The Ferment

Folk ask me

how it goes with my life:

What’s new, they say, what’s happening?

I shrug. Same old.

How can one describe

the changes within,

the writhing, tumultuous ride

I find myself on?

What can I say of the trust I feel—

that it is all good

and sound naïve,

or express doubt and

betray my confusion?

My body ferments with risk

of turning sour

like milk gone bad or expired juice.

I am not ready for this. Instead

I throw away the moldy jam and

toss the black spotted greens.

I wash the shelves with vinegar, acetic and pure.

I eat plain. 

This once barren field

is transforming. No longer fallow,

no longer carefully cultivated

the wild yeast within me grows.

Pregnant with life:

fertile, abundant, alive.

As it was meant to be.

It’s been a long three weeks, going on four. The journey began with a lingering nausea that climaxed into a night filled with hourly heaves. Stomach flu, I thought. The nausea, however, was not appeased. And it still does not want to leave as it sits at my belly forefront, teasing and testing me with varying tolerances. Food has little interest and I can no longer bare the taste of milky tea. Even chocolate, my staple, tastes blah. And then there are the cravings: a Starbucks oat bar; a WholeFoods Power muffin… sushi. But these, also, become dull alternatives after the initial bliss. My pregnant friend suggests I am with child. I would agree except for the lack of sperm. It makes it somehow … inconceivable.

But the internet is a marvel. It seems like some peri-menopausal women find themselves at the mercy of estrogen spikes.  Fancy that… so do pregnant women. And although it is not known for sure why these women (both those with child and those ending their child bearing years) become nauseous, hormonal imbalance, including estrogen spikes are high on the list of suspects. Low blood sugar, fatigue and changes in eyesight (in this case for the better) are also on my itinerary. Hmmm, maybe I am pregnant. They say it’s happened before but then again, maybe the sainted lady was just protecting her beau.

Regardless, it is interesting that during this time the milk in my fridge went bad as did my three year old sour dough starter and the greens, freshly bought. Metaphorically speaking it seems like everything is pointing to a letting go.  Today I make way for a new start, a rebirth of sorts as I toss out old ideas, patterns of living; and ways of being.