continued with words.  soon. fierce. but for now, some snaps of my teachers.

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these teachers expect a lot, but they are the best i’ve ever had.

Finding rhythm each day has proven to be a challange with three.  I repel schedule and routine, but rhythm is something that keeps all of us interested, aware and present.  There was only a handful of places or things the two girls and I would attempt to do outside the house in AZ; picnics at parks when the weather was cool enough.  When is was scortching hot, lazy mornings at the coffee joint that bled into cozy afternoons spent next door reading endless books at the library (which probably, besides people, is the most missed ‘thing’ about AZ.  Scottsdale Library is truly phenomenal).   Besides being in a new place, and having a new kid, and living in a delicate and sometimes pretty dark state of mind post-partum, I have been rhythmless.  I haven’t been able to figure out anthing yet.  I need time to heal, process, and ease into this new life,  but it’s been wearing on me, getting old, this not knowing what to do or how to get dressed.  I’m getting sick of being bound by this state of indifference to sadness, frustration to anger.  It’s time to crack open the paralyzing armor, or at least poke out from underneath the covers.

Today’s was good.  Mia to school.  The rest of us walk 3 miles to a park.  Play.  Walk back.  Pick Mia up.  Fast trip home (insist girls all wait in the car), grab no-prep to-go lunch.  Head to the beach for a picnic of apples, strawberries, cheese and raw cashews.  Walk to the bookstore.  Cookies and tea and browse through books.  Home.  Play.  Pull out stuff for dinner. Wait for B to get home to make dinner.  Make life easy and wear Z the whole entire time, except for daiper changes.  Breath.  Laugh. PLay music. Watch the moon get bigger. Bath. Sing The Beatles Blackbird 5 times. Bed. Today was good.  No dizzy spells or anxiety.  No stuffing my face in a couch cushion and cry/screaming.  No sobbing phone calls to husband or friends or sisters.  No wishing my life away.  No yelling.  Living and trying to function so close to a birth is fragile.  In our tribeless (literal) state of a culture, I honor my hard times, my depression and overwhelming moments.  And I celebrate when I can slide back into my comfortable skin, the mask I know intimately and I really enjoy wearing. Happy and Mellow.  Balanced and carefree.  Flexible and gentle.  Strong and energized, maybe even a little hyper.  Silly. Dancy. Singy.   I got there today. It felt fantastic and it was just normal.  Me.  Today I felt what it’s like to dive in and enjoy being a mother again, because the past month has been a stuggle to see the light, no matter what there have been days where I felt like a stranger in my own body, my own life.  One day at a time. 

*

Mia cut her hair again.  When one is preoccupied with a newborn one will sometimes give a suspecious four year old kid craft scissors and paper and glue for fun and entertainment and then not really pay attention to what they are doing and go do a load of laundry (okay given her history -or histories- perhaps there is no real excuse for not watching her like a hawk).

Her short side:

Her long side:

People ar very impressed with her sense of style.  I request they don’t encourage it.  Really.  I like the cut, too, sorta mod meets Johnny Scissorhands.  But please.  Don’t encourage it.

Punk Rock Warrior and Berry Eater:

Rewind Selectah! Don’t stop till the very last drop!

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And yes, she is learning to scratch. Her father cringes every time she puts her finger down on a limited edition vinyl and takes it for a little push and pull. 

One of the two turntables is missing a slipmat (the one she is placing a Dancehall compilations called Punany.  Um, yeah, she says that’s her  ‘very best’ record.  Anyway, I told her she couldn’t use the turntable without the slipmat.  She climbs down from her DJ booth after thinking for a moment.  She heads over to the sacred paper towel cupboard, pulls and rips two towels off the roll.  Climbs back to her booth and figures out how to get the papertowels on to the turntables in place of a slipmat.  "is this good?" she asks.  "yeah it’s good" i smile at her.  "perfect".  The dance party begins.

B and I debated whether or not to put his gear out in the open at this house.  We had a designated studio space in AZ.  My feeling has always been, a child learns by watching (which she has done since she was 2 weeks old). And then a child learns by doing.  "easy for you to say" he says to me.  "it’s all my gear not yours."  "Many a time I have let her write love stories to Cody Maverick (Surf’s Up) on my laptop, " I remind him.  "Yeah, and she’s busted two computers," he reminds me. 

But in the end he decided put it all out, whether it be for Mia to learn the trade, or because his cold ass is sick of making music out in the garage, it seems to be working out. 

Mia’s Old Skool Mixed Tapes available upon request.

and still cookin’.

 Today is the day the almighty Man, with Wand, and Goop, and Screen told me my baby was "due".  Five days after my moon due date.  The sky is unbelievably crisp and clear tonight.  The moon widens at the cusp of fullness, somewhere in the middle of this night it will cease to wax or wane, but will sit for a moment in total round form.

Sula went to the window, looked out it and said, Moder Moon? Will you bring da baby danight?

I wonder.  I am feeling a bit of hot flashes, anxiety if you will.  But they leave within seconds.  By mental body knows what is happening.  My physical body tightens, my belly squeezes and releases, drops and tugs.  My spiritual body just is.  It just allows me to float into this.  There is nothing that stops that body from this process.  My mind might get in the way, my body might listen to my mind,  but my spirit cultives trust and faith. I allow allow three bodies to unifiy.  I must.  I do trust this baby and I trust myself, the whole self.

We spent the day outside.  Hiking.  Remember all the great shit I said about my man in the last post?  Strike it.  He takes me on this insane hike when these days, if I could, would ask him to get up and take a piss for me because I am so lazy.  It was beautiful, I will admit, but I’ll be honest: The couch is my friend.  Child’s pose is my yoga. Anyway, he promised it would be mellow.  We drove about 10 miles straight up, to a ridge right above the bay.  The road was bumpy and and it kept going higher.  I was promised it was a quick hike down to a crystiline lake, surrounded by fresh fallen snow, with the sun shining today, it’s going to be awesome, wifey!" Just what you need.

A short hike, right?  Pretty level? Because inclines and periods where there is no bathroom are bad for me right now. Short? Easy?

Sparing the details.  It was a long hike down.  And so that means it was a very long and steep hike back up to where the car was parked.  If baby’s head hadn’t dropped, it’s knocking on the cervix door now.  Regardless, I forgave him because it felt great to just hike in that crisp air, the sun streaming through snow dusted fur trees, icicles sparkling on mossy branches, and with a glance to the left, the blue water of the bay shimmered like a sea of glass.  The costal range hovered beyond, islands sprinkled in between.  It was exhillerating.  A wonderful way to celebrate my due date.

