fear of flying.

July 21, 2008

I’m home.  In more ways than one.  Being gone, away from my family for that long is something I just don’t love.  But on the othside of things, I know that part of my path is to move, to be with people I love, to spread health and hold them on their journey.  And if that means I have to be away from the kids, then so be it.  It makes me a better person to open myself up to others, and in turn, that makes me a better mother.

Mothering my mother wasn’t easy.  I tried to think back on how she nursed me as a child while I was sick.  There was lot of just letting be, but there were times of tougher love.  Like when my fever was so high and my throat so swollen and she insisted that I drink fluids.  I’d resist, but she’d insist.  Just a drop, a little drop, she’s say.  And so I said, just a drop, just a little drop. just a bite, a tiny bite.  just a walk, a short walk.  It’s uncomfortable to reverse roles and at the same time it’s beautiful, full circle.  Giving what I was given is the ultimate gift.

Stay tuned for more talk on berries and all the wonderous things to make with them,  living simply and slowly and how this is the hardest thing I’ve had to do, and more adventures on the path to spin fire.  Until then, here is a crazy-ass story about my trip.

I’m just not good at flying. Rewind.  What I mean to say it I am not good at is being a passenger on a plane.

Although I have been soaring the friendly skies on commercial airlines since I was a baby, it was around the age of fifteen when I realized, I hated it. Taking off over the endless Pacific, from California back to New York by myself, I found myself writing in my journal: We could crash. Oh my god. We could crash right now. Well, what other way to die? Sucked into the hole of the big blue sea? I can almost hear the silence of plane hitting the water now  As a matter of fact I am sure I’m going to die.  This big piece of tin is sparong through the air.  It’s not a bird.  It shouldn’t be up here.  There were so many things I wanted to do before I dropped into the blueness, the death, my death….

Morbid.

Unless I am using my  own wings, I just don’t like it. I do it, it’s a necessary ‘evil’ in my life. But I much rather be on the ground or on a boat. I like feeling time pass as I travel. Not zipping by.  I like to see things at a human speed, the trees, the road, the people.  I like to enter new timezones with some warning, watching the transition from forest, to plains to desert, to sea.  I don’t like the dreaminess of the clouds below me, not knowing what I am above.  Bottom line: I want more control.  I want to be able to stop off at an exit and hit a greasy dinner for a grilled cheese and a shake and a take a photo of a random sign and know that I am in This Town now.  And flying tricks me into a new time, a time that my body rejects.

About a week before take off, the anxiety assaults every part of my life; wake time, dream time, in between time. Before I had kids, I just popped pills and did whiskey shots. It was the one time meditation never worked. Nope. Good old drugs were the only thing that settled me into that seat without clawing the strangers flesh next to me. Once I am drunk, I didn’t care I was 20,000 feet above the earth.

But I can’t very well get trashed with three kids in tow, one of them breastfeeding. So my soultion has been an OCD-esque ritual and visualization. 

I get on the plane. Settle the kids. I close my eyes and face my palms up. I watch the plane in my mind’s eye and surround with light, a light that I see coming from the inner most core of the universe, not just any old white light, folks, but The Light. The Light that protects all things from all things, the light that never ceases, never dims, never dies. ANd once the plane is illuminated, bright as the stars, it;s time to call down the winged folk.

Arch-Angel Micheal is the head man at the nose of the plane. He winks at me as he holds on to the front, tells me he has a good grip. He’s muscular and gorgeous and utterly doable. I imagine him to look like the hot one on Lord of The Rings. The blond hot one, not Viggo. His wings are massive and stark white. Then the beautiful goddess angels come on down with their iridescent wings. The head to either side of the plane and hold on to it’s wings, two for each wing.  These creatures are otherwordly, curved and ancient, crytal eyes and firey red hair.  The look at me and smile; don’t worry M, we have it, we’ll hold her steady for you. And finally the gender neutral being, this creature, wild and huge, my protector with scaley skin and flaxen hair, long nails, and 20 arms, just a wild colorful thing, takes the back end. I’ll never let go, it tells me, precious cargo.

And then take off. And I must say my prayer. If anyone, child or flight attendant, or person who knows me who happens to be on the same flight sitting behind me (this happened once) even tries to talk to me, they get firmly told to just wait, unles they want to die, until I am done with my prayer. My prayer is my own version of a childhood favorite, The Hail Mary:

Hail Mary, full of grace

We are thee

Blessed are those among women

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb

Holy Mary Mother of All

Hold us now and forever

Oooooommmmmmm

Blasphemous I know. But the original version just isn’t for me me anymore with all that sin and death and god talk.  I feel okay about switching it around. It’s my ritual, my flight, my fear. My prayer.

Last Wednesday I got on a plane in Bellingham and headed to Mesa, AZ with all three kids. I proceeded to the same thing once everyone was settled in the seat. I had Mia do the visuals with me, made it fun for her, never leading on to why I had angels come down and carry the plane. She just assumed that’s how planes must fly.  I’ll leave it to her father to explain engines and such.

And we were off.

Things didn’t feel right.

