misplaced mama

*disclaimer.  i did not proof this at all.  no spell check or editing.  my apologies, but i want to just do this, to get this out.  this is a journal entry.  don’t feel obliged to read it if you like my more "together" stuff (not that I write together, but this is really loose my friends.

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I am starting to wait.  Not the impatient kind like when -is-it- going -to -happen- wait.  But a quiet and grateful wait.  A watching and observing wait.  A jot down these notes without thought kind of wait. A chocolate cake with lemon ice cream milkshake kind of wait.  A dried mango and tamari almond wait. A laugh and cry out loud kind of wait. I sit, eat, sleep, walk in the woods and by the beach.  I lean against large pieces of fallen trees on the sand and listen to the water slap agains the earth.  The wind has been strong but not cold enough to keep me inside.  The skys have been gray, but not enough that the sun doesn’t come out and warm our faces at least every couple days.  These days are gifts, perfect days for waiting, dancing, trying to be my raw and authentic me.   Birth demands that.

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From the beginning, it could have seemed like the entrance of this baby into my body was practically fatalistic.  We questioned how on earth we’d ever be able to continue with our move; which entailed strenous work in remodeling and planning and organzing all through those tender and fragile months of the first trimester.  And if it all worked out, how would we actually do the move, on our little budget, while my belly was getting big and I would undoubtedly begin to feel uncomfortable on long car rides and alternative sleeping arrangements made on the road.  And could it ever be possible to make it to our destination in time, to find a place to live, exactly when my nesting and hibernation would be kicking in beyond my emotional control?  There were many times we doubted.  But my thoughts wander to my grandmother and how she rode a shipt across the seas with a baby stirring in her womb, getting ready to become part of a New World. And my heart remained hopeful that all would just fall into some kind of place without too much of a shatter.

And last night we spoke of how utterly unfatalistic it really has been.  And how beautifully serendiptious it actually is.  In the middle of the storm of movement we may have forgotten this hope, but not for long; we are so assured that this baby has always been quite knowing when and where it wanted to be born.  It is sure of the timing, and the season and the moment.   And I place great faith in this gestation, this time to wait.  I see now how their are no boundaries in the perfection of the universe.  There are being out there with perfect timing.  It’s our perception and time-keeping methods that are askew.  So now time doesn’t exist.  The only reason I know the day is because my phone has it digitized across it.  Otherwise, I don’t care. 

And I enjoy this wait.  I have never enjoyed waiting for anything before, so I am surprised.  This wait is nurishment.  Each moment it offers me something nurturing to chew on, to swallow and call in as my own. 

Tomorrow, the 15th, is my ‘official’ original "due" date calculated by my mooncycle.   I always thought the 15th would be a good day to have the baby, but now I am in no rush.  The towels are all clean.  The sheets are fresh.  There is food in the cupboard.   My birth tub is set up, the water warm.  The candles are all out, my altar is friendly and beautiful, comforting and bright. Maybe it will be tomorrow.  But maybe it won’t.  There is nothing to do but allow whatever my birth work is to be done, until the baby’s work is done on the under side of things.  Collestrum leaks from my breasts. Low dull pulls tug on my belly.  Baby moves less and less, but the energy is strong. It’ll be soon enough.

There are these moments at the end when I bounce as fast as a super ball from high to low.  One moment I cry at how supportive and conscious my man is.  Othertimes I cry in his face at how much of a disconnect I sense between the two of us.  It’s crazy, really, that one person can experience all these emotions.  And each one lets me see my faces, all of them.  I get to know myself by allowing myself to feel the entire spectrum. Call is manic, because it is, but that mania is what will ground me in the center so i can open up above and below and let life come through me.

