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  • My mind is so full of words during the day. Ugly words like ultrasound and trans-vaginal and the War on Women. I am always writing, writing posts that get published in newspapers and blogs about women's health. Ghost writing for dozens of voices in three states.

    But when I get home, the words don't come. I sit with my journal and a pen and even the bad poetry won't come. You are a writer, I tell myself. You express yourself with words. So express already!

    All I can think about are those Letters to the Editor that need to be written about family planning funding, and that statement on birth control that needs to be made. The work that is so fulfilling during the day becomes like a brick wall at night, blocking all creativity.

    Well, not all creativity. I've started painting again instead. Playfully, I paint characters and creatures and joy. I paint poppies and pregnant unicorns and big cartoon mushrooms. I paint because it doesn't mean anything and it means everything--everything that I can still create, even if it has no clear goal or message or purpose.

    For the boy, I painted a cat-owl riding on a T-Rex's back through the city. A painting of us. Of joy. The newness and togetherness and the inspiration that he brings to my life. A Valentine's Day gift, given shyly, as only new love can give. Without expectations of return, and with anxious anticipation for a new reaction, a new smile.

    The words may have to wait. It will not be forever. For now, I paint.
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