misplaced mama

Dear wise child of mine. You are two. This past full moon, you walked over the threshold from one to two. Two!

How did you go from this

to this

to this

I guess that’s just the way the Earth does it, she spins fast and travels around. The more She goes around, the bigger You get. I remember one night, when you were around 9 months, and you were sound asleep in bed, fluffy white down tucked in your around your wool covered body, the twinkle of stars cascading in the drafty window and the sound of the night train barreling by, I leaned in close to you, cheek to cheek. So close I could smell your taproot, the place where you began inside of me and I whispered in your ear: Don’t change. Stay this way forever. Please.

I thought you listened and agreed. But now look at you.

But this is a strange mama dream. Wanting you to stay little forever. It’s not even my truth, just my human wish of immortality. What I really want is for you to grow and grow and change and shift and learn and wonder and observe. I want you to learn to climb a tree and ride a bike and read an entire epic novel in a weekend by the fire with a whole pot of damiana tea and then dream wild dreams about other worlds and get fancy haircuts and run around a city in red leather boots. I want you to fall in love a hundred times and get your heart broken only once. I want you to love breakdancing or line dancing. I want you to travel alone through South America and study at a big antique desk over looking the aqua sea in Sicily. I want you to become a asthetician. Or a botanist. Or a librarian. Or a singer. Or a bank teller. Or an auctioneer. Or nothing. At all. Or everything. I just want you to grow into all the yous you can be. I want you to live.

This is selfish, but this it the truth. I want you to live. Fully. Wildly. With intention. Without apology. Without suffering. Without a cage or a leash or rules or guidelines. Don’t even think you should be a good girl. Ever. Unless, of course, it’s what fills your heart with life.

You have graced me with power and flame. Peace and acceptance. You have been my portal for sickness and health, recluse and networker. You have been a Love Dove. From the moment you came to me in a dream, a flock of white birds flying from my belly, I knew you were a Great Spirit gifting me a journey of human form. Your work here may not have been done, but if anything you are doing this for me, holding on to skin with bones and blood that makes a big circle around your body every time you breath. I knew you came here to be my teacher. My friend. You came out of me like a tsunami takes over a whole coastal town, wiped me clean and left with me with scattered and useless debris to let go of, to clean up, to move on.

I am not you and you are not me, but my mother held the possiblity of your form in her womb, as my grandmother held me in hers, and just that, that alone makes me know we are not separate, not at all. We are a legacy, of love, want, of desire, of deserving this life. Of being here for a Reason. We want to be hear. So let’s just do it.

I witness your reason(s) unfold. You pull me with your little hand and lead me closer to mine.

Love Dove, child with many names, Echo Baby…you are you and you are so meant to be.

Rejoice! May you always be a free bird and roaring fire.

I love you. Mama.

{In honor and in great thanks to my daughter Echo, who became a two year old today. My little love, it is all because of you. Happy Birthday.}

Goodbye Dear Wound,

I no longer need your blueprint.

I wore you with pride. You brought me attention and love. We bonded like passionate bedfellows. We danced to the music under the full moon. We walked quietly together along the low tides. Remember how many packs of cigarettes we smoked on rooftop after rooftop in the city? You pushed me, I pulled you. You fed me, I threw you up. You were my Drama teacher and debate coach. My excuse, my permission to act however I wanted. To say whatever I wanted. To be a leader in the Revolution of Pain and Entitlement. Because of you, I could escape accountability. You have been my security, my authority. Through you I formed community. Wounds attract wounds. You have allowed me to love you and in turn you nourished me and kept me alive. You were my connection to myself. It was powerful, really, to hold you so close, to become you and allow you to become me. You have festered and oozed and throbbed. I have picked your scab, allowed the blood to flow over and over again wanting you to stay longer. You were my safe bed to fall back into, to be reminded that I am indeed broken, split, sliced, cracked. God forbid if you left, then who would I be?

You have been a good lover, don’t get me wrong. But to be honest, this type of love doesn’t serve me anymore. You have been my portal, to healing. You have brought me here. To this. To me. But a portal is just a path, something I leave behind.

I now am my inner essence, my core light, the one I was before you. I am beginners mind and fresh newborn heartbeat. I am early morning mist and first star in the sky. I am the Earth, whole and healthy, spinning like a fertile egg around the fire of the sun. I am risen from the dead, ashes into the flying bird. I am breathing, walking, talking, singing alchemy.

And I am done. I am fully Love.