Afterwards we stopped by a park at the beach.  The views of the ranges surrounding this city got better.  I can’t even explain what it feel like to be surrounded by these kinds of peaks.  Protected?  In awe of nature. Listening to the lap of the water sunk me on the sandy ground and sang me a lullabye.   The kids dug in the sand.  Climbed around fallen wood and played on the park.  I soaked in their two-ness.  Just those sisters (who insist that their new baby is a brover, a boy because we have ‘nough girls in our family).  I love them both so much.  My heart swells.  I hope i can do this, be this much in love with three without totally losing my sanity.

 *****

Happy due date Love Dove.  We can’t wait to meet you.

love and a wild and peaceful birthing journey we send you, whenever you are ready to make it.  We’re here,

your family. 

I promised myself before this new one comes, Sula deserved a birth story written down.  Two and half years after the day I’ve been feeling kinda bad.  I was only 20 weeks pregnant with Sula when I finally finished Mia’s, so I am a bit behind here.  Better late than never.  It was so hard to capture her story.  It was birth; just a perfect, soft, waterbirth, nothing eventful. I’ve tried to explain what it meant to me, what it gifted me.  It is my offering to her today, the last days she is my ‘baby’ and every day she really is such a joy.  I am lucky beyond words to have been picked by her to be Mama.

I’m not one to capture it into real time.  But labor was 6.5 hours from start to finish.

Please excuse tense changes and errors.  This late in pregnancy my mind works in it’s own way. Editing will come later.

 ***

l

The Birth Of Sula Pearl.  July 26. 2005.

 

Remember this can be gentle.

I stopped pushing. The bearing down was far from feeling gentle. Instead,  I imagined my tissues opening.  I slowly, gently breathed downward, using the quiet yet vital energy to open the contracting fibers of my flesh and being. I could see the ruby redness of my insides accepting the air, spreading apart, savoring the breath and allowing it to free it from mere matter, losing its solidity and welcoming a new fluid spirit, without any rips or tears, I became liquid silk.  Then I felt a small head emerge. The head led the way for shoulders, almost instantly.

Reach down, MaryBeth.  Go on; bring your baby up to you.

The words were whispered but still heard over my Darth Vader-ish sounding.

I…can’t…reach…

Immediately the hold that was under my arms, the hold that previously had held me up, relieving gravity and allowing me to hang, the hold that invaluable supported for me as my baby traveled down, was loosened.  My arms were freed to reach a few inches longer so I could get to my baby.  I felt her head and then felt B’s hands already there, his fingers spread across her crown.  I unconsciously pushed his hands  away, held on to her like I have never held anything before in my life, hooked my fingers under her armpits like it was the first thing and only thing I had ever learn to do in all of existence and I lifted her up through the water, right to my chest.  My arms lengthened and surrounded her slippery self completely.  The only sounds were the buzz of the air conditioner, the swishing of the birth tub water and my voice whispering, perfect, perfect, baby, you are so perfect, perfect, perfect.

I looked at her.  Bruised nosed, pushed down flat from a posterior exit, little slits for eyes with noticeably long eye lashes that seemed to be fluttering, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal what was underneath.  Creamy and unusually thick vernix covered her, but still I could see she was as brownish pink as a berry.  She came out with a tropical tan.  And she was small.  So tiny compared to the size I was while she lived in me.  So tiny compared to her sister on her birth day.  Could I have made someone this small?

And there I was.  Mother of two.  Within moments, I was nursing my second child, unable to take my eyes away from her. There I was, moments after the birth, standing up, cord hanging out of me, still attached to her, stepping out of the tub, ignoring the help of others and landing right on the rocker, laughing, smiling, gushing with sweetest sugary unhindered love I think I have ever felt. 

M, you okay?  Do you need help? A bathrobe was draped around me.  More dry towels suddenly appeared around the baby.

Help?  Hell no.  I felt better than I think I ever felt my whole life.  I just ran a marathon and I was ready to run another.  Exhilarated.  Energized. Empowered.  Ready to do it all again.

I remember settling in the rocker, totally alive and aware and renewed and B whispering to me, you are totally amazing.  She is totally amazing. Wow, that was unbelievable.  Thank you….thank you….

We looked down to make sure, although we knew in our hearts she was a girl.  B and I caught each other’s eyes again for the millionth time that morning.  We knew what her name would be.  Sula.  She was absolutely Sula.  Sula Pearl.

********

I guess I should start more toward the beginning of her birth story.  But the end is what sticks with me.  It is the gift that keeps on giving as each year passes.  Those final moments of labor breathing her down, the warm water soothing me, the arms of support around me, the sensation of catching my own baby;  it’s all glory and grace.  But there is more to it, just as important.  It took some work to get there.  It took some work in patience.  I guess her birth story started about 4 days before she was actually born. 

I was angry.  Impatient.  Hot. Grumpy. I was also approaching 42 weeks which is the time limit in the state of Arizona for a midwife to legally attend a birth at home.  Although my midwife assured me she would be there for me regardless, she also knew how badly I wanted this baby out of me.  She gave me a few home remedies that if I wanted to, I could give a try.  They won’t work if the baby isn’t ready, I heard her say.

I was hesitant to even consider any kind of induction.  Attending births and being a listener to all birth stories, I had heard horrors about the intensity of inductions: labor like pains and the only thing born is hours  of diarrhea, or stepping on that path of interference can only led to more interference.. But somehow the need and want to go into labor over-rode any of my usual personal beliefs of just let it all be.

I remember talking to J on the phone, staring at the little amber colored bottles of tincture in front of me on my kitchen counter. I held them, felt the coolness of their bottles, tried to take in their energy to my palm.  As I was getting ready to embark on an experiment of herbal induction, she asked me to question why I wanted to take the herbs.  I wish I could remember how she said it, it’s been over two years now, so my memory has faded in blurred spots, but she wanted me to question why I thought my body wasn’t going into labor on my own and she expressed it in her very doula-mode way. Do you really want to do this? She asked.

Fucking hell yes, motherfucking yes, Bitch, was probably my response.  I was carrying around about 60 extra pounds, the temperatures were between middle hell and the deepest realms of hell and my not quite two year old was cranky and clingy because when it’s 118 degrees who isn’t?  She was nursing non-stop on top of my huge belly and sucking on my sore-ass nipples.  Hell yes.  I wanted to go into labor.  Right. That. Minute.