So I thought maybe it was because I was ready to drop of my two big girls in Arizona with family and leave them, taking the baby to NY with me. I was going to miss them. I don’t like being away from my girls, not even for a whole day let alone a whole week. A week is a very long time.  I left them one other time for a week, but they stayed home with their dad.  Maybe things felt uneasy because I know I had just begun the journey back to my hometown  to be with my mother, scared of how I was going to find her.  Two months had past since the last time I had seen her and her body was now three quarters filled with Chemo and perhaps the results would shock me; the hairlessness, the skin and bones, the red checks, the fatigue.

I felt tense, more tense than usual.

A man stood, ruffling through the overhead compartment, A flight attendant stood by with a concerned look on her face. She was glancing at the attendant that sat behind me (we were the very last seat on the plane, in front of the bathroom and the flight attendants seat). The man got what he was searching for in his bag, a small cardboard box, and he sat back down.

Another man got up. He walked to the bathroom (behind me) and on the way he smiled at Z. I smiled back. As he shut the door another man walked up to the bathroom to wait. He stood for a moment. The seat belt light went one. A flight attendant approached him. I felt her stress. Sir, I need you to wait for the bathroom in your seat, the caption has turned on the fasten seat belts. We’ll let you know when the bathroom is unoccupied.

He went back to his seat. The man in the bathroom comes out and sits down in his row, 6-7 seats in front of mine. I can easily see the back of his head, wrapped in religious garb, not sure but I am assuming, a Sikh.

Over the loudspeaker, before anyone could get up to know occupy the vacant toilet: Attention passengers, our lavatories are closed. They are both malfunctioning. We apologize, but nobody is to use the bathroom until further notice.

Mama, I gotta poop. Maaaamaaaa, I gotta poooooop.

Sweetie. Not now. I am concerned. I am intuitive. I feel the stress on this plane. I look around. Everyone else seems fine, happy, dandy.

I am concerned. I am intuitive. I feel the stress on this plane. I look around. Everyone else seems fine, happy, dandy.

I sit and wait. I am hyper aware of what the attendants are doing. Back and forth they travel down the aisle. Hushed phone calls. Whispers. One of them whispers to the man directly next to me across the aisle, a long haired from grunge town. He nods his head. He carries a slight, painted on smile across his face. Minutes pass. She whispers again to him.

Finally. What the fuck is going on? Perhaps I didn’t say the F word, holding Z in my arms, I tend not to swear, but the word rang in my voice. I knew something was up. I knew something felt wrong.

The attendant walks away. The man across from me ensures me all is okay, he is just has to keep an eye out for the bathroom, making sure nobody goes in it.

Oh. For a moment that sounded okay. Made sense. He’s back here next it with me. He can be a guard for the supposed over-flowing shit water.

More whispers. More walking. More hushed phone calls.

No, this is still not right. My whole body tenses. My heart is pounding. Mia is crying that her ears are “puffy”.

We seem to be about 2 or so hours into the flight. Only about a ½ hour to go.

I double check where the girls are, because where I am is not good. My palms are sweating. My throat is lumped. I have this bizarre smile on my face, plastered. In my heart, I know I am going to be okay, feel this deeply, but somewhere in between my heart and my head that feeling is shifted and I am quite sure this is it: we’re going down.

Mia is still complaining about her clogged ears, “puffy, mama! Yawning doesn’t work!” I pass her come. She seems pleased with this. Chew baba, chew the gum and your puffy ears will pop open.

Sula is happily drawing her spirals on the pad of paper. Over and over again she draws little circular shapes, tiny, intricate. They remind me of the end of a fire dance, the small signatures that I spun just as the fire was going out. Somewhere between sand swirls and Sanskrit. I get lost in her spirals, wondering if these will last time I will see her draw. She looks up at me and smiles. And in her silly little voice reminds me, Mama I gotta go poo. I tell her the bathroom is still broken, but not to worry, soon.

I crank my body all the way around. I demand to know what going on.

The attendants look at each other. They look at me.

And then I hear a whole lot of words like: tipped off, suspicious activity, bomb scares, don’t worry, we stopped them, surprise landing, police, back door, arrests….
I look to the man across from me.  Is everything going to be alright, I more beg than ask.  Yeah, I hope so.  I think it’s just a bad case of profiling.  At least I hope it is.  I hope. They asked me to watch a man a few rows up, to see what he was doing with his hands, so far he just has them folded on his lap.  But he did have some kind of box earlier…

And all I could say was I will never fly again.

* 

And so to make a long story a bit shorter. We did a crazy-ass landing, heading down, and then back up and then straight back down. in silence, no warning, no friendly voice on the speaker telling us we were descending into the hot-ass desert with temperatures hot enough to cook a small baby. The back doors flew open and Police came storming on the plane, five darker skin men were arrested. The rest of the plane spoke in whispers, looking around, not knowing what was happening. We’re sorry about this, but due to unusual circumstances, please stay seated on the aircraft until we inform you it is safe to leave. Five men in cuff walk by me, I try to look in their eyes. If you are all innocent men, I am so sorry, so sorry for this humiliation. If you’re not and you want to hurt me and my kids, I’ll fucking kill you.

Twenty minutes later and 5 condoms, tied and filled with a little liquid were removed from the garbage of the bathroom that was directly behind my seat. Can my daughter go to the bathroom now? Yes, yes. Go ahead. As we squeeze back around them, I see they are wearing the gloves, holding on to the condoms.

As we squeeze back around them, I see they are wearing the gloves, holding on to the condemns.

Condoms?