The Tao: When the wound heals, we forget about it forever.

(thank you to my sisters at The Matrona for this inspiration, and for dear Whapio, whose wisdom and energy makes me wants to run and giggle in a field of wild chamomile naked and walk straight ahead and look It All in the eye).

On our second day of class we were asked to go around the circle and speak of our spiritual practice. For a moment I was taken back in time, to a day where I actually had a daily spiritual practice. Morning space of quiet where i stayed in bed and processed the dreamtime, wavered back and forth between the veils. Yoga in the garden. Sitting meditation. A hike to a river alone. Journal writing. Earth Medicine and long days spent wandering the mountain sides on altered states. Fasts. Dancing. You name it, 7 years or so ago, I had time to do it. But now is now.

And when it came time for me to speak, I realized I had nothing to say but this. Motherhood. Motherhood is my practice. Trying to pay attention with a heart full of love. Picking up the scattered books with care. Washing dishes so they are clean. Holding a hand, noticing the warmth and smallness of it in my own. Watching her eyes change from brown-brown to orange brown in sunlight. Breathing along side as they slowly fall asleep. Letting go of any expectation about how long it can possibly take to pick out and put on a pair of socks. Reading Amelia Bedalia for the 6th time {in a row} and actually listening to the story instead of wandering away in my mind full of lists while my mouth chattered out the words. Chopping a red pepper with care. Spreading butter on the 10th piece of toast that day. Tickling a belly. Whispering in an ear. Sometimes in there we light candles, shake our otter fur rattle, bang a ceremonial drum, and sing songs in sanskrit. Sometimes we all do downward dog and tree pose. But mostly not. Mostly we just drink hot cocoa and eat pastries and listen to the old man play his banjo at the firehouse turned coffee shop down the street and talk about dragons and warrior princesses.

This isn’t new news. It’s old school. But it was made new to me that morning. Here I was, a stranger in a circle of women, some of them not mothers {interesting side note: it’s incredible all the very young and childless women drawn to midwifery. Inspiring} and 95% of them not knowing me in the least. Expressing this to many women who practice a lot of really cool things on a regular basis and me being okay, fine, centered and serious when I claim Motherhood as my practice. It’s not monthly sweatlodges. Or daily Kundalini class. Or hourly chakra cleansing. But it is mine. And what Is, is Love.

Expressing it made it clear to me that I better get deeper in it, practice it more. It was a gentle reminder to myself that it indeed is my Practice, and that the details of each moment should be held closely, watching them, loving them, listening to them. Paying attention, as Maezen says: Attention is love.

I am very grateful for this practice. Tonight sitting with Mia and Sula as they wandered into their own dream space, I glanced at the moon from the window, glowing and and foggy behind those marine clouds. And I sigh a great big sigh and I wonder, How the hell did I get here? And then: who cares! I am very in love and happy. I have three daughters. THREE DAUGHTERS. All full of life and sass and silliness and angst and hyper-activity, and curiosity, and creativity and fire and water and earth and air and nagging questions and whines and giggles and a bunch of other things. I am so grateful for this. My heart often feels like I don’t deserve them, this life. But then I remember, we all deserve it. We are all deserving. We’re here, aren’t we?

I just want to include gratitude in my spiritual practice as well. Today beauty and gifts unfolded in front of my eyes and I am thankful. Bowing down. Head touching ground.

A car that started. Morning chai in a big glass jug with coconut milk. April who graciously watched my girls while I was in class. Beginning the class with opening the Nadis and Tibetan yoga and standing meditation. Interesting and intriguing and amazing conversations about the WONDERS of the pineal gland and what it produces and what happens with it during birth. Brain Waves. Brain waves I am very thankful for, especially those nifty little delta waves. The ability to take my daughter to theater class. To get a slice of pizza when we are done. My husband, just having him in my life. His deep and soulful eyes. Him coming home and telling me that we YES, we will be getting new phones. Ones that work! Oh the simple things! The excitement that he brought our children when he magically appeared with four round rocky balls that he called Dragon Eggs. They are sleeping with them right now, keeping them warming. Tomorrow they will crack them open (perk of living with some one who makes things with stone….beautiful geodes from Brazil). This chocolate truffle cake from Mt. Bakery that ran out and got me in his long johns when I said if I didn’t get some chocolate in me that minute I might just die. My life. Still ground. Food. Water. Shelter. Community. My dog licking her paw underneath me. My mother. The Moon. My luck.