So the cocktail of herbs began.  Thirteen drops of Blue Cohosh.  Thirteen drops of Black Cohosh.  In a little cup, mixed with a very little bit of water, I’d shoot it down like it was Sugarcane rum and I was ready to party on the Jamaican sands.  I did this little ritual three times that day, each time reminding baby what the herbs were trying to do. I did the ritual three times the next day.  On both evenings I pulled out the castor oil and had B give me the deepest massage on the belly I could handle.  Then for a few hours I wore a robeezo around my gut dancing like a lunatic around the house, trying to jiggle the baby out.  Then it came time to get “romantic”.  I’d open about 10 Evening Primrose Oil capsules and slathered the oil that was inside all over the tip of B’s penis and had the most uncomfortable, sticky sex of my life.  We did that two times each night.

The second night after marathon sex, we crashed on the living room floor.  Me with a glass of red wine.  Him with green tea.  I cried with my face in his lap.  What the fuck is wrong?  What’s wrong with me?  Why won’t I go into labor? I am two weeks late!  I sobbed and sobbed as he smoothed my hair and rubbed my shoulders and tried to whisper words of peace and assurance to me.  Suddenly, I jumped up. Did you hear that? B just stared at me. Uh-uh.

I listened.  I heard it again, the voice of my heart and my hara together made the most beautiful sound to my ears, Stop.  Mama, just stop.  I’ll come when I am ready.  It was her.  My baby.

And so I did.

It was an interesting lesson.  It made me cry and cry that I hadn’t learned it earlier.  I was rushing something that could not be rushed.  I was forcing something that couldn’t be forced.  My baby wasn’t ready to be born.  I wasn’t ready to give birth.  Something was still undone and I was ignoring the greater push and pull of birth.  Birth happens.  Nothing indicated that my body wasn’t making the proper hormones.  Nothing indicated that my baby was in danger of being in my womb until she was ready.  There is something to be said about allowing the subtle interaction between Mother, Child and Cosmos picking the birth date of a person.  I mean, I may have forced a moody Cancer to be born when the world really needed another spitfire Leo. 

I have never been a particularly patient person.  I want things when I want them and I have admitted that I tend to rush the process.  I have always tended to keep my eyes on the target, wanting that finality, never really comprehending that to receive what I needed was to just notice the moments on the journey; allowing the journey to happen.  Those steps are the most profound, the most exiting and rewarding.  I know that now, sort of.  But I don’t think until then did I really see this part of me, this person who needed to just sit back and wait and understand there is plenty of time. I’ve rushed jobs and moves and lovers and all sorts of things.  I always wanted to be powerful than time.  That is dangerous.  I think I spent most of my life running from one thing to the next, in desire and haste.  It took my unborn child to shake me up a bit, to speak to me: Stop.

On exactly 42 weeks and 1 day, just over 24 hours after my baby told me to relax and to wait for her, I sat straight up in bed.  B was snoring softly and next to him Mia was drooling on her pillow.  Her small body curled up around her blankie and one hand draped over her daddy’s side.  This would be the last night she was the only baby in our bed.  I knew it was happening. The cramping came again, tight and sharp around my lower back and hips.  And then slowly vanished, without a trace, like a wave receding from the shore, I was pulled back down on my pillow.  I closed my eyes and drifted.  Twenty minutes later it happened again.

B? B…wake up.  I’m in labor.  I pushed on his arm gently a couple times. I’m in labor.

He snored a bit.  Cleared his throat and opened one eye. Huh?

I’m in labor. But it’s early.  I’m going to try to go back to sleep.

Okay, wifey.  That’s great. Let me know what to do…..And immediately the snores continued.  I wondered if he had any idea what I just said.  He can and has slept through earthquakes.  Big ones.

I went back to sleep, waking up on and off, gently breathing through the tight sensations that grabbed hold of my lower back.  But I was given a break as soon as they were done.  This was very different from Mia, where the contractions started and continued, one on top of the other with no more that 5-10 seconds in between.  I felt good about this.  I was able to rest, dream, drift off to a place where I was refueled.   I was hoping I’d wake up really far along.  I curled against B, reaching my hand across him to hold on to my Mia. I just enjoyed this sleepy time, waking and breathing, and feeling so grateful it was finally happening.

Until about 6:30am.  I woke up with a jolt.  B snored loudly next to me, his lips parted and his body relaxed. I got out of bed in pain.  It was heavy. I paced the side of my bed.  I went to the bathroom.  Put my check on the cold concrete floor.  I moaned.  I groaned.  I went back to the bedroom.

WAKE UP! I climbed in bed and shoved his body. WAKE. UP. I startled him and he opened his eyes, Huh? Wha? Wazgoinon?

I was surprised at the sudden shift to urgency and annoyance, seeing his comfortable sleeping body.  Why does he get to be so comfortable? I’ll change that, I thought.  That is when knew this was real, the baby was coming.

Are you gonna get up or are you gonna sleep through the birth of your baby?

Huh?  Holy shit.  Sorry.  He jumped out of bed. He looked confused but immediately jumped into his role.  He turned the heater on the birth tub.  I heard him banging around the kitchen, taking the soups out of the freezer to defrost, the spoon clanking against the side of a glass, stirring Emergenc-E in water.   Lighting incense.  Running back and forth into the bedroom where I was, checking in on me, making sure I was ok, preparing snacks, gathering towels and blankets, getting the camera out.

Mia woke up and together we got out of bed I climbed in the tub and put on a Sesame Street DVD.  She thought taking a morning bath in the living room, watching Big Bird while eating toast with melty butter that dada made was a load of fun.  We floated around together and I was amazed at how the buoyancy and weightlessness the water offered such ease for those tight sensations in my lower back. The pain left and it just became energy, tight energy.  Then Mia decided she wanted to nurse. I really wanted in my deepest of hearts for her to remain present for the labor and birth.  But as soon as she began whining, crying and begging to nurse, grabbing at my bare chest, pinching at my Nigh-Nighs (her word for them) I knew I couldn’t handle it.  I let her latch on because I really wanted to keep her there and I thought even a sip would calm her down.  Instead everything intensified.  My primal urges were to push her away, far away.  I had work to do, hard work and unless she was there to help me, she had to go.  Breastfeeding during a big contraction was close to hell.  My body wouldn’t let me near that kind of fire and discomfort. My body rejected her even though my heart longed for her.

By 7:30am our friend K came over to take my firstborn girl away.  To this day, I wish it could have been different, but I knew that my choice not to wean before this birth was not going to be compatible with labor.