Not just condoms.

I get it. I think. I’m just never flying again.

Ma’am, please don’t be scared to fly. We are in the business of keeping you safe. It’s our job.

Oh yeah, I get it. I get it. My whole body shaking as I try to get the kids off the plane and walk down the steps onto the runway. The air here is thick with heat, that long ago yet fimilar sensation of stepping into an oven; my breath has to deepen to fill my lungs, my eyes have to squint from the rays. I take on a whole new meaning of sweat.

Wow! It’s hot here, Mama!!! I’m so hot!

In somewhat of a state of shock, we begin our stay in the desert for a few days. The whole time I call the airlines to get information on what happened, what was in the condoms, who the men were. But there was no info to be given. I took upon the Anxious, The Scared, The Stressed. I felt like I was suffering post-trauma stress. I actually thought about renting a car and just driving me and the girls back home, back to my little safety net of a home; bright and yellow and filled with flowers and rivers streaming…and berries, all those berries! The light winds of the valley, the twinkling of sun bouncing of the green leaves and mountainsides, the mountains that surround and protect me…I wanted to go back. How quickly my No Fear and my I Don’t Give A Shit get erased by my utter humanness, my fragility, my need to stay alive.

I had to mine for the amount of trust I needed to continue on, climbing on four more planes until I was to finally be back home. If it wasn’t the thought of my mother waiting for me in her chair back in NY, I’d never stepped onto that plan going East. And if it wasn’t for the love and desire I had to be back with the big girls, I’d never would have stepped foot on that plane going back West. And that final ride, the thought of my home, here, my man…I just took a breath and got on it. My rituals done with more reverence and faith.

And so here is what Allegiant Air finally has to tell me: We couldn’t connect any of the men on the flight to the items found in the trash. As for the items (the condoms) found, we are still researching and getting information on that.

And so my questions are: extreme paranoia and racial profiling? A true threat to our lives? A huge mistake? A lesson for me to trust Fate; when it’s my time to crash, I just might.

real food.

July 5, 2008

This is what you get when you play with your local farmers* kid (not just a kid, but a beautiful and vibrant and wise little three year old being) while they work at bringing their community fresh food.

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This may not be a big deal to you, to accept food straight from the hands that cared for and planted the seed, the hands that loved and tended and sweat to bring the seed to life, hands that are strong and dark with the stain of the Earth.  To be in the same space with their bodies, strong and sore from bending and weeding,  fingering and gathering the divine produce is like part of my life dream fulfilled.  Farmers are rock stars to me and my family.  Good food is my life and there is no good food without the love and time from real people who grow it.  I grew up with stories about farming from grandpa, he came from a goat herding and farming family back in the Old Country, he spoke with respect and reverence about his family who showered his whole village with food. My parents and oldest siblings walked up the street in our hometown to the now defunct farm to collect produce and milk eggs.   I now live in a place minus the big box whole food organic stores, here we have co-ops and public markets which offer smaller yet just as satisfying services without all the ’sex’ appeal and certainly without all the imports.  But there is nothing, nothing at all like the hand of an outstretched farmer with a bunch of radishes and carrots, emerald greens and spicy onions, vibrant brocoli (the best broc i have ever tasted, made a raw tahini dip and dipped all day long.  yum!) succulent berries and the sweetest snaps peas ever standing in your kitchen, offering you this real food, filled with love and hope.

So as a PSA: run, don’t walk, to your nearest small family organic farmer and offer to play with their kids, weed, clean their house, or pay them cash.  Do whatever you can so they can continue to change the world one seed at a time.  Because this is what it takes.

*if link does not work, please check out my friend’s farm blog: 1smallseed.blogspot.com

***

on a side note, i leave tomorrow for a 10-day long trip.  dropping of the big girls in our desert home away from home while i continue on to NY where i will be preparing real food for my mama while she continues her journey through chemotherapy.  i uncook for her (raw foods) and a mix of macrobiotic menu.  i vacuum, gently brush her thinning hair, hold her hand, keep her company, work in her yard, and mostly just hand over the baby dove, because that baby heals her heart and soul, she is my offering to my mother who gladly accepts (the big girls can’t come, their pre-school germs aren’t allowed near my mama’s compromised immune system.  will try to write on the road, but if not…enjoy the juiciness of summer in a berry or a melon and pitcher of hand squeezed lemonade.

10 minutes.