Oh there are so many things to be thankful for. Especially You. Yes you.

{and neil young. i don’t why, but i am totally called to post this video, i think one of his first public performances of heart of gold. but it speaks to me right now, strongly. the music doesn’t start for a minute or so as he digs around his pockets for the correct mouth harp, but it’s worth the wait.}

The birth story evolves every day of our lives. It changes and morphs and it facelifts, changes clothes, speaks in different languages, it dances, marches and scampers. In my life it whispers to me lessons of the everyday, the bigger and the smaller. This story only comes from you, and your child and just like in life, you can receive insight, you can be witnessed, but the story is fully our own. This is why (in my opinion) I find importance in sharing them. They tell a living story, not just a moment or a day in a life, but Life as it Is.

Wounds have been reopened. And I feel them deeply. I don’t suffer within them or wallow. I don’t complain. I am grateful. They heal and reopen often. But I don’t want wounds to be my guide. Nor do I want my wounds to be the bonding force between me and you. Please no. Wounds might draw us together, but let’s know the time when we can connect because there’s something more; personal celebration or the fact that we both love wearing our hair messy and can’t get off the dub reggae via Pandora. Whatever. I don’t want to attract people because of my pain. Period.

Saying that. My preface of sorts.

I remember when their hands were all the way up me. I say they, but I am sure it was just one. She was posterior. And in some circles of training, posterior babies don’t make their way out easy. So what you do is go up there and internally rotate the baby and bring it down. Well this made her fly out. My fibers split open to my ass. It hurt worse than any moment of labor. She was pissed when she came out, though silent, I could still tell. She was my child after all. But I didn’t know why, not then. It took her a long time to breath. Her nailbeds were pink. Lovely rosey cheeks. She was fine. But the breathing thing can scare a caregiver. Can scare anyone. Her dad and I were sure she was ok, though, this was spoken through our hearts. And she was. After she kicked away the oxygen masked and kept grabbing at the aspirator tube to yank it out of her mouth, we were pretty sure she was fine. She still wasn’t really breathing and we all begged her too, rubbed her , sang to her, named her. She would gargle and make little whimpers like she just MIGHT come into this world. But she wanted to stay in her own world, just for a moment longer. Or two moments. And now I think: Of course baby, take as long as you need, you’ll come to me when you are ready. But then I thought: BREATHE!!!! PLEASE!!!! GOD DAMNIT BREATHE!

Her daddy walked outside with her. He introduced her to our dogs. And to the sky and the early morning sun. And the busy Los Angeles street we lived on. He told her that she was here now and if she needed, he would give her his life so she could stay. She took her first breath. And then another. And then the big cry came.

This was an hour after the birth.

They, my gracious and beautiful midwives, apologized to my girl and to me. They should have known she was okay by her coloring. It was evident she was going to be fine. I appreciated, and still do, how dedicated they were to their role. They showed me that they knew what they were doing and if they couldn’t do it, a doctor would be called. But in frantic moments of that very final stage of labor, after the mama and baby come together, I felt rather helpless. I felt like I had all she needed, and she wasn’t in my arms.

I don’t wish it any other way. Not in the least bit. This was Mia’s story. It still is. As a matter of fact recently I began to realize how connected she still is to that story. My daughter Mia is the definition of willful. She “needs” me to literally pull her from one situation to the next. Transition cause her great grief, mountains of drama. She stops breathing when she cries. She turns completely purple. Refuses to let the air come or go. Recently her dad and I have become aware that we practically YELL at her to BREATHE when we see this happening. We look her in the eyes and say “take a deep breath, let it out, BREATHE MIA!” and through her sobs and gasps for air she looks at us and says: I WILL WHEN I AM READY!

Oh. Yeah. I see. Of course you will. You will when you are ready. I can’t force you to breath. I tried that once before. Her birth, a foreshadowing? Perhaps? More likely a continuous gift for me to remember that I need to let her come and go when she is ready, trusting her, that indeed she will breath when she is ready. She will do it all when she is ready. My hands don’t need to get all up in her life and PULL her out.

Some of the thicker-headed ones of us (ME!) need that story to draw from. Do I wish I could just be that mother to her all on my own? Sure, but at least I am not learning it from a parenting book which is telling I better start giving more Fish Oils and a stricter bedtime. I am learning from the roots of her life.

