observations from dusk to dawn
evening primrose. night candle. evening star.
Tender Mornings is a free newsletter. If you want to support this space and my writing, please consider becoming a paid subscriber and/or sharing excerpts of this publication with a friend. Thank you for being here. ♡
I am sitting here, writing, in order to discover the simple secret of my existence—what sort of creature I am.
An excerpt from Motherhood by Sheila Heti
Evening primrose likes to sleep in. Feeling the most creative under the moon’s light. She doesn’t bother to waste a waking eye under the rays of the sun. Rather, she likes to make her observations from dusk to dawn. Her practice ends when mine begins. Slowly closing her petals as I tiptoe out of bed to the greeting of blue hour.
While my child sleeps, I curl up on the yellow rocking chair and sway into a world of my own as I sip iced coffee and read letters to a lake that I’ve only met once but never knew. I think about a poem I heard last fall titled “The Orchid.” The poet shares the story of how a gifted orchid bloomed amidst the grief of losing her child. I recall each syllable slipping elegantly off her Scottish tongue as the image of the golden face blooms before my eyes. Salty streams flow down my cheeks. I creep silently into the bedroom to check my daughter’s breathing. I smooth her amber hair as I soak in her milky scent. I feel overcome with how miraculous and devastating life can be.
We welcome summer by sharing a picnic in our favorite place that overlooks the river. My daughter wears a linen dress the color of evening star. Her gums are swollen with emerging teeth. There are about eight that are visible. She shows them off with a mischievous smile as she eats two peaches, one in each hand. Only momentarily dropping the fruit to bite at my husband’s nose when he asks to see a new tooth. We walk through the garden, searching for fairies in the foxgloves. Singing along to the late night birdsong. Before we leave, I catch sight of a hawk moth sipping from the cupped petals of a sundrop. The moth basks in the sweet scent of nectar. Softly humming as they nurse under the approaching moonlit night.
Back at home, I sing stories to my daughter as we share our evening bath. Patchworking a quilt of tales from fragments that I have gathered from our day together. She scrunches her nose as I shampoo her curly hair. Standing up often to fill her upside down lego with the running water. When I see her belly button, I am reminded of how, not too long ago, we once called the same body home.
While I nurse her to sleep, she traces her tiny finger along the stretch marks that have created a sea of constellations across my abdomen. She, too, seems to be captivated by the way our individual bodies have left an everlasting imprint of this liminal cohabitation. As we drift off to sleep, we whisper sweet dreams to the sun and welcome home the rising moon.