July 3, 2008
(Jena, here is what is what i get in 10 minutes. no edits.)
***
dont give a shit.
about anything except the sound of fire close to my ears and brushing against my flesh.  the way it felt when i spun between my legs and it heated up my crotch.  the way that when it hit my leg and my hip and even brushed my forhead it felt good, yes good.  i don’t give a shit that i spun fire, finally, after years of wishing, dreaming, longing to so, but i am totally a different person now that i have.  fire i love and respect.  i am the one who dips her toes close to the campfire, loving the feeling of the heat, the burn, the sting.  candles are always my invocation. 
driving down the highway which leads to my house, there is a small and ancient church that always has very non-offensive sayings on the sign board out front.  the day after i lit up,  it read:  Hear god’s voice this week. and i said  hot damn i did, oh i did and it was Fire twirling and swooshing and cracking one inch from ear.  it was the sound of chaos that quieted my mind, finally, finally, i heard god’s voice.  it was fire.
***
back to not giving a shit.  i don’t.  i didn’t give a shit that i only spun practice poi half-assed for a few months 2 years ago.  i didn’t care enough about my hair or my eyebrows or my clothes or my flesh not to do it.  i promise i’ll only spin circles i told my sister/friend/teacher.  even though she’s the one that brought over the jamaican rum, she pretty much knew it was an i don’t give a shit type of night she graciously handed over them over to me, told me how to light up and played pressed play on the ipod. 
earlier that day i decided not to gve a shit about anything. after my daughter thought it would be all fun and games if she took her kiddie broom and bang the handle into one of our fragile timepiece door windows until it smashed it through,  i decided not giving a shit was what i had to do.  after i screamed for a moment, yelled at her, explained to her about SAFETY AND DANGER and then i banned her from my space, i took upon the mantra which my friend had lent to me week before; i don’t give a fucking shit.  i didn’t give a shit that my house was covered in my orange shag carpet, smushed raisins, crumbled crackers and dirty dishes.  i didn’t give a shit that another day was taking place and i hadn’t tilled the rest of the garden and the kale was dying and the squash was burnt and dry. i didn’t give a shit that one more day had passed and i had not dragged the kids for a hike.  i didn’t give a shit that i only got 3 hours sleep the night before.  i didn’t give a shit about not having any money in the bank.  i stopped giving a shit about wanting anything, making anyting building anything, writing anything.  I couldn’t give two shits if i ever wrote another word again.  i didn’t ive a shit that i had to get on a plane once again when usually i freak out about flying, i didn’t give a shit that i was overwhelmed with three girls whose estrogen fills our home like an smoldering volcano.  i didn’t give a shit how i look.act.eat.dress.talk.think.clean.create.dress.wear my hair. I didn’t give a shit what anybody thinks of me. 
I. Don’t. Give. A. Shit. What. Anyone. Thinks. Of. Me (good or bad).
FREEDOM.
that’s big.  and i still don’t even give a shit that it’s big.  who fucking cares?  it’s just life.
and i didn’t give a shit about being nice anymore either, nice like when you want to be honest, like that kind of not nice.
when i expressed this new found attitude to my husband the other day, when i told him i could care less if we make it through any of this he called me a nihilist.  and at that moment my not giving a shit was a bit nihilistic.  but it’s not now.  now i don’t give a shit because i’ve stopped judging myself and everything around me.  i stopped beating myself up.  i’ve stopped wanting anything, really, except the feeling of wide open wild freedom of not giving a shit.  and wow, i can’t even tell you how much more love i feel, how much i love, how much better it feels to be loved.  i don’t give a shit with an open heart and a smile on my face.  i don’t give a shit and i walk different, like i am happy to walk.
i
 almost started to give a shit today when a close family member, pregnant with her first, began riding the slippery slope of medical intervention and as a birth professional i almost began giving a shit, but i sopped.  and it’s not about not loving her or caring for her or wanting her to birth empowered.  no, i don’t give a shit about what i am suppose to believe or teach or say;  it’s her path, her choices, her baby,  her story, her experience NOT MINE and i hold her where she is at, knowing this is hers, and it’s what she needs.  i don’t give a shit about what i know and don’t know.  i don’t give a shit about dogma.
and all those terms we hear people throwing around surrender, let go, let it be, go with the flow, give in, release…oh the hell with them because what do they really mean?  just don’t give a shit.
just love freely and loosely.  hold the happy with the sad and the sad with the happy and love them both the same or hate them both the same or feeling nothing about any of them. breath something new in with each breath andthrow that out the window with the exhale.  and do something that you are totally petrified to do. like play with fire really close to your bare skin.  grow dreadlocks. fly a tiny plane over the islands.  jump out of it.  let go of your kids and let them be. take a shit in a public bathroom.  use (GASP) disposible daipers, hire a (gasp) babysitter, let your belly hang over your pants and don’t hide it.  invite friends over to your totally disgusting messy house and don’t you dare clean a thing.  walk outside naked (or with a big boots and a boa) and dance like sisha or something like that.  right now.  go on.  i dare you.


fire.

June 28, 2008

I’ve been initiated by fire.  Here is how I spent Thursday evening:

This is something I’ve been wanting to for at least a decade.  Interesting, I have never really practiced, here and there, half-assed with practice poi.  But the opportunity arose, and my teacher was hesitant (one should really practice intensely before lighting up) but we were in a I don’t give a shit sort of mind which is perfect when you dance with fire. 

Sexy.  Powerful.  Fierce.  A fire troop of magnificant women are taking over the world.  Wanna join?

My muse has returned.

(the youtube screen of our video doesn’t seem to be showing up.  click here if it you can’t see it either._

100%…MIX

March 15, 2008

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.

Blood magic. (or, the amazing healing properties of the placenta to uplift depression.)

February 9, 2008


(This is not a post for judgment. If thought of eating the placenta for medicinal reasons makes you sick, just pass by this post please).