(the less interesting yet practical information here is that my following 2 daughters were posterior as well and were completely left alone to come out of me. The labors where short and normal and each of them actually came out of me “sunny side up”. My pelvic formation obviously keeps them posterior for safety and easier birthing for me.)

This is why birth matters. No, it doesn’t matter how. Or where. Or what music is playing in the background. There is no right or wrong! It just matters. Period. It matters because it begins our narration for life. I believe that narration holds information for the rest of the story to unfold. This is why it’s sacred. This is why it’s transformational. Not because it happened in a particular way, not because of the outcome even. Mia’s story was told to me and I didn’t even get it then, but six years later, it’s a tool for me on how to parent her, it’s really a tool for me to remember how to live. I sometimes forget. So I reach into the storybook and go all the way back.

Today my birthstory is this. How is happens it happens. I wasn’t able to go to my midwifery training today. My sitter was unable to sit. It was a fluke. I was totally sulking. I tried to even bring the baby to class, which was received well, but as you can imagine….an excited 2 year old is distraction when we are trying to learn acupressure points. I quietly excused myself.

Why?

Well so I could sit and read Jamberry Jamberry and Whose Baby Am I? to her all morning (the other girls did have childcare, just not the baby). And gorge out on this delightful little mix of brown rice puffed cereal, brown rice syrup, sunflower seed butter, pumpkin and hemp seed, coconut oil, all mashed up and then spread out and refrigerated.

It was so I could write this. And sit quietly while she napped to bleed and bleed, reminding me that now is not my time to hold life, but to offer it up instead.

Some life, from me to you. Can you feel it? Please, feel free to send some back.

Blessings.

well that’s one thing i have learned in the two days of my midwifery training. refute it all. and then don’t.

i sit here, finally at home. my feet are up. a cup of strong chamomile tea is by my side and on the other is a raging fire. my throat is killing me. my chest feels tight. my head aches. and yet i feel better than ever.

it’s been all at once and exhausting and invigorating two days with Whapio, my new teacher. Things I have learned about her: She is tiny and wild. Loud. Quiet. Sassy. Sexy. All-knowing and humbler than humble. She is a midwife to life. She gives before she asks anything. She courts the altered state. She lives by Heart Mysteries. She has about as much medical knowledge in her petite head as any Doc I have ever met. She teaches intense anatomy and physiology so we can understand how mystical our bodies truly are. HOMEOSTASIS RULES (and we should tattoo that on our eyelids) She is so fucking funny…I don’t know how long it’s been since I have laughed this hard. She is an elder and a teacher, but she also gives her of herself as a friend and person. She has apprenticed with Birth. The Menonite woman taught her to stand back, or come close, or be where it suits the mother. She wears like 10 gauge earrings shaped like spirals in her ears. Her silver hair looks like a convertible carefully styled it. She teaches how to open our Nadis every morning. She likes to say “You know what I mean? You know what I’m talking about?” with a southern twang and look around the room with a big old smile. She wears long velvet dresses and fur scarves. She is a blessing.

I am in love.

I am also so tired I could cry. My butt is numb from sitting. My heart is gushing.

I have been given the best gift for myself in a long time. It’s everything and nothing like I expected.

The day before I started this immersion was a really, really hard day parenting. I realized that I didn’t like or want to maintain this full-time position anymore. It was TOO much for me to handle. Six years of nothing but this. It was a low moment of wanting to run away. Now, it was also hard because I was so anxious to start the training. The girls knew it was coming. The baby knew too as she would not get off my boob. Like tarzan, she hung there ALL DAY while i walked around the house trying to organize and get the home in order so their dad could maintain our rhythm (lesson: let the dad find his own rhythm). The feelings that had surfaced in response to the Haitian earthquake were so physically intense . So instead I broke down, sobbed not only in front of my kids, but to my kids about gratitude and thanks and said waaaaay more than I needed to, but oh well. And at one point I fell on the floor and questioned whether or not I should be doing this training. I was a writer, not a midwife. We were broke and my husband was going to go down to 4 days a week. What was I thinking? And then it hit me. I didn’t care what the fuck it was. Electrical Engineering or Midwifery. I needed some time. Time. Space. Space.

I am glad it wasn’t electrical engineering.

There is something subtle that has changed in me. Perhaps it’s because I have spent 2 days away from the house, no worries, daddy with the kids, sitting on a wooden floor for 8 hours straight. Maybe it’s the altered states she continually tries to bring about in the room. I don’t know what it is, can’t really speak of it yet, but a little fiber danced differently in me. It’s good.

