When the 21st rolls around each month, I always feel a moment of panic that I have nothing to post on Hopeful Parents. I obsess a bit on crafting something hopeful -- I sit in front of my computer screen and scroll down my bloglist, clicking here and there, looking for inspiration. Then I might click over to Facebook and check my Inbox. That leads me back to my blog and then to the comments and back again -- well -- if you're a writer, you know the temptations. I realize when I do this, allow distraction to sort of set up camp in one part of my brain, that it's actually part of my writing process. Because while I'm clicking and skimming, my brain is actually working, subconsciously.
And what came up tonight, when I finally clicked over here to create a post was an image of wings. The sort of wings that you see in classical paintings or Greek sculpture. The wings on the backs of the angels in disguise in Wim Wenders' movie Wings of Desire, long and silvery-white transparent, strong enough to fly away from suffering but an appendage nonetheless and a reminder of what is not. And what is.
My daughter Sophie's refractory seizure disorder of unknown origin, her condition, causes her and those who love her immense suffering, and there is really no glory, no blessing in that. When I sit on her bed and watch her seize, when my tears stop and I am able to willfully watch feelings of despair and anger wing it out, I do not feel relief or gratitude. I do not know how to feel. I am, instead, that black figure, head bowed, knowing and not-knowing, winging it.
Elizabeth Aquino is winging it with her family and on her blog, a moon worn as if it had been a shell.