The world started to spin after Mia left and I wondered if I was being taken away with it.  I couldn’t get enough of the tub, my body freely floated and I easily  switched positions.  Its obvious baby was posterior; no surge had been frontal, instead  my back bones felt like they were being reorganized and shifted and, well, crushed.  But the water soothed and relieved.  I wondered aloud if I should get out, could I be stalling labor by being so relaxed in the water.  B said if it feels good, why get out? He turned on some mellow and gooey dub music right around the first time I vomited over the edge of the tub and on to the pile of clean towels.  He ran over with our puke bowl a moment too late.  When I was done heaving up nothing,  I noticed there was a summer storm pending outside, the light coming in from my French doors dimmed to a hue of gray,  but the system hung somewhere south, and the sun won over.  I wondered what it would be like to give birth under full sunlight.  It seemed odd, different from my last experience, like babies wanted to come under a moonlit sky or the fresh dawn, but what kind of child wants to come mid-day, in the middle of a constipated heat wave?

Morning was beginning to turn into afternoon and I hadn’t gotten out of the tub once.  I had to pee.  I didn’t want to pee in the tub.  I climbed out finally and gravity was my enemy.  I cried out loud; the fierceness of surges on dry land was out of control.  Why would anyone ever labor out of water, I wondered?  I got on all fours and crawled to the bathroom.  My belly hung low and my back bones felt flattened as baby made her way. I climbed up on the toilet and relieved myself.  Next time, I told myself, I’ll pee in the tub.

As I was crawling back, B asked me if I wanted to go into the backyard.  The July heat had broken for a moment, the sun shone, but there was dampness in the air, the sky wanted to pour down, but the sun still held the thrown.  He draped a robe on me and we swayed together in our backyard.  Just the night before we had made love out on that grass sans the primose oil and the desire to jumpstart labor.  We made love, just because we were in love. While I leaned all my weight against him and moved his hips, spiraling, helping me to do the same, the storm came down in my body instead of the sky.  My mind whipped like the wind to places where thoughts don’t live and sounds are created and then emerge from the belly and travel up from throat to mouth

Maaaaaaaaaaaaa Maaaaaaaaaaaaa Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa*

And my birthsong was born right then.  This is the sound that got me through the next three or four hours.  I climbed back in the tub, began submerging my whole head under the water, blowing bubbles until I needed a breath and then would left my head out and up, MaaaaaaaMaaaaaaMaaaaaaa. On hands and knees I’d dunk myself again, spiraling my hips, rolling them, rocking.  Maaaaaaaaaaa.

B knew it was time to call our midwife.  I spoke to her briefly, and expressed I couldn’t be too far along, that I felt like I had just begun. This was my way of not expecting anything,  although I hoped, if I claimed I was still early, then all the faster I would be done.  She was in the neighborhood running errands, so she said she’d just stop by.

She entered and all things got even softer as her presence is like a velvet pillow.  After some talk, she checked me for the first time in 9 months. 

Am I at least half way?

Just about.

Then in a hushed manner she called her assistants to come over with her kit. I got the feeling I was farther along than I’d imagined.  And even if I wasn’t, that thought passing through me made things go even deeper, much more intense, like lightening I was bolting down, blowing bubbles and sounding.   Time becomes warped and moments move like shapes and sounds instead of lines and graphs.  I traveled up and down and around and back and forth.  My birth team surrounded me.  I heard the baby’s heart tones thump from somewhere.  I felt my lover step in the tub and encircle me with his strength.  I held him, wrapped my legs around him, and stared into his eyes.  As blue as the water, they offered me everything he had.  They mirrored me, this baby’s journey, our trip together.  This was it.  This was all there was.  We kissed gently and I buried my head in his neck, swirling around the tub. There were moments when all I could do was hold on to him and stare into those blue eyes as he emanated the most compassionate and awe-filled love to me.  To this day, there is no better doula for me than my husband.  Although my Birth Shaman was dwelling above my head, opening my seventh chakra, creating a pathway for this deep, deep work of bringing a baby from spirit to flesh, my husband had his own Birth Shaman dwelling around him. Together we shared some ancient, unspoken secrets, and together we were birthing this baby.  And I can honestly say, that in those moments, I was conscious of it.  I knew we had it going on.

And then there were other moments when I had to push him away.  I wanted nothing to do with him.  And as he scooped up poo from the water with his little net, I held my face under, blew those bubbles, keeping my lips vibrating and opening my yoni wider and softer each time, and the releasing and MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

And somewhere between feeling the magic and vocalizing and blowing bubbles, during I allowed my head to go somewhere I never expected.  As Sula was traveling down the canal, I saw flashed of red lights, heard sirens, and saw myself getting taken away to a hospital.  That is when I let myself vocalize, is the baby stuck?  Am I stuck?

And immediately I heard a chorus, to this day I don’t know if it was my actual physical Birth Circle or my Birth Shaman speaking through me, but the chorus was a reassuring: No.  Nothing is stuck.  You are not stuck.  Baby is not stuck.  I let go of those thoughts.  But they popped in, like an unwelcome stranger, bring doubt and erasing the trust that was this birth’s foundation. I could see that if I wasn’t in the place I was, with the love around me, I could have gotten ‘stuck’.

But I didn’t.  Instead someone from my circle lifted my mop of wet wavy hair on top of my head and cinched it with a rubber band.  Someone offered me more water from my bendy straw.  My husband rubbed my back and held my hand.  I sat up and looked around.  I was home.  In my house.  I sunk back in and blew more bubbles.  And I was told, You are totally becoming a mermaid, a sea goddess in that water.  I can see it.  I will never forget her words.  Another person came walking into the room with my lit candle of Mary, Virgin of Guadalupe, the Mother Goddess of my birth fate now flickered hope on the table next to me, sharing space with Quan Yin and Gaia.  And the force coming from the top of my head and trying to connect with the spot below my yoni was so great, so much bigger than me, yet all me, that I knew it was time.  A baby was going to be born.

I sat up. Arms linked under my own to hold me so I could hang.  My body was telling me to get ready, to stay calm.  Baby’s coming.  It’s time.  Baby’s coming, it’s time.  I chanted out loud.  I think I sounded frantic, but afterward B assured me my voice was just powerful and vibrating with depth.  And I started to push.  This baby was ready now.  And so was I.  I pushed some more.  This was what I was supposed to do right?  I felt a head inside me and I needed to push it out? I had to work hard, right?  I pushed some more….and then I heard those words,

Remember, this can be gentle. 

And then I remembered, somewhere in my bones, to be patience.  My body and baby could work this out without force.  It could be gentle, if I just let go, let time and softness slide her out with my breath.