Thank you all for support in the journey. So many of you are midwives in life, each day moving like a loving ghost in my presence, watching, holding, bowing, allowing my work to unfold, undisturbed and perfect. Bless up to all you magnificent and creative souls out there who have connected with my in such a loving way.

My feelings about education vacillate, daily. I live in the unknown. And I suppose that is all I need to hold and surrender to, is be okay with the unknown.

Mia’s last week of school was before Christmas break began. The invoice that I had been ignoring had a whopping balance that rivals a late mortgage. I knew it was time to move on, or move out. Waldorf education is not accessible to us right now, as much as I love it, I am also very okay with it. I am not sad nor do I feel guilt for not doing more to be able to afford it. Our local Waldorf was willing to work with us on lower our monthly payment, but since they didn’t give me the montly payment I originally requested, and knew was possible, we fell very behind. The damage had been done. A lower payment now was only going to cover late fees. And I am done with that, that life of living on borrowed money and accruing late fees. This is not what we choose. And so.

That left me 2 choices. Entering her into public kindergarten mid-year. Or keeping her home. We picked the later.

As I write I am debating whether or not to even share my philosophy (or lack of ) public schools curriculum and testing or home schooling/ unschooling. I’m not trying to make a point or debate anything. I think that each person has a choice and their choice is perfect for them. I just believe in love, and I love my daughter so much that no matter where she was, she was going to feel it.

Having her around has been interesting. I didn’t realize how much of my day was rushing her…to get dressed, to eat, to buckle in, to be nice, to keep her hat on. All mother things, all good stuff. But it’s nice now to create our own schedule. Very nice. And it’s nice to just have more time, conscious time, to be with her. Listen to her. The mornings were all frantic about getting her ready for school on time and the pick-up was holding her while she unwound, unraveled and at times totally collapsed. Then it was dinner. Then bath. Then bed.

Now it’s art.

A lot of art.

And making fairy houses where ever we see a need.

And reading. The littlest just wants to do what the biggest does.

And if all else fails we talk a walk down to the beach with a baggie of cheese chunks and some carrots. And we get lost in the playful ocean breeze. and kick some ass a top the pirate ship.

I am feeling something heal within the foundation of this choice. This particular child of mine has a lot of energy, she is vibrant and brilliant, but there has always been something between us, something hard. From the moment of her transition into life, when she got a bit stuck and then refused to breath for much longer than i liked. She came here telling me what she needed, and that I better listen. I think with having Sula so close after her and then the baby a stones throw past that, the listening got harder. I became the talker, the herder. I am working on this, this listening thing. And what I hear is that I don’t need to know. I don’t need to know if she should be in school or not. Now is just now and it’s how we are spending our slow winter days, fire lit, warm milk and nutmeg sipped, paper and pens all over the floor creating stories together. Visits to pottery studios and children’s theater and learning how to add up the sum of our groceries. I am feeling like I have more time than I have ever had before. I breath a bit more. I have more energy. And I see a sparkle in her eyes that maybe I was too busy for to long to even notice.

actually to this blog. [my birthday was last month]

it’s been four years today.

four years???!!! FOUR YEARS?

it was jeanette and am i ever grateful to her for creating this space for me. a muse indeed. she called me up and gave me a login and a password and then i started writing and the very first post was this. (this link is not working, but if you want to read my first post it happened January 10, 2006).

ugh. did i really write that? say that? oh my how we grow and change and learn to let go and not compare and write from the heart and travel between all lines and boundaries and shift as fast as desert sand in a dry wind. it was true, i felt very misplaced in Scottsdale. but on that same note, looking back and seeing with different eyes, that particular woman in the store could have ended up as my best friend. probably not. but maybe. and i do remember at the time, being so lonely and wishing a deeper connection with her. i felt she had nothing to give but perhaps i didn’t give her a chance. and my feelings towards her, the whole place, had to do with my longing for community. wishing for her manicured and lovely hand to reach our and say, ‘let me watch your little one while you go change the poop out of the big ones pants.’

that’s all i really wanted and if she had i wouldn’t have even noticed if she was wearing prada or a gorilla suit. it was easy for me to mock her by her cover, though. did i really want to dig deep and see how alone i was? and even further, how really what i was doing was shutting people out. the moment i moved there, i was ready to leave and unconsciously i completely isolated myself from what was truly around me. that’s not way to live in the moment.

