Emily Brisse

Friends: One of the reasons I love this space is because it allows me to just write, to not worry about narrative arc or publication criteria or even a singular piece's point. If a moment comes, and I want to put words around it: Here.  Here is where I know I can both talk to myself and talk to you, whether you talk back, whether you are out there at all. And sometimes those words, as amorphous as fog, become something that coalesces, rises up--become a thing to see and sometimes touch. I've been lucky these past months in that a few things I've written for this blog--after a bit of reworking--have been published by other places. Today, my essay "Tonic" from almost one year ago, is trying to reach into the moments of a few more people over at Mamalode . You might remember it? Sick boy, slow poems, a day that was long and tender. If you have a moment, read it again--especially if you or someone you know could do with some tea and soothing words during this co...

We have been having conversations lately, my son and I. Last night while I was putting on his pajamas, it was about the man on the road walking his dog. A week ago it was about porcupines, and how, for him, they have somehow come to mean "ouch." This afternoon, we looked at the leaves. They were so red--this one line of maples--and when I said, "Aren't they beautiful, El, all bright like that?" he said yes. "Yesss," he said, drawing out the sibilance, nodding his head. He looked up at me. He was wearing a winter hat. He was holding my hand. His father and I worry sometimes about him. More accurately, we worry about my leaving in the morning, followed by G's leaving from the daycare door, followed many several hours later with one of us returning, sometimes both (but often not before he's in bed), and how he interprets our comings and goings, how he feels about the drive away from home, if there is a part of him, come 3:30, 4:00 in the aft...

Emily, First of all, yes: that is still your name. In the past twelve months you have become mama and mother and mum, comfortable and soft and sing-songy and milk and bread. These are complex, intricate, beautiful things. They fit around your body like a winter blanket. But you are also still Em, still girl, still woman and partner and writer and dreamer and wanderer and springbud and bonfire and hawk. Sometimes it will surprise you, this speaking of your name, this connection to the you that was you before you became Mom. You will feel awe: that that you and this you can coexist. You will ask, How? Twelve months in, I will tell you: it doesn't matter. You can figure that out later, if you still want to. Think instead of the Why. Think instead of how wide and deep and expansive you are. Second, it will be okay: all of it. You will be scared of so many things. The labor and delivery, the tending of this helpless human being, the moment when the food prepared by family and fr...