When

Frida Kahlo, Flying Bed

The mucous plug has come out, the due date is two days away, in no time at all my position on the planet will have fully metamorphosed. It is so strange to be held in this limbo, on the threshold of something so monumental and unknown, yet staring it in the face daily. And, yes, it is hard not to think of that moment when the contractions come, when the door begins to open, when I cross over to the other side.

Something so abstract is about to get quite real. Something that I have been thinking about for over 9 months, is about to finish. And, as all my parent friends, tell me: it's really just about to begin. The wedding to the marriage as my sister says.

So I walk around my new home in a bit of a daze, fixing things up here, weeding the garden out back, spending some last fleeting moments with my film and life as an artist, before putting it all away–or going on a different kind of vacation–for the time being. I can't imagine any of it. I just have to surrender. Am I ready, everyone keeps asking. No. But I just might be willing.