Tonight I ran to the bathroom to cry by myself.  Reason: unknown.  I was sitting on the floor, sobbing, moaning and all of sudden the  tears disappeared and all I could do was see the dirt around the bathroom.  I jumped up with foreign energy and began cleaning the bathroom, spraying and wiping.  Scrubbing the toilet, the floors, behind the sink. Picking little lint balls with my fingers, one by one.  Taking an old toothbrush and scrubing between tiles. Organzing the cabinets.  It felt good, so good to cleanse.  I think there is still alot of cleansing to be done within myself. I talk to the baby.  I listen to the baby.  We are both waiting for some karma to play out.  I am not a perfect person; along with my deep well of love I harbor some of the ugly stuff, a lot of the ugly stuff: doubt, anger, fear. These moments before birth I look straight into my heart mirror.  It is who I am and it’s my own choosen state of mind.  I don’t judge it. I let it happen and sometimes I think it’s best to keep it away from my tongue, and sometimes I express.  These days are expression, uncencored honesty.  It’s what must be done to let it all go and become the birthing mother I am to be.  I focus on an ecstatic birth, I want to transform the energy, consciouly.  I don’t hold myself to having orgasim throughout the birth, but I will say that I have been practicing.  I bring tons of energy down, especially the energy in my body that holds fear and pain and anger and I see it being held around my hips and then I breath and spiral them and imagine it melting apart and transforming into warmth and love and pleasure.  I am not going to believe it can’t be pleasurable.  We have been told the same story over and over, and I refuse to believe I am being punished through birth. I can’t and won’t be held prisoner to discomfort and in the end a state of mine that doesn’t serve me. Perhaps birth is actually the reward; the actual act of birthing a savory gift of goo and goodness and tingles.  I’ll choose to take that reward.  I mean, in the end, I understand that the reward I hold in my arms and if I am blessed, all will be well.  But we all too often cast aside the experience of birth. I am ready and waiting and willing to be blessed with whatever birth wants to deliver to me.  I know it can happen many, many ways.  But the work I do now is to feel it deep in my core; and I know what I would like.  Maybe I will get it.

I exhale very loud all the time and people think I am sighing.  Funny, how loud exhales are heard so rarely people thing they are sighs. While let the breath go, I remember to open my heart.  Soften it, feel rays of warm and ancient sunlight beam from it.  I try to imagine this cord that goes from my heart to B’s to Mia’s to Sula’s to babies. This is the kind of love I’m talking about, the kind of birth I’d really love to have.  It’s the kind of life I try to live.  And really, what’s the difference between birth and life?  Birth is a moment in the life; an intensified, naked, bloody, glass shattering, cloud floating, wave ripping moment in life.

There isn’t saying that I don’t have fears about what it’s going to be like. The perception of pain that I have is real.  The ridiculious idea that I might forget how to birth a baby comes up once in a while.  I have to address it and remind myself that blood, bones, DNA does not forget. My spirit doesn’t forget.  I have been doing this for millions of years.  We all have.  I also have some fears that I won’t feel the love and support of those around me…that I won’t LOVE those around me.  In the beginning, I wanted to birth this baby alone.  In the end, I still do.  But I also know I want someone there, to take of the little things I don’t want to bother with…listening to the heart, determining what the arrythmia is doing, changing towels and cleaning sheets.  I also have no idea what will happen with Mia and Sula.  I have faith in their little buddhaness.  They are insightful and aware little souls.  I put my energy in seeing them getting the moments of birth, their healing, caring and gentle side will be a gift.  I notice them lately nesting along with me.  They stay busy in imagination play; cleaning, folding, cooking.  Sula pretends she is a little baby and Mia is her mama.  They create art work of spirals and mixes of reds and oranges and blues.  Sula resists any sort of potty-time.  Mia spends many moments in quiet embrace around my belly, "i love you baby, i love you," she whispers. 

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We still have no boy names.  We go back and forth and can’t agree.  Girl names, on the other hand, there are a couple we love.  If this child is a boy (which more than many insist it is) he may be nameless for a bit.  I can’t say what I feel.  I just feel it’s a baby, my baby.  I have little concern about the sex.  It’s the mystery I so love. That moment when the babe comes to us.  It’s a baby, that’s all, and all we know is how much in love we are.  This child is so energized and charasmatic, a captivating character full of sensuality and intrigue.   This child is a peace Dove, but s/he is also a firey, passionate being from another side.  A perfect balance.  To imagine this baby will be in my arms in no time at all.  Until then, I wait.