We found so many treasures this week, we hope you enjoy the shine and sparkle of at least some of them.
First of all, some unexpected artistry, not only in cinematic miniature by the hundreds, but also evidence that many of the painted hands on cave walls were made by cavewomen, not men.
For wonderfully unexpected events, what about President Obama and Marilynne Robinson almost interviewing each other in conversation, or Emma Smith’s copy of the Book of Mormon being found? What if we get rid of all borders? Have you read some of the new Mary Oliver poems set for release soon? Check out these limits to the human body.
Now to looking through sisterhood slant: a wondering if there is a downside to idealising motherhood, an examination of how women make groups smarter, and recollections of Young Women’s camp from multiple memories (I snorted laughing with this piece!) titled “Girls camp, diet coke, & Satan” and a piece on creativity, mothering and being a playwright.
This week’s First Draft Poetry is by Lara, inspired by the limits to the human body link.
Limits of the Human Body
The nurse looked stark and warm into my mother’s eyes and said
A hundred years ago you’d be raising this baby yourself
And my mother, still blanched from the quarts of blood on the
Delivery room floor, held my sister, and they couldn’t even cry.
When another nurse brought, not soon, a report that the doctor had
Saved me in the nick of time, my husband’s exhaustion was
Overshadowed with fury—they didn’t even tell us it was serious, that I
Might not see you again, that you might not wake up, and I hadn’t said goodbye.
The nurse gave me a drug which causes amnesia, because the first thing the
Doctor tried when my placenta wouldn’t let go isn’t usually done to a conscious woman
Without pain meds in her system. I held my baby and then remember nothing until I was
Awake, but unable to open my eyes—I come out of anesthesia quick and loud—
Where is my baby? Give her to me right now—I want my baby.
I could hear the nurses’ conversation, where they said I was a talker; we’d better take
Her back to her room, the vigil-room where I touched my baby Bird’s fingertips,
And when the doctor came to follow up and said you lost as much blood as a person
Can and still live.