it’s so easy to look and judge by the masks we wear. but we know, don’t we, that it’s in the heart of the heart of the person where we will find their living and beating truth. and it’s in the eye of the beholder to find that. we who look and judge can decide to look and love.

i will never forget reading this post, and thinking, oh my god!!! he’s making fun of a profession, a profession to close to my heart. it made me sad and angry and depressed for a while. and then i had an a-ha moment. it was his way of expressing his own insecurities, fears and passion. he wanted to be enough for his wife. and he was enough. and then much later i came to the realization, by shifting my vision of him, i saw something else. we had a small thread in common. he was really valuing an unassisted birth ideology, he saw the beauty of it being just him and his wife, undisturbed by any other force. he knew all they needed was each other. instead of just saying that, he got his point a cross in another way, which initially, offended me. i just had to change my vision to recreate it. and now looking back at my first post i see it. that’s exactly what i did.

i have changed a lot in these past five years. my writing has, as well. the more i shut off my brain and allow my heart to be the thinking organ, the better it feels, the better it reads, the less it offends. my story is my story, but i don’t need to compare my story to others. i don’t need to feel better, or prove myself correct by placing others in a shadow, just so i can mine my own light. and really i write less to be heard and more to just connect with the world. i choose my heart as the cord that brings me to you. our brains are all hardwired differently and suppose if i used more of mine, i would be less understood. but our hearts? i think they are all made of universal love. and with that, we aren’t so different.

i am proud of myself. i am proud how often i have come here. excited by how many people visit and read and just allow me flash moments, totally unthoughtful and messy. i am so thankful for support and encouragement. i am so grateful for all the stories i receive in return. the gift of words is transformed like metal to gold.

it’s amazing the friends i have met through this space, people i have never met and people i have met because of first connecting here. . people who have become my best friends, closest sisters, creative partners. i would love to list them all right now, but you know who you are. and thank you. and these same people are more than friends, they are my peers. who would have thought there were so many brilliant writers out there, self-publishing? i mean deeply brilliant and heartfelt, soulful and spiritually, smart and real? i often google this: literary bloggers. because i am always looking for more good reads. And you know what i get? blogs about the literary business! HA! No. We should all magically appear when I google that. All of us. I know people who can write about changing a diaper or breatfeeding a baby or organizing a refrigerator or pan frying a salmon or changing a tire or planting lettuce seeds and watching a babe be born and the way it’s written deserves a Pulitzer. But it doesn’t happen and it it doesn’t matter. We all keep writing. Because the writing is the only reason we do it.

Like giving birth, nothing can really come in the way. A baby will be born, regardless. The creation can’t be stopped.

Giving thanks to all of it: the space, the voice, the commitment, the readers, the lovers, the magicians, the community, the sirens, the electricians, the musicians, the hermits, the social butterflies. the I am so blessed. And wherever the words come from, because I can’t claim to invent them or own them, that force bows down in gratitude, as well.

Here’s to another four years.

[and the talented jeanette, who created this space for me is making me a new one. a big girl one. one that is MY NAME! now as much as i love my name, there is something to be said to have a nice short name as a domain name. like lucy jones. or sue brown. but mine is not. so sorry. hope you’ll remember it. i will let you know when www.marybethbonfiglio.com is indeed alive with word alchemy and the power of sound.}

self portrait on my real birthday. 12.21.09. thirty-six years old.

I was about 26, just moved back to Los Angeles after a year sabbatical in Sun Valley, Idaho. I had the forest in my blood and I couldn’t let it go. I walked into the studio after a shopping trip to Wild Oats in Pasadena and signed up for a belly dancing class. Mostly because I knew there was something to it, but partly because I thought I would look sexy in those jingly things. It was a yoga studio that offered some dance, but poo-pooed the the folks holding still and breathing deeply. I had done yoga for long enough and was bored with it. I went to my first belly class and realized that when danced, I didn’t want to keep my feet on the ground. I was more inclined to stomp and squat and kick and try to achieve vagina-floor contact. I was a dancehall queen for gods sake. Freeform and crass. I spent $100 on a class card. I asked them for a refund. Wouldn’t do it. But I could trade it in for yoga. Six months later and he was my teacher and allowed me to spent another nine months apprenticing under him. Finally. I saw the gifts in front of me.