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It started with the lentil soup.  I looked into the bowl, the light orange swirls of legumes had bits and flecks of ham and mushroom and smoky black beans, and it was sprinkled with just enough salt and pepper.  Truly a fine post partum soup for me and my princess, made with love by a friend.  It was brought to me in thick hand-made bowl, swirls of blues and green and blacks and shaped like a small cauldron, a potter working out of a barn in Connecticut had crafted it just for me a few years back.  I just stared at it, the bowl and the colors and the smells, the hyper-focus of my mind and my eyes sent me swimming somewhere else, far, far from my light flecked bedroom, walls the color of buttercream and soft silky fabric thrown over the window started closing in, eerie and almost Lynchian. The tears welled and I pushed the bowl away, looking up at the barer, staring into his eyes, they looked down at me in offering: I bring nourishment.  But I felt nothing.  Not an ounce of thanks or grace or contentment.  Not anger or sadness.  Just  blankness, emptied like a vessel that was once full to the brim with anticipation and joy, of grateful waiting. The nothingness was pulled thick like suffocating wooliness over my body, then my throat and finally my head. Emptiness had become the heaviest, scratchiest of weights. And I began to sob.

 

I don’t want it.  Just take it away.  I push his hand hard and creamy lentils plopped over the edge of the bowl and onto the wood floor, a small bit splash onto the white down that kept me and Z warm. I rubbed it in with my finger and sob. Fuck.

You need to eat something {pause} and at the realization that I was sobbing: What’s wrong? What happened? Wifey?  You okay?

My new daughter’s naked body wiggled next to me, her itty lips, small but full and stained the most edible color of ruby, opened like an O and she searched for my breast with her sense of smell and her tiny, skin-peeled hands. Her accuracy was precise and within moments she was latched and pulling with all her oral power.  The milk let down a pressure release, and goodness and pleasure tried to knock on my soul’s door but it was no use, the lock had been turned and nothing was getting in. The sobs became storm-like, run-for-cover type of emotion,  working my tender abdominal muscles too much and the pain traveled to the physical plane.  It worked its way down to my tender and on-fire crotch then the throbbing moved back to my anus, which I don’t even want to talk about.

 

Just get the soup out.  I can’t  stand it. 

 

But Keri just brou….

I thought of Keri and her tender body and gentle soul preparing the beans and slowly stirring a soup of protein and love for my family.

She made bread too…and you need some water…

OUT. PLEASE. OUT.

Bruised and confused my husband leaves and gently shuts the door.  I am in shock. What was that all about?  How could I feel like this when I am at the same time overcome with the largest most glorious love and gratitude for this new girl I am curled up against? For the man who surrounds me? For the friends who support me?  Instead I just tasted the metal long overdue maintenance  in my mouth

I was entering darkness.  The underside. The shadow side.   I knew this was happening the moment it took residence in my being.  I couldn’t fight it. I needed to dive into it  and take up space with the serpents and the dragons.  I had to hold my black fists high in the air and become the Kali in me, because it was the destructive force that brought me to this point and the same force that was going to lead me through it.  I have so many things to learn, and this depression was to be my Teacher. I couldn’t fight it more than I could fight the feelings I had during the birth.

 This birth was hard.  Hard as in the surface of granite, hard as in steel bending and muscle twisting and bone cracking. Each of us has our own personal mystery of how we meet up with birth; in a dark alley or a green meadow or an ocean of blue and a mix of them all along with The Ten Thousand other things.  Whether we like it or not, it owns us, uses us, gifts us, shakes us up, swallows us, spits us out and cradles us. It forces us, hands tied behind our backs and our eyelids pulled up open with pins so there is nowhere else to look except within every dusty corner of ourselves; the places we obsess and all that we ignore, so that we might dive deep into our heart of self –realization.  Birth is that present moment of reminder of who we have been and who we must surrender to become. It offers a challenge to our humanness; presenting to us the choice: faith or fear? Or both.  It lets us build walls to slam ourselves against and gives us tools to opens tunnels to slides down.   We can keep our births locked up and live with a demon, or open the cage and release it to the world and cross our fingers that the  spirit emerges full of grace and healing, that it ascends with the white wings of a peaceful bird.

 

By day two post partum, I was beat, wrecked, the high from that perfectly beautiful and divine squishy little being flying out of me, half covered in her membranes, had begun to fade and I desperately grasped to keep it, holding the past tightly like a winning card and I wanted to feel the glory forever.  I wanted that moment of her face buried in my chest and her eyes fluttering to look at me to be all the moments of my life. 

 

My bones now were holding up flesh that carried the spirit of failure and guilt and shame; I had let down myself, my spouse, and my children in every way and corner of our lives, just by mere presence alone. This was how I felt.  This was the heaviness that I was becoming. 

 

I spent 9 months allowing myself to prepare for the mystery of birth, loosening any control I had of it, practicing unattachment to any outcome or result, but in he end, I was attached.  I had done enough birthwork to prepare myself for  transfers and interventions because of dangerous health related reasons, but I never prepared myself for  pain that I couldn’t handle, I never prepared myself to rage like Kali herself in a storm of black pellets of rain. And I wallowed and cried and tossed and turned in my internal bed of discomfort and felt sorry for myself.  But I knew I had an out, because not once did I stop sucking in small areas of Zadie’s skin with all over body kisses and intoxicating myself with the scent of her brow-line, a mixture of my insides and her new being.  I never once put her down and turned my back on her beauty.  I never once turned my back on the beauty of even these dark moments.  Something not so nice was there and my inner wise woman knew it needed to be felt.  This was how I was to process her birth.  But it hurt, and I didn’t like it. I also knew that in no way could I keep the pain as mine.  I knew then things would turn into real Post Partum Depression, and that is something I did not need, it wouldn’t serve me or my family. These moments and first days I could handle, but not months of it.  I knew that soon I would need a remedy to jump start the sunny side.  My remedy was to be the placenta.