And I did.  And it was.

It was one of the gentlest moments of my life.  And my Sula Pearl, a gentle soul who walks this earth, carries a lighted torch  from her heart center.  Perhaps she was just the tool to offer me such gifts.  Or maybe it was the work I did while pregnant with her and that worked paid off; an easy, mellow, giving soul from her first moments. Regardless, I think I know a bit more about patience, and with it all good things do come.

________

*Interestingly enough, I looked up the word "MA", my ‘came from outta nowhere’ birthsong in a copy of The Women’s Encyclopedia of Myth’s and Secrets (everyone should have a copy of this book, btw).  Here are some meanings:

Basic mother-syllable of Indo-European languages, worshipped in itself as the fundamental name of the goddess. 

It’s sacred letter “MA” in pictorial form as the Spark of Life (bindu or vindhu) was said to be “in the Great Yoni”.

In Indo-European root languages, it was as intelligence, the maternal force that bound elements together to create forms at the beginning of the world.

In Hebrew the same sacred letters of MA made the Mem-Aleph. Combining ideographs of “fluid” and “birth” .  The holy sign was credited with great protective power and was written on Jewish amulets during the late 9^th Century B.C.

MA-MA means mother’s breasts in nearly all languages around the world from Russia to Samoa.

 

 I need sleep.

I need sleep in order to be a decent and sane person.

I don’t know how I used to do it.  For years I’d go out three to four times a week until the wee hours. Looking at the bottom of the whiskey glass and always ordering one more while chain smoking like a gangster.  I’d end up with three to four hours of sleep and still get up, go to class and eventually spend ten hour days cultivating an almost career.  Certainly I remember moments where I was groggy and cranky, but in general, most days went well.  I’d drink a coffee or two, do stretches, breath deeply and I could easily get through the day with productivity and a damn big smile.  I never once thought to really stop and catch up on sleep.  My body just adjusted to the lack of it.  

Those days are a distant speck of memory.  My new teachers and bosses are obviously more demanding, far more critical, with totally unreasonable deadlines.  They redefine the phrase I needed that yesterday.

These days with a moment less than eight hours of sleep a night I collapse in a broken heap like building in an earthquake.  My emotional state becomes shaken and fragile at best. I become a contestant for worst mother of the day.   The reason I am exhausted is because somehow my children have kept me awake more than I can handle.  They walk around in a sleep-deprived tyranny.  There is a constant flow of tears, insatiable hunger for the deepest R.E.M yet nobody will surrender to napping, except for me and then I risk possible ingestion of poisons, knife play or unsupervised outdoor adventures. Bottom line, days without sufficient sleep: Suck.

Assuming surrender, I just accepted the girls to come into our room in the middle the night.  In attempts to preserve these last moments of just the three of us, before the New Arrival, I have let go and gave them, and myself, the snuggle of them in bed, spooned in every possible way, our bodies all intertwined and warmed from familiar flesh.

Bet let’s get honest here.

The luxuriously large bed, the California King, that provided a country-sized space for a family of three, has become less than large enough.  My body does not get smaller; it takes room for two.  The girls are not shrinking either, like weeds, their bodies widen and grow.  B remains on a sliver of bed at all times, coverless.  I am wedged between both girls, little feet pushing into my stomach or hips, arms across my face, bottoms pressing against my lower back. 

One typical scenario:

Sula enters around 3am.  She spends the first ½ hour of her arrival wiggling her way so close to me she could very well crawl back inside.  She insists I face her.  She spends the next 1/ hour stroking my face and asking me to make her dinner.  She’ll then proceed to list all the foods she would like to eat: Banana and almond butter; juicy eggs; mashed potatoes and peas, apples and frozen waffles.  When I explain that it’s not dinner time she spends the next fifteen minutes crying and then wailing and yelling.  Soon enters Mia, shaken from sleep by the howls of her little sister. She crawls into the other side of me.  We calm Sula down.  My hip begins to ache and I must change sides to elevate the pressure from one side to the other.  I flip over and all hell breaks loose.  Sula wants me to face her.  Mia wants me to face away from her.  Stop breathing on me, Mama, your breath is hot and stinky!  Turn around! And Sula, face me mama, face me mama, face me!!!!!! I wanna see your face!!!!!

Two hours and if we are lucky we have all fallen back to sleep. 

The other scenario is this one:

They enter our room together, crying.  B immediately takes them back into their room.  He passes out next to them as they cry for an hour wanting to come into bed with me.  He ends up cramped in their double bed.  I end up awake for two hours anyway because the initial crying episode has eventually le me to insomnia.  I can’t fall back to sleep.

Neither work.

Sweet surrender.  Back to the basics.  The goal is sleep. I need it.  B needs it.  Mia and Sula need it.

What would make them feel secure, encourage them to stay asleep and if they woke up, did not need to enter our bed to finish the night? 

So we pick up their bed.  Lugged it into our room.  Arranged it so both beds are next to each other.  One large bed.  2X10 feet of floor space is left.  That is not a lot.  Two nights now and both have woken up.  Sula went right back to sleep.  Mia, with about 10 minutes of gentle persuading and explaining she had to stay in her bed, (which is pushed right up to our own) did as well.  I would never have thought this could be the answer.  But the answer needed to point right to sleep.  And lack of it now only ensures exhaustion during labor, my biggest fear.  To birth, one needs stored fuel and rest.

They girls need to be near us still, it’s obvious; during this transition of moving and then the pending arrival of new family member, they are asking for more.  If creating a family bedroom works then there is my solution.  I just hope by the time the baby comes, they are cozy and knocked out cold all night; their Ocean Sounds Deep Sleep CD on repeat giving them that white noise that hinders one from opening their eyes. Perhaps both of their deeper knowing, their visions of a new baby in our room, has forced them to ask for reassurance that they are still safe and protected by us; that there needs are still met.  I can only offer ways to meet those needs, and the ways that I find must fulfill all of our needs, the whole family.

My goal in parenting is what will be gentlest on us all? What will cause the least amount of struggle? In yoga it is impossible to force your body into flexibility.  You can try but it never works.  For instance, if your chest doesn’t reach your thighs in a forward fold, you can push your chest there in numerous ways, none of which are gentle or easy on the muscles.  None of which involve breathing your way into it. Or you can allow yourself some props; bend your knees, use a block for support, or go against the wall.  Or you can just wait.  Let your body hang and just cultivating deeper breathing until one day, maybe, your chest will reach, your legs are straight and you are folded in half. Forcing may bring your chest to your knees in one try, giving you a fast and immediate feeling of accomplishment, but guaranteed it will be temporary. Your body will snap right back to the place it remembers, its own wise edge.