It was the last time I have done anything exclusively for Me and I say that with utmost selfishness. I wanted a teacher and i got one. I was able to work on myself in ways I never thought possible. My body was my tool for expression. It was my sponge to get squeezed out and soaked up again. My practice led to teaching and my teaching led me to students and my students reminded me how perfect it was to not know anything at all and not knowing anything reminded me that I was nothing more or less than a Student.

I remember the day I signed the lease for my very own store front yoga studio. It was the same day I took a pregnancy test. Two lines. It’s a girl. My first (at a business and a child).

And as I walked away from practice on the mat, I walked into that practice so many of us know as motherhood. It can be just as uncomfortable as lotus. The same samahdi as shoulderstand. Both force you to find your breath. And when you stop paying attention the shit really hits the fan. If you compare yourself to the foreword fold on the mat next to you, you’ll forget the surrender in your own space. Sometimes anger really does work. Stillness is a gift. Singing makes it so much more fun. Balance is essential. And nothing compares to the moment we get to lay down to rest.

I have no complaints and no regrets about my practice evolving from yogi to mama. I only give thanks. Although my lower back does croon for the days when it was long and lean and my upper back remembers a time when I wasn’t hunched over, boobs in someone’s mouth. And my arm flab can now give greetings and salutations all on their own. But my heart, it’s never been unlocked like this. My children are the keys.

Six years straight it’s been. I got big and huge and stood at death’s gate and pushed and crowned and cried and loved and raged and apologized and scrambled and folded and bathed and diapered and swept and drove and worried and planned and packed and snacked and played and ran and ate one too many pink sprinkled doughnuts.

And I am not about to stop.

But just like I walked into that studio ten years ago and got blown away by a rare kind of teacher and learned the roots of yoga, the foundation of the mystics, a month or so ago, I walked into something else.

I have no desire find work as a midwife. I’ve been on the path as a birth keeper for almost as long as I have been able to vocally call myself a writer. I knew that someday it was bound to find me again, lasso me, reel me in. Somehow a teacher would come into form.

I used to stalk her website. Over and over again I would dream about taking trips with her to Peru to learn the ways of the traditional midwives. I would dream about moving to a place called Bellingham where she did trainings every three years. And somehow I got here. And somehow this year is her every three years and perhaps her last third year. And somehow childcare happened. And somehow the money isn’t an issue. And somehow…somehow. I am walking into that door of that studio, but this time it’s an old victorian downtown. And though yoga is not the practice, it’s not far from it. Call it union. Or Birth. Or standing over the toilet bowl with a brush and vinegar. Call is breath. And life. And paying attention. Call it love.

For the next four months I will be immersing myself in a midwifery training. Four days a week and every other weekend it will be all about me leaving and go somewhere else and gathering with over a dozen other women from near and far and with a teacher whom blows my minds out of my mind.

I don’t know how often I will be showing up here, I can have no expectation. My hope though, is this. This is compost my writing needs. This is the space my body needs. This is the time my person needs. It’s more than learning the fine art of babycatching. It’s learning about lifecatching.

I hope to be here even more so.

I hope to catch a lot and pass it on. Until then, send my mushy brain some ginko, my tired body some pizzazz, and my heart some love. Please, the more love the better.

{the training I am doing is this one: www.thematrona.com. Search around the site, it holds tons of delicious info and fun stuff.}

I’m not into the news. I don’t watch it or read it or listen to it, really, unless the man of the house has on NPR or something. I try to be involved and interested and retain the information but more than likely I am sticking my fingers in my ears: I’m not listening. And since I’ve had kids, it’s just not a part of my daily life, they don’t need the soundtrack of their lives to be media hype and the death count in the middle east. My mother , a news addict, always asks me when she comes to visit and finds herself media-less, don’t you want to know what’s going on in the world? No. No. I don’t. I know what’s going on, in my world, in my little world. I know this sounds so totally irresponsible and quite selfish. But I guess I don’t know what information overload will do for me or my world. I just try to send out as much love as possible. It’s all I can do, all I have time for.

But somehow I caught wind of something that happened recently. Someone trying to blow up a plane or something like that. And then someone wanting to blow up another plane. Now why in the hell would someone want to do that? I know. I guess if I listened to the news it would make more sense to me, but no, never, it can never make sense to me.

Brainwashed?

No, they have nothing worth living for and they might as well go out in a bang, the wise man in my house tells me.

Really?

I think so. Nothing to live for and dying while killing makes you larger than life.

Nothing to live for?

I’d suppose not, nothing, nothing that is real.