By the end of Day Two of my daughter’s life, my friend had steamed our placenta.  Its blue veins sprouted like the braches from the Tree of Life.  Its cord spiraled out in extension, like a root reaching out for the heart of the earth in exchange of life support.    It was full and round; quite perfectly beautiful if you are into that kind of thing.  It was steamed with lime, ginger and a pepper.   Then it was baked for 10 hours on my oven’s lowest setting.  The house smelled of blood, yet with a strange and eerie essence of life.  It smelled much better than a steak cooking and certainly more intriguing than a chicken roasting. When it was done B. and I sat down with the old stone mortar and pestle my mother gave me years ago, passed down from my Grandmother Mary and we ground each piece until it was powder.  That alone was body intensive, not an easy material to transform into a fine dust and because we wanted to keep it pure, we opted out of using our coffee grinder (not sure how coffee would pass with a faint taste of dried blood).  We encapsulated most of it on Day Three of my daughter’s life.  I was told to take 2 pills, 3 times a day, with some white wine so the properties would release into the blood. I Couldn’t argue the wine, seeing I had two wonderful bottles Chardonnay’s waiting for me in the fridge.  I figured it couldn’t hurt being tipsy while I waited for this aching soul to heal. I half a glass with each placenta serving. B. ate a whole piece we set aside before dehydrating and after streaming.  We sat down together and ingested what is energetically, one of the most powerful substances we have ever felt.  My body shivered as I handled the pills.  His whole body melted into the floor as he chewed the steamed organ.  We were eating my daughter’s first angel, her first means of survival, her first friend.  I immediately felt like I was doing the best thing for me body, for my family.  Eating this would accelerate much needed healing.

 

By that night, after 4 capsules, I began feeling  much better (and I don’t think it was the wine).  By the next afternoon, 4 capsules later I was kicking up my heels to Johnny Cash and The White Stripes with the girls, holding our usual Dance Party USA in mid-afternoon while wearing Z close to my chest in her super soft moby wrap. My bleeding began to subside.  My aching became bearable and altogether typical.  And the black cloud, smoky and invasive, volcanic yet dulling, disappeared.  Poof.  I saw such light.  And in the darkness I felt for those first few days, I learned about myself, what gifts this birth brought me, and how through pain I was reminded of my undying faith.

 

 

Day Eight of my daughters life and I am still taking the capsules 3 times a day (though I let up on the wine a bit, just a bit and am back on espresso).  Perhaps it is merely Time that allowed the grips of post-partum darkness loosen from my neck, not the placenta, but there is something otherworldly and magical about the preparation and the on-going ingestion of the placenta in the pill form.  The blood alone is magic, potent and sacred.  At one point some of the dust from grinding it down got on our counter.  I used my bare hand to wipe it up.  I held my hand over my heart and felt it tingle and melt, open and release.  At that moment Zadie, who’d been lying on the couch began to cry.  I rushed over to her and held her, used my hand as a wand over her body and let some of the loose dust stick to her bare chest.  A sense of peace washed over her, floated like a cloud above her.  She smiled and nestled into my arms in a deep sleep.  Her aura is the color of Indigo and her heart beams out eye squinting white. 

 


There are many reasons listed for eating the placenta. Though our culture sees this as barbaric, in Chinese Medicine, the placenta is known as a Great Life Force and is highly regarded as being medicinal and healing.  In Chinese medicine it is said drying it and eating it is much more beneficial than raw or simply cooking it. To dry a placenta you would simply dehydrate it in the oven, then using a mortar and pestle grind it up. From there you can mix it with food or ingest it within capsules. We steamed the placenta with half of a lime, some slices of hot pepper and chunks of fresh ginger until it was thoroughly cooked, about 30 minutes.  It was then sliced up, like you’d slice up any meat, and placed on a cookie sheet.  We slow cooked it in the oven on the lowest setting for about 9-10 hours until it was totally dried up, but not burned.  Then we began the grinding of it by hand.  Because it’s such a pure substance, we opted out of using any electrical devise for this part of the preparation, as to not bring in other energy into it.  This part is laborious and takes a while, but is worth it in the end.  Then we filled empty gel caps full of the powder.  We have enough pills for me until I feel done with them, as well as pills for Zadie.  Placenta pills have a very long shelf life, so when Z goes through any type of challenging transitions, she can also ingest this amazing remedy in hopes to help her along on her journey as well.

 

The following information was taken from Mothering.com regarding Placentophagia, 11/7/07:

 

What is Placentophagia?
Placentophagia (or placentaphagia) is the practice of consuming the placenta. Many mammals naturally eat the placenta soon after birth and it is also practiced in some traditional cultures. Preparations vary, including eating raw slivers, recipes such as lasagna, soups, stews etc., or medicinal pills and concoctions. The placenta can be eaten by the mother and/or saved for the child (after introduction of solids). The most beneficial times for the mother are shortly after childbirth or during times of tiredness or energy deficiency. For the child perhaps at times of energy deficiency or perhaps consider before the 7 & 8 year cycles of growth (7, 14 etc for girls, 8, 16 etc. for boys).

