Writing poetry with your left hand

When the gesture is enough

The other day I came across a poem I wrote on my phone with my left hand when I was just a few months postpartum. It was a rough, wobbly thing, but I was proud of it—of having written it at all.

The baby had, blessedly, fallen asleep while nursing that day— an occurrence rare enough to feel like a gift. Iona had what is often called “colic” for the first six months of her life— a word I put in quotes because it honestly doesn’t mean much. Colic is just a catch-all term for “cries all day and we don’t know why.” We tried everything. From the 5 S’s to homemade gripe water, homeopathics, chiropractic, flower essences. Massage, diet changes, probiotics, until we simply accepted that there was no answer but time.

For those months getting her to sleep four times a day required us to bounce continuously on the exercise ball. It was grueling, exhausting, bewildering, but somehow it just became the norm.

I did all sorts of things during that time, one-handed on my phone. I answered emails and wrote newsletters. I edited photos and planned the entire launch of my first book.

It’s truly astounding what becomes normal once you have a child. 

On the day I wrote this scrap of a poem, Iona had fallen asleep on my right side and so I only had the left hand to type. There was a million other things I could be doing, but instead I decided to write a few lines.

Looking back on it now, I realize just how poignant the metaphor was.

Motherhood is a left-handed poem. 

It’s an exercise in capturing the moment, even when you don’t have a moment. 

It’s making do with so much less than you had before. 

It’s wobbly, unpolished, poignant.

Raw, even in its best moments. Distilled.

It’s only having access to what’s left after you’ve given everything, willingly, to someone else. 

And realizing that what you did with that scant ounce can sometimes, when you look back on it, astound you.

It’s letting the gesture be enough.

Because doing anything at all is it’s own kind of miracle.

Motherhood is holding the entirety of your child, and their childhood, in your arms. Rocking them to sleep, carrying them down the stairs, setting them in the bath. 

And it’s writing poems, when you can, with your left hand. 

In the spirit of left-handed living, I’m sharing a screenshot of the whole unedited poem below. 

May we all remember that it’s enough…even when it doesn’t feel like it.