and then retract.
Sometimes I am thrust forward on the tailwind of an accepted proposal or a fruitful meeting.
Ego, among other things, luring me towards my own light.
Embolded, I write. I plan.
Then I recoil. Flinching from the hot pan of imposter syndrome.
Distracted by the subtle grinding of gears of oppression.
Real and perceived, ancestral and yesterday.
I retract and flutter a bit longer near Regular.
Catching my breath.
This is familiar.
Birthing Noël I cried out to the midwife to push him back in.
To the spot just above the pubic bone, before the ring of fire.
“I can’t hang out here,” I wailed.
I just needed a little longer.
Another draft, another retreat, more input.
More time to cook.
Him.
Me.
There is an intensity in this place in between.
In labor it’s called transition.
In evolution, it must too be called transition.
Here I find myself, between emergence and retraction.
Brought to my knees,
Stalled on the verge of birthing my Self.