Why Eat Placenta?
There are many benefits to eating placenta and although it is not well documented in Western society, it is has been used as a medicine in China for many years. In fact, the placenta is quite sought after, being included in pharmacological preparations to treat infertility, chronic fatigue syndrome and a variety of other diseases. Placenta is bought from young, healthy women then tested and treated accordingly. Why let this valuable organ go to waste?

Benefits of Placenta Pills
Augments Qi (energy) and Xue (Blood) and therefore tonifies Yang, Yin and Jing (Vital Essence).

Brief Explanation:
All foods have properties that can benefit the body, depending on the body type and other factors. Placenta is considered to be a very powerful medicine as it is life giving and stores the vital essence for the baby. Placenta is often included in traditional medicinal combinations with restorative functions.
Generally we cannot directly tonify the vital essence as it is over a process of years that this is built up. Firstly there is the Qi that comes from what we consume. Some of this Qi is then turned into Xue (Blood) after digestion and stored in the Liver. If the body is producing enough Blood (via good health practices) it is then transported from the Liver to the Kidneys and Marrow (in TCM the Kidneys control the Bone Marrow) and becomes Jing. There are two types of Jing: pre-natal and post-natal. Pre-natal Jing is the reason why pre-natal care is so important for future health. It comes from the sperm and ova during conception and cannot be replenished. Post-natal Jing can be replenished but it takes many years. Pregnancy is taxing on the body and can drain Qi, Xue and Jing (in that order) even if the mother follows the best of health regimes.

More specifically, placenta pills may help to:
Increase general energy
Allow a quicker return to health after birth
Increase production of breast milk
Decrease likelihood of baby blues and post natal depression
Decrease likelihood of iron deficiency
Decrease likelihood of insomnia or sleep disorders

The body is so individual and because of the powerful nature of this medicine other benefits are also likely but too numerous to mention.
This practice is particularly beneficial to vegetarian mothers and those prone to post natal depression.

Other Considerations
Placentophagia can not be practiced after a lotus birth (allowing the placenta and umbilical cord to detach naturally) as the placenta needs to be treated during the lotus birth process and is no longer able to be consumed. Other traditions can still be practiced, such as creating placenta art and the left over membranes can be buried. If one wishes to make an umbilical cord bracelet (or some other use) this can be removed before cooking and dried accordingly. It is best to check with your midwife or health care professional to be sure that your placenta is healthy and able to be eaten. It may be best to just ask if it is healthy, depending on your relationship with your caregiver.


Placenta Pills Recipe
Ingredients:
One fresh/defrosted human placenta
Ginger slices
Half a lemon
One red chilli (hot pepper)
Empty vegetable based capsules
First wash the blood away from the placenta and place in a steamer. Cut up the other fresh ingredients and place on the top.

Next steam over a low heat with the other fresh ingredients for 30 minutes, turning after 15 minutes.

*
with a fork to be sure that no blood or fluid comes out to check if it is done. The placenta will shrink during this process.

Slice the placenta as thinly as possible and place on a baking tray.

Dry in a low-temp oven or use a dehydrator. Then powder or just break it up and put it into the empty capsules.

Store in a dark container at room temperature.

TCM Principles
Properties
Flavour is sweet and salty. Nature is warm and moist.

Functions
Augments Qi (energy) and Xue (blood) and therefore tonifies Yang, Yin and Jing (vital essence). Placenta is often included in traditional medicinal combinations with restorative functions. Mainly used after childbirth but also can be used after high stress or an extremely draining experience.

Benefits
By augmenting the production of Qi (vital energy) and Xue (blood) this allows for increased energy, increased breastmilk and less risk of Xue Xu (blood deficiency) which can cause depression. It can be used preventively. In combination with other herbs placentas have been used to treat infertility and cancer. When consumed directly after childbirth it helps to contract the uterus.

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Zadie’s One Week Party

 

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huggin.

January 25, 2008

I read this post the other day, remembering a few other people who have done the same thing and each story I hear about it makes me both wonderfully warm and sad.  Sad because this is a question, that we need to be challenged to hug one another.  Would we hug someone just for a hug’s sake?  For love’s sake, even if that person was a stranger? With a sign?  Or not.

Damn right I would, was my immediate response.  Hell yeah, I’m Sicilian. We’d hug the UPS man if he didn’t run so quickly back to his truck after leaving the box at my door.  I hug the lady who works at the local grocery store who manages the kid toy section almost every time I see her, because she lets me, I sense her openness and she is just amazing and I adore her. And at the other market, the Co-Op, I hugged the man who sweetly swept and mopped the massive canning jar that was almost full of molasses (it was taking forever to fill; slower than molasses in January? They weren’t kidding. The jar was covered in the goo, as were my hands).  Somehow it slipped, I tried to catch it with my prodtruding belly, but alas, it dropped.  Crashed and splattered.  I just stood there and watched him clean it, the whole time apologizing for my sheer klutziness, blaming it on the pregnancy.  He smiled the whole time and assured me it was nothing.  When he was done, I smooshed into him with my huge belly, arms around his arms.  Thank you, I said to him.  Thank you for not making me feel bad.  I break everything these days.