I guess that’s the practice I am trying to remember during this process.  I can force them to be asleep in their own beds, doors locked. I play part in the struggle, pushing them to be in a place they are not ready to venture as I get pushed to angry or disappointment.  Or I can bring out the props.  Move the bed into our room.  Play those ocean waves.  Breathe one night at a time.  Focusing on natural flexibility and organic transitions.  And sleep. 

I’ll be taking a walk with the girls; I can feel the crisp white air against my checks.  I can finger and squeeze the cold little hands that grip both of mine as we climb the hill behind our house.  I can see the sky weave in and out from blue to steel to white back to blue. I watch the eagle soar below the clouds, and then watch another do the same.  I can feel slightly in awe that I just saw two bald eagles, but at the same time non-attached.  I can sit down with the girls and press my hands against the crunchy moss, feeling the wonder of the frost against the soft of the earth.  And I can hear them chattering around me.  But it’s all a pleasant blur of loving sound in the background until finally Mia screams at me, MAMA!!!  I WANT THE WATER BOTTLE NOW. NOW!  My first reaction is to lecture, that is not the polite way to ask for things, Mia.  You know that.  Then I realize she probably did ask me politely the first couple times.  Something tells me her request where part of the chorus of sounds all around me, sounds that just become soundtrack for each moment.  I just had no ability to respond to them.  My senses are glazed over like glacier from mountain to river; I am frozen in some other plane.

I guess it’s about the right time.  I am 35 weeks pregnant now, give or take, and a thick and protective coating has formed around me.  I no longer live totally here, present, aware of what happens around me.  I live inside this shell.  Waiting for the final crack.  The unveiling.  The birth of my baby, of me, of my whole family.  I do all this work, removed and secluded, yet life seems to continue around me.

I am in the chrysalis.  And simultaneously I honor this cave-like withdrawal and fight it with all my might.  There are still so many things to do; make truffles and peppermint bark, send out packages, shower my circles with love for the holidays; so many projects I want to do with the kids: the solstice wreath, their altar, building a labyrinth in the yard and making sure to gather on the 21^st;  and then all the little things to get ready for baby: make a mobile, decal the wall with blackbirds flying, washing all the cloth diapers, cleaning, rearranging, smudging this whole place, making meals and freezing them.   It’s like this driving force of energy pulls around me, trying to get me to commit in every direction, the words inside my head nag, nest, nest, nest.  But the shell, it keeps me from doing much of anything.  My heart draws a picture of nesting in a different way: sit down, warm by the fire, hold your belly, breath, chant, cuddle, go for slow walks, make tea…everything else will just fall in place. 

I am starting to come to terms with the work I do inside this chrysalis is the real work for this birth, the silent, subtle (yet humungous) work of the inner-world.  And that is where I have been living, in that world, doing work I am unable to describe.  All I can say is that it’s not heady work. I’m not living in my head, thinking about past or future stories.  I am not judging where I have or haven’t been or what I must or mustn’t so.  I am not even thinking about the birth, really.  I am in some kind of absence of space, but one that is so sweet and satisfying; I find it hard to pull myself up and out of it.  It is my own bubble.  And even if someone else (or myself) tries to pop it and pull me back into this world, my whole being refuses to oblige.  Sure, I will get the water for the girls, throw in a load of laundry, listen to B talk about this or that, read my kids books,  but I am only half there.  For a second I feel guilty and sad about this, like I am neglecting my life, but I know this is the work of preparing for the journey of this birth.  I know its important work; work that rarely gets honored and encouraged or supported in this culture.  How many women even get to stop working during this time?  How many women get to take time off being a full-time mom while the end of their gestation takes place?  I am fortunate in this sense; I don’t work outside the home and right now B is with me, at home, doing all those little things for the girls that I am taking a slight sabbatical from.   But in the end (or the beginning of it) this work that I do now, will bring a baby in my arms, and it will bring me once again to the role of Mother.

It’s hard to believe its right around the corner.

It’s hard to believe that the little feet that jab at my ribs and those hands that stretch and poke at my bladder will be in my bed with me, where I will kiss them, smell them and worship the delicate grandness of them.  Hands and feet of my newborn tell me I am not mortal, I am indeed Creatrix, I am indeed my own God(dess) and I am blessed to be in the presence of the same.

 

 

 

 

I have finally had my falling down on the bathroom floor, cheek on the cold tile, fists clenched, begging some god, somewhere inside or out to please tell me what to do (you know, just like the woman did, the one who wrote the book I should have written?)

It was not over my marriage, though.

It was about my kid.

And I am about at the moment where I am not sure where or how I can summon the energy to get through this day, this week, this fourth year of her life.  I am mad, hurt, exhausted and abused.  Today I don’t like being a mom; don’t want to be a mom; wish I never made the choice to do so.  There. I said it. And so, saying that, I will write.  I have no choice but to write about what makes me full of  greatness,  what makes me alive.  I won’t write all the reasons I want to strangle my daughter, because all of them would be born from a source of morbid illusion and a place where my ‘story’ has gotten stuck, skipping, repeating the same bad habits and patterns.   I choose to change the theme of today, release the tension and believe in what I know to be true. Then I can step back into my role, like I slip into a bath; softly, smoothly, clearly ready to feel it’s beauty and peace and yet prepared for that occasionally scorch of hot water on the delicate skin of humanness.  

 

Soft moss.  For just walking on it across my front yard to gather sticks from the fallen tree to use for kindling later on.  I am grateful I got married, barefoot on a field of soft green moss.

The buzz of a dragonfly, when they wiz by my head, reminding me I am the keeper of my own time.

Slow roasted potatoes sprinkled with fresh sage and rosemary, salt and pepper.

Sounds that never fail to heal me: ferocious winds, high tides beating against rocks, fire crackling, Mia singing songs she makes from the heart, My girl dog licking away at her paw, crows and owls sounding, the beat of drum skins under my husband’s hand, the meowing of a newborn baby, the sound of the last load of clothes spinning in the dryer.  Krishna Das chanting. Big Youth deejaying. The flipping pages of my journal when I am writing in a stream. 

My  circle of women: writers, healers, sisters.

The Three Grandmothers who, in spirit, always hover above me, come to me when I call upon them, guide me thorugh the mother labirynth.

The harder our kids are to raise, the closer my man and I become; our golden chain becomes tighter and stronger; our partnership transcends rules and we walk, merged and melted, trying to just live this parenting thing with grace. When we blunder and trip and fall flat on our faces, which happens often,  I am grateful for the outstretched hand, the pull back on up.

