In spite of the fact that blogs ought to be posted before midnight, as a rule, I still feel connected to my day until 2am, and as a fast moving zygote/blastocyst, every moment counts and every hour feels energized... at night. Sadly, until three in the afternoon, underperformance is my watchword. Biorhythms dictate that I must seek and find a job as a night janitor. A late-night talk host. How 'bout astronomer?
As my blastocyst self sorts out my mother's peoples' genes from my father's peoples' genes, I feel a call to newness and a distinction all my own, and wonder about what, exactly, is forming at the core of my being during this fine symphony of cell division.
Selfness that comes from such a miraculous DNA shuffle is being formed at this very stage. But while some distinctions may be noteworthy --a nose here, big feet there-- others are hidden from view, but nevertheless powerful: What if... What IF. . . my mom's preference for laziness was at its peak when my egg sprang out during late July 1960. Would blastocyst Ellie receive a large dose of her lazy spirit (as I am sure it did)? And what if my Dad's penchant for spending too much money on pricey things he should know better than to buy was at its apex during sperm production, week#4, July 1960? My poor little blastocyst would not stand a chance avoiding the perils of a penniless future.
Sin IS passed down, you know. It's scriptural. I can prove it. Just not right now.
I ponder the deeply private interwoveness of flesh and spirit; person and personality, blended and imparted from tiny aspects of fallen, sinful, spiritual antiquity, moving forward in time like molecular -formed drops of water cycling around the world for tens of millennia, from creation to now. Everything new, and nothing new, each birth beginning some new chapter in the same old human story, starting afresh one zygote at a time.
I hear my grown self congratulating my honey, DH, on a happy birthday night of his own: 49 years ago, his dear Mum suffered to push him out at St. John's, Santa Monica, 1961. His zygote day will arrive in December, but for now, Thanks, Barb. Thanks, Dr. Amys. You've birthed a prince. Dignified in the flesh, fallen in spirit, but willing to daily take up shield and buckler to fight the oppressive demons of this fallen world. Prize fighter. Knight. I finally respect him.
As my blastocyst self sorts out my mother's peoples' genes from my father's peoples' genes, I feel a call to newness and a distinction all my own, and wonder about what, exactly, is forming at the core of my being during this fine symphony of cell division.
Selfness that comes from such a miraculous DNA shuffle is being formed at this very stage. But while some distinctions may be noteworthy --a nose here, big feet there-- others are hidden from view, but nevertheless powerful: What if... What IF. . . my mom's preference for laziness was at its peak when my egg sprang out during late July 1960. Would blastocyst Ellie receive a large dose of her lazy spirit (as I am sure it did)? And what if my Dad's penchant for spending too much money on pricey things he should know better than to buy was at its apex during sperm production, week#4, July 1960? My poor little blastocyst would not stand a chance avoiding the perils of a penniless future.
Sin IS passed down, you know. It's scriptural. I can prove it. Just not right now.
I ponder the deeply private interwoveness of flesh and spirit; person and personality, blended and imparted from tiny aspects of fallen, sinful, spiritual antiquity, moving forward in time like molecular -formed drops of water cycling around the world for tens of millennia, from creation to now. Everything new, and nothing new, each birth beginning some new chapter in the same old human story, starting afresh one zygote at a time.
I hear my grown self congratulating my honey, DH, on a happy birthday night of his own: 49 years ago, his dear Mum suffered to push him out at St. John's, Santa Monica, 1961. His zygote day will arrive in December, but for now, Thanks, Barb. Thanks, Dr. Amys. You've birthed a prince. Dignified in the flesh, fallen in spirit, but willing to daily take up shield and buckler to fight the oppressive demons of this fallen world. Prize fighter. Knight. I finally respect him.
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