I've lost plenty of my beloved creations in the past but none of this gravity. Before, it was the forgotten brainchild behind a good story or the loss of the genius one-liner I was struck with, as if by lightning, that then disappeared as fast as it struck. And more times than I care to count, I have lost the vital silvery thread of the perfect poetic creation. But this time, it was not a crucial story or line or poem that I lost. Yet I still couldn't help but feel the same feelings when my very real, very wanted 7.5-week pregnancy literally fell out of my body two weeks ago.

In one of those slippery, life-sized twists, everything changed just when I thought I had it firmly in my grips. The sad thing is that no matter how many times I am rapped on the noggin with this lesson, I never seem to learn it. And every time I am forced to, the cyclical repetition of its pain is agonizing. Even my best friend gently reminded me hours after my loss, as I talked about my "plan" being ruined, that my very own powerlessness continues to be my life lesson. Say it isn't so. But it is so. Life is simply not going to happen the way I think it should no matter how perfect my plan.

Two days before the miscarriage, I came across an excerpt from a T.S. Eliot poem that knocked the wind out of me. It may or may not knock the wind out of you, but it was supposed to—and did—knock the wind out of me. This is how I learn and how the universe teaches me. When I am not looking for these little messages, they appear. Things have to crack me open to get inside. Like the shame-filled morning over four and a half years ago when I seriously considered getting sober for the first time. My horoscope (my beloved pal Mr. Horoscope who would never do me wrong, would never take "their" side) read word for word: "Consider taking it one day at a time today." And just like that, my stirring plan to once again try to drink responsibly was ruined by the kind of message that surpasses even the divine clarity of my own shame, sadness, and fear. It was simply a message too clear to miss.

Although I learn best from these brutally honest exhibitions of my "reality," these hard-hitting messages are just too painful. Sometimes I wish the whole damn world would just shut the fuck up so I could go on planning for my perfect future. Planning and hoping is so much easier for me than sitting still and letting it all unfold before me. A hundred times easier than accepting life on life's terms and letting the rest go.

However, reading the T.S. Eliot line two and a half weeks ago was not one of those uncomfortable times. It felt good. After all, on this night, I was happily knocked up with my perfectly planned due-in-April second baby. We got pregnant on the first try. Again. I had the world wrapped around my finger. Or so it seemed that night when I read:

—T.S. Eliot, The Four Quartets

I found this excerpt in Anne Lamott's newest novel Blue Shoe, a book I had been reading and fiending over like a giant dish of comfort food. Every night I fell into bed and thought, "I can't wait to have a little Blue Shoe tonight." The book was delicious and filling as I let its story inside me. It felt good, just like the notion of happily incubating a fat, healthy new baby. In fact, the blue shoe in the story is just that for the main character Mattie: a talisman of safety, a security blanket, a light of hope, a wishbone. That's how I felt about the book every night that I cozied up with it.

So, seven weeks into my new pregnancy, I marked T.S. Eliot's words with a scrap of paper. Something told me I'd need them again. And the day after my pregnancy ended, I was called back to them:

Had I, quickly pregnant and quickly resolved to my perfect plan for the future, been waiting with hope? Absolutely. Was I hoping for the wrong thing? Of course not. I wanted a healthy pregnancy as much as any expectant mother would. But perhaps I was hoping for the wrong thing in that I was hoping this pregnancy would result in a child, rather than opening myself up to the idea that life's tiny creations and experiences are not always what we expect. What I will gain from this short-lived creation has probably not even revealed itself yet, but I know for sure that creation lost does not mean that its existence wasn't crucial to my experience. Just as every rough draft leads me closer to a finished piece, every one of life's experiences brings me closer to the person I am supposed to be, a slightly more realized me.

Unfortunately, all this contemplation about life and death doesn't make the sadness less. I am sad and all the more fearful of choosing to try for more mamahood again in the near future. But I am not ruined nor am I empty. My pregnancy was, in my beliefs, never going to be a child. For me now, there is no getting caught up in "what if," only making room for "what is."

Of course, this is just where I am today. Maybe next week I will be throwing vases at the wall in despair or soaking my pillowcases with hopelessness. However, no matter how I look at it right now, in losing this pregnancy, I have gained something. I have moved a little closer to my life's "final draft," one that is revealing itself to me without any specific knowledge or designs. Of course, I still have my "hopes" that I will get pregnant again and that we will have another healthy child. I just can't help myself.

Sometimes perfect things just fall out of our bodies, like this not-so-perfect column (it's surely not what I planned on writing). My job is simply to be as open as possible. And sure enough, just when I wanted to end this column, I was drawn to a book of poetry on my shelf and the first thing I read was just right…