Nettles, Red Raspberry, Yarrow, Peppermint, and Oat Straw, just to name a few.  Each day that I commit to taking these green allies, I reaffirm my body wisdom.  I choose health.  The same goes for apple cider vinegar.  It has been such a friend to me this pregnancy, this time of slow healing.

My deck of intuitive tarot cards.

This ripe and gentle pregnancy, this little person who makes my belly bump with an authority and sensuality I cannot recognize as myself, though I am know I must possess.  I walk with an empress empowerment, I feel like Queen, large and round and taking up empty space with a slinky knowingness.  Everywhere I sit feels like a thrown. I am so grateful I get to love another person in that way only a mother can. I am so grateful that in less than two months, I get to cuddle with my dove.  My dove, I thank you.

Zappos.com. I am so pleased with my two new pair of boots; one black and furry, one wine colored and sexy.  Just in time for the first sprinkle of snow.

Light snows. 

Lattes.

Beet Juice.

My mother.

Black nail polish.

Hilly neighborhoods. 

The one who seems to bring me to these places of despair, the daughter that led me to this once blank page.. Through that despair I have no other choice but to reach my arms and heart out, stretching for the other side of my story.  I can’t live on a heap on the bathroom floor.  I can’t take off and travel, sewing my seed of creativity into a global coat, but I can sit and remember what is full and great in my life. And it’s her, the one I wanted to strangle. Her idiosyncrasies and iron like will, whose behavior can sometimes be compared to big blood sucking gnats that create boils on the skin; she’s the one who guides me to this place.  This place where my story is gratitude.  For her, her rosy glowing skin against the silver of snow, I give thanks.

 

 

 

 

(disclaimer: this is totally and utterly unedited.  sorry.) 

 

I have gotten some of the nicest comments on my blog this week after I wrote that rant about the book I am reading.

 

I told you it was a really good piece.

 

It was a rant. But I can’t write anything else.  After I proclaim I am giving myself permission to be a writer and take the time, I have nothing to say.  I am as dried up as an old crone.

 

Well, just write something now. 

 

No.  Because If I write something now, it will just be to bitch about you and how I want to leave you.

 

So, go ahead.

 

No.  I don’t feel like it.  You aren’t that inspiring.

 

Want me to slap you for some inspiration?

 

No.

 

Want me to pinch your nipples?

 

No.

 

Dance around naked?

 

No.

 

Run down the street, dancing, naked, proclaiming my love for you?

 

No. (although that I would like to see.)

 

Dance around naked with a fruit cocktail?*

 

No. Gross.

 

And here, my friends.  This is what I am faced with.  Nothing to say and a husband who is annoying the shit outta me.

 

*to find out what a fruit cocktail is (in case you don’t know) rent Silence With Lambs.  The scene where that one crazy murderer dude (not Hannibal) is dancing, naked, in front of the mirror….and notice what he did with his private parts…that’s a fruit cocktail.  Yeah.  Gross.

 

An update on life.

 

 I would post photos but somewhere in the move I have lost the charger for my camera battery.  Nothing like having a fancy camera and can’t take pictures with it.  Especially on a day like today when the sun is pounding down light,  the air crisp but now cold, the water waves with light.  I become flooded with gratitude after 3 days of dreariness and then this gift of sunny brilliance.  When it is sunny here, it is beyond words of beauty. Perhaps the gift of here is that; to surrender with ease to the gray time and celebrate the lightness. I am so much more aware of myself with these daily shifts in weather.  I can’t believe I lived in a place where the weather change was so subtle it was work to notice it.  I lost my connection with nature a bit.  I feel it coming back.  I need the ups and downs.  Living under a spotlight of sun is a blessing, but there are times when I need to dark womb of reality to capture me allow me to gestate a bit. 

 

 Mia and her dad spent the day in outskirts of town picking up a cord of firewood.  Enough wood to last us the whole winter.  My dreams of cuddling with the new baby in front of the fire, sipping Pho broth and melting into bliss are coming true.  We have the fireplace.  The wood.  Now I can visualize where and how baby will be brought to me. 

 

We saw our new midwife today.  It was our second appointment.  I am breaking through the stress of not knowing her since the beginning of the pregnancy.  I can honestly say I really like her and trust her presence.  She is mellow and laid back.  Her hands our gentle and I could feel her conscious breath in and out while she pressed into my belly, carefully feeling for the baby.  Though in the back of my mind and heart, there is a part of me that wants her to show up right after the baby comes out.  Not that I don’t want her there, but then again, I may just want us there.  We’ll see how it all goes.  Until then, I feel safe with her and that is all I ask for.  What I admire in her is her balance and even personality. She rides a medium wave at all times, not getting jolted by the bigger ones. I think if I tree came crashing down and smashed through her window, she’d be the kind that wouldn’t even jump.  She’s just look over her shoulder and say, ‘wow, that’s some tree.” 

 

The baby had a heart murmur about 3 times during a three minute cycle with the Doppler.  I know this is normal and will easily go away but it brought up intense emotion for me.  I feel like baby was mirroring my heart right now; telling me it hurts and it needs to be opened.  That baby was saying, Mama, stretch your arms out wide, look up to the sun and roar like a lion.  Open your heart and let the fire burn through.

 

And so, even though Baby is going to be okay, Baby wants me to be okay. I can’t blame anyone for a closed heart, so I take this as my responsibility as my own. My husband cannot fix it.  My kids cannot fix it. A healer cannot fix it.  It is my heart, I made it.  I let it get closed somehow and so now it’s my journey to open it.  First I am trying to figure out why it feels so hard and closed.  Perhaps I have been in protection mode, trying not to feel so sad about leaving behind what I did love about the desert; those souls who linger there, those people who made me realize why I even stopped there for those three years.  Maybe my heart is closed because I don’t let my husband in, and I don’t see all the ways he tries.  Maybe it’s because I feel the stir of the Universe, this world and it’s pain; it’s full of suffering right now and there is no denying it.  I can’t live in ignorant bliss of war and poverty and children being made into slaves and killers.  I feel it right in my heart.  I am not separate from it.  Maybe it’s just closed from years and years of being me; tough, strong, intense.  Maybe I need to be vulnerable, finally.  Soft and mushy.  So I listen to baby’s heart go thump thump thump(…..)thump thump thump(…..)thump thump thump(…..) and so on.  That fourth beat,  missing.  Interesting that the heart resides in the fourth chakra and the fourth beat was missing.  I will listen to baby, work on opening that gushy redness of my center, open it up and let the love shine in.  And out. It is my new intention.  All else will follow.

