I was enjoying the hammock on our screened in porch this morning and watching our cat, Duchess, run around. She loves the porch. She jumps up onto the studs and climbs the screens, getting as high as she can to watch the squirrels and birds. She dashes from one corner to the other, intent on her prey. At one point, after dashing to the door to chase a bird on the other side, she stopped and licked her back paw. The intensity with which she licked that paw really struck me. Everything she does is intense.
Watching her reminded me of how kids and babies sleep: with intensity. You know what I'm talking about. The photo of the child who didn't quite make it to bed, one leg dangling above the floor, the upper body collapsed in slumber. The baby who settles into sleep and stillness so intense that you wonder if she is still even breathing. Or the baby whose breathing is so quick and intense that you can practically feel the focus he has on sleeping. It almost seems wrong to call this type of sleep relaxation.
I have been experiencing a different kind of intensity. My intensity is inwardly directed - a full focus on my womb and what is happening there. My body, soul, and mind have let go of any outward intensity in order to create the life within. Writing is no longer a priority for me; work is enjoyable but not urgent; cooking and housekeeping have completely fallen off the radar. All that matters is the life I nurture. I know this is temporary. It is a truly odd state, one that I back away from and observe with dispassionate curiosity. I know that my priorities will continue to shift; that my passion for writing will return. Until then, I focus on her.