Dr. Sir (s) who wants to blow up planes (and Ladies, as well, if you are out there)

Why? Please explain to me why you’d want to blow up a huge vessel to smithereens and spray blood and guts and bones of people of all ages and backgrounds all over the clouds? Without using any reason like God Told You To because that just doesn’t make a bit of sense to me and if so, if that is your reason, what exactly did god say and what did the voice sound like and are you sure it just wasn’t all in your head? And if it was someone else who told you to do this, why? And who the hell are they?

Can I ask you some other things, besides why?

Like.

Have you never looked outside and notice the speckles on a Starling and realize that this creature is in your tree and eating the little peanut butter covered pinecone dipped in seeds you made and hung and think, well, that’s something to live for. That bird is beautiful and it needs some seeds to sustain itself through the winter and I can give it to them and that there in that moment alone is reason to live.

Have you never had peppermint ice cream rolled in crushed up Trader Joe’s candy cane Jo-Jo’s and then covered in hot fudge?

Have you never seen a beautiful girl in red knit leg warmers sitting under a willow tree reading a book with sunglasses while the sun streams across her face on a cool autumn day?

Have you never looked out at the sea and saw something jump up out of the water and just knew that everything was perfect and worthy of love and life?

Have you never seen a baby‘s nostrils flare when they are red hot screaming mad wanting something and that Will just alone makes you realize how perfectly powerful we all are and how each an every one of us deserves a voice and reason to stay alive?

Have you never had a hot oil massage with lavender and cedarwood oil by my friend Amy?

Have you never made love all night long and ate hot cakes drizzled in syrup in bed the next morning with a cup of creamy dark coffee and then made love all after noon and then ate fruit in bed and then napped and then made love again and again until you have worn layers of your skin away?

Have you never walked by a perfect stranger, different in every way than you and caught a spark in their eye that caught a spark in your eye and knew in the eye of your heart that there was nothing really separating you from them?

Have you ever thought it would be wonderful to watch your daughter walk down an aisle with the person they love, or even listen to her read their first sentence or take their first step or take their first breath?

Have you never had a garden? Planted seeds of corn and lettuce and red beets and kale and watched them go from sprout to food to cooked in your plate?

Have you never heard a rhythm or a melody so good, that it gets so deep into your bones you are sure it was the song you were born to, the song of your soul, the song that you will rest forever inside?

Have you never taken a long walk with a friend and not said a word the whole time and yet with each step you heard eachother’s story and just knew how in the silence the friendship grew?

Have you never soaked in hot springs high up on a mountain side?

Have you never curled up next to your mother and let her tell you about the day you were born?

Have you never felt that God is Love and that Love is Life Force, eternal and flowing?

Have you never danced all night long to Kruder and Dorfmeister with a crowd of other people and then stumbled out of the club hot and sweaty looking for the best damn falafel that the streets had to offer?

Have you never met someone you makes you feel not so alone?

Have you ever watched a baby slide out of a woman, freshly covered in womb juice, eyes barely open, mouth searching for food, hands waving, revealing the Original Face, the same face we all come here wearing?

Have you never seen a really fucking good movie and just felt such great thanks for people who take the time to make them?

Have you never read Dr. Suess?

Dear sir, if you haven’t done any of these things, felt them, or something like them, I am sure you have your own list of things that makes life beautiful and perfect to you. I am sure you have somewhere inside you a place where you have a seed of hope and understanding that the world doesn’t need more hate, it needs only your love. Yes your love. Your love can heal. Isn’t that alone something to live for? Something to stop you from taking bombs on planes and instead wear your heart out on your sleeve and know that your heart, indeed, is powerful, is God, is where all the peace in the world resides. I know I must sound like a niave little girl. But that’s because I am. And so are you in a boy form. And because I know you are just a child at heart, lost and confused, I can say this with the utmost sincerity that I can. I love you. Now, please, love yourself. No more bombs on planes. Because someday I’d like to take my kids to far-off lands without our lived shattering into the friendly skies.

Bless you, and everyone else out there who looks away from the perfect sparkle in a child’s eye and seeks death over life, who wants to destroy this perfect Heaven we call Earth. Love, The mother in me.

(I FOUND MY FLIP!!!) So excited about this fact and not only did i find it we actually have batteries.

This is their new most favorite song. Olivia Newton John version is what rocks them out the most.

Here is the Three Sisters Sound version:

And another one. Mia throws me under the bus at the end with my bribing.