don't be so reckless

Here is my sweet cousin Sam sporting a precision haircut gifted to him by his mad-skillz-with-sharp-objects-yours-truly (please excuse my gloating: I successfully, read: painlessly, did some more venipuncture and injecting today). I hope the familia back in Oz are not too incensed that he lost some length during his two week visit over the Tasman sea. Anyway, that may offer yet another explanation as to where I have strayed to lately. We've reached a crunchy time of the school year - one of those moments I contemplate self-flagellation for not taking more accurate notes during the last 60 hours of sleepy-eyed early morning lectures and then desist, because the pile of paper on my desk is threaening to fall over and flagellate me all on its own. But! This also means the end is near - that I am nearly 1/3 of the way to being a midwife. Ask me what I know about women, child-bearing, birth and life and the enormity of that gapingly empty space will engulf us both as well as the three neighbouring postal codes. Ask me what I have learned, and the spilling over of honey-suckling-sweet exhilaration will waft like a funeral's worth of lotus up the Mekong. Pre-dawn walks to the hospital where one is faced with the incomprehensible swirl of life-death-life-life-life-life and love and pain mingling like the New Zealand meterological habit of sun-drenched rain makes me metaphorically drippy. Also tired. so, back to the paper conquering; so that I'll be back next year. so that no-one can ever say - . . . don't be so reckless