 

Baby is also feet down.  All my kicks are way deep down in the pelvis.  Little feet kicking away.  But that’s all and good.  Head will be down soon enough.  Head down, chin to chest, spine facing mama’s belly.  Unless of course, Baby needs another way to get out here safely.  Of course, Baby, whatever way you need.

 

Mia had orientation at her new preschool today, The Loving Space.  It’s an old craftsman, restored in vibrant colors, a magical garden, kick-ass rope-bridges and climbing gear, a sand yard, lots of animals…and most of all love.   It’s a mixed soup combining Montessori, Steiner, Bev Bos, and Emilio Reggerio, but mostly they are rooted in the way of Love.  I like that.  They are also big on exploration.  It’s a place where kids can explore, get dirty and messy and be loud and get comfortable with themselves.  They have a loose schedule, but allow the child to do what the child needs to do at that given moment/day.  It always a child to feel power in their own feelings and choices.  My body really good there, much better than at the Waldorf in Phoenix or the Co-op school in Scottsdale.  Both lovely places, but each leaving me a bit unsettled every day that I dropped Mia off. At Loving Space, the smell of fresh bread is always in the air, paint is splattered everywhere, and a guinea pig waddles around the cozy carpeted reading and ‘quiet’ room.  This month the theme is community; so there are little stations set up around that foster that feeling.  Mia needs a place where she can experience herself without us.  This is hard for me to say, a homeshooler at heart.  But my mama intuition tells me to let my beautiful little bird go…time for her to fly.  Just 2 days a week, 4 hours a day.  For now.

 

 And Sula.  Little gift.  While dada and Mia were wood gathering, Sula and I were at the park, counting squirrels and sliding down slides.  We were playing chase, falling down in piles of leaves, laughing and tickling.  We walking and talking and looking out at the bay and trying to spot sea lions.  We were sitting in the Co-op drinking frothy steamers and eating pumpkin muffins and listening to a jazz duo play drums and keyboards.  I really look forward to the time I will have with Sula while Mia is in school and before baby comes.  Sula is truly is my gem, my mystery of the underworld; so peaceful and easy, so lovely and yet also so strong, dark and magical.  She holds her own and owns her light.  I learn from her all the time.  I look at her and wish I was like her; her deep set eyes and wide smile.  Her ability to just go “humph” and swing her arms down by her side when things ‘don’t go her way’.  She gets this life more than me, she tackles it and dances with it.  Her and I need each other and our solo time together is so rare. I asked her today, when the baby comes, who will I love? She replied as I hoped, Sula! Mia! And BABY! Yes.  So much love to go around.

 

And now I overcome with the urge to write a poem.  For my new one, turning all around me inside.  I think maybe baby just went sidewise.  That’s okay.  This one is for you baby (forgive me because I am certainly not a poet and don’t think I ever will be, but still, it’s for you.)

 

Baby

You make me

New and Big and fat

Ever expansive.

I grow and grow

Room for your

Colossal size

Beauty and dignity

Humor and magic

Valley wide spirit

Rock solid love

 

There’s no squeezing you

My insignifigantly

Small self

Had to widen

Every last part

To be filled

With such

Sensational

Grandness

Mountain Majesty

Spectacular as a star

No tiny spark of sun ray

But a sea

Of flaming sunshine.

 

 

You are strength

I have never known

And my fear

Of endless clothe diapers

Sinking in quicksand

Sleeplessness

Sore nipples

Ugly bras

Selflessness

Identity and body theft

Mothering too much

Too long

Is gone.

 

You have nothing to prove

You are already

Everything

all that is

And ever will be

I am all that is

Ever will be

And we will provide

Sleep

Support

Community

Guidance

Style

Time and space

An extraterrestrial

Cleaning service

The house will shine and

We will not be smothered

In duties and chores

And stress

But in pure

Easy

Easy

Easy

Love.

 

This

stubborn mama has

Crack wide open

Like an egg

Out pours

Golden light

Spilling and dripping

Illuminations

You have climbed inside

Navigated this light

From one place to the next

You have guided us

And we didn’t even know it

At the time

We listened

To you

And your subtle knockings

Whisperings

Of wisdoms

Of  wants.

 

 

Please excuse me

For looking at

photos of my ass

Snapped

Three months before

you were made.

Staring

In longing

and wonder

Will I ever again? Ever?

And forgive me

For only spending

A dollar on that pregnancy test

In May.

We were being cheap

In denial.

You deserved more

Than a dollar store test.

 

That same day

I am sorry for crying

A lifeless heap

On the bedroom floor

For hours 

While your dad

laid tiled

Pretending I did not

 Just say

Two lines.

We are sorry

And now we laugh

At our stupidity

Utter ignorance

Your divine presence

Is obvious

Looking through

The fog

We get it

We asked for you

Longed for you

Manifested the universes

Greatest blessing

You lifted us

Shared

Wise Wide

White wings

You whispered

Defy gravity, take flight.

And we did.

It was you

You

You

You

 

Don’t know your life plan

Or what the stars

Have in mind or in line

For you

But I will live it

Watching

Witnessing

Waiting to see

Where you will fly

Like a dove

Bringer of peace

In cosmic disorder

Of tribal rhythms

Union of all

Feminine and masculine

In one dance

In a new time

Breathing a new kind of air.

 

I do believe your charm and

Your glisten

Silly little grin

Will be all

Anyone ever needs

To grow and know

To desire

To follow this riddle

This mysterious

Ride in life.

You are a teacher.

No doubt.

 

But I will rewind

And come back

To this moment

This time

And I feel you right now

Poke and jab

And flip and flutter

And hiccup

And then sit perfectly still

Inside.

 

And I am captivated

By you

By your willingness

To be part of

Us.

 

I love you.

mama 

 

Sula, I adore you.  Some children come in the form of great challanges, like a desert thunderstorm they take over your life without a bit of warning and pound through you until you might feel like you’ll collapse. And those children open the heart and the soul in divine ways, they are a mirror to look in and love unconditionally.  And some children are just easy breezes, mellow and grounded, and they come to help us acheive that sort of surrender and peace. You, my dear, are that gift; easy. An easy breeze, not unlike the kind at dusk on the top of a rolling hill surrounded by purple and yellow flowers. That’s the kind  of a kid you are. I can learn so much from you. 

And I love you so much.

Even though today you called me A Dumb Shut-Up.

sigh.