There is nothing I love better than to embrace my friends, heart to heart, passing back and forth that much needed vital force of energy called Love.  And I have no problem embracing the stranger, too, especially if they have done something nice for me.

And today, my self-confidence in hugging anyone would be tested.

I walked into my local coffee place.  Grabbed a muffin and a chai.  As I was walking to a table, there was a middle aged-woman smiling at me, beaming from ear to ear.  She was sitting at a counter on a stool.  As I got closer her face lit up even more and it was easy to see she had severe Down’s Syndrome.  She was drooling and her smell was intense. Her eyes were imprinting my soul.  She stared me up and down.   I love you. She said to me stopping me in my tracks.  I planned to keep walking by her towards a table in the back.  Can I hug you? My first reaction, to my surprise was not of openness, but a body and sensory shut down for the quickest moment.  I retreated into my turtle shell,  protection mode for body and spirit. What do I do? Hug? Walk?  I breath. And immediately my body released. I put my cup and plate down on the counter.  I needed no protection.  I wrapped my arms around her scratchy wool sweater that quite honestly reeked of urine and gave her a big hug. Her arms were strong and her energy so vibrant I could feel it pulse right through to my heart.  She patted my belly. She looked me in the eyes. I love you.  I love you, She said to me again with a big, wide child-like smile. The woman she was sitting with, who was most likely her care-provider glanced at me and gave me a wink and then went back to reading her paper.

We love you too, I said, We love you, too.  She went back to eating her cookie.  I picked up my things and walked to a vacant table.  I sunk into my seat.  Saying the “we” before the “love you too” was so instinctual.  It was like I knew she saw me as me and the baby.  That would make a “we”.

I immediately thought of J’s link to the hugger.  After initial hesitation, I had to check myself and my self-proclaimed status as being open to affection from the greater world I am part of.  Sure, I’m a hugger, when I find you to be safe and relatively familiar and when I decide it’s you I want to hug.  But for the random stranger, who looks different, smells different, sounds different; who approaches me with open arms,  I had to think twice before extending my physical love.  Of course, I fell into the act within moments of the request, but it wasn’t my gut reaction to embrace. Once I did, I knew it was more than right; this pure and sweet woman who sensed my readiness to have a baby, probably knew I needed some love. 

And then I realized, it certainly wasn’t me who needed to extend my love to her.  It was her who gifted me with her unconscious desire to open up to the powerful force of love and touch.  It seemed primal and immediate to her.  She didn’t think about it, she felt it and she acted upon it without a thought.  With me, I had to stop, think, and then surrender that part of me, the part that should just know to love.

Back to understanding that I have a lot of work to do.  That I know nothing.  I believe nothing. Absolutely nothing.  But that’s okay.  It just means I constantly learn.

 

Odent IS NOT a crackpot.

January 16, 2008

Here is a movie review for The Business of Being Born.  I respect her choice to give it a rather negative review, dismissing it as important for our current birth culture.  Although I don’t agree with her that documentaries should be unbiased and objective.  I mean, they are called documentaries to document experience.  Nobody said it’s “the news” (ha! Like the news is even close to being objective).  And I hardly felt that Lake’s movie suggested that homebirth is the right choice for everyone.  She just gave homebirth a voice that it craves.   I personally do find that Lake’s film may in some ways feed the Fear Factor a bit for women who may have never even thought of the world of birthing in this way.  I think dramatic plays on the horrors of what happens in hospitals, whether coming from a Baby Story episode or Lake’s documentary is not the way to inform women on birthing choices, which Stevens (the critic) makes note of.

But to call Michel Odent a crackpot?  Hold me back…I’m swingin’ at her for that one.

I really try to keep my birth talk, my birth writing personal.  I/We (my family) personally chooses homebirth.  I do so because this is what my body tells me is right and good and safe for us.  Before I even got pregnant, I was given a glimpse through my immediate community what it was like to birth in both homes and hospitals. I could compare stories, read up on the subject, talked to care providers..etc.   I was a lucky one, for some reason I stumbled upon enough information and evidence based education. I also fostered a deep intuition that birthing would need to be private and holistic for me in order for it to be safe and empowering. My decision came easily, and immediately I fell into a supportive system. 

I do not think that homebirth is the right choice for everyone.  It’s absolutely not.  Nothing is an absolute in life.  Everyone walks different paths. Breastfeeding is not right for everyone. Co-Sleeping is not the answer for all.  Clothe? Disposable? Who knows except you? Nobody.  There are a  million other choices one could make in parenting and there are no rules, we need to find our own path.  To think one way or another is ‘better’ is just ignorant.  And propagandist.  For myself, homebirth is beyond words a way for me to bring peace on this earth, because it brings peace to myself and my little circle of family.  I like that quote by Gandhi that so many people share: Be the change you wish to see in the world.  Not once in there does he say preach the change.  Being the change means exactly that.  I homebirth because I want to see the change happen: in myself. I do not expect others to make the same choices as I do.

But sharing information is not preaching.  Women deserve to be handed a wide variety of literature and support.  We need to ask ourselves: Do all women understand the slippery slope of medical interventive births?  Do all women know that homebirthing without drugs is intense, wild and sometimes ends up in needed transfers and sometimes non-vaginal birth? Do all women understand exactly what epidurals do to the fetus?  Do all women know that OB’s must take, on average, 30 clients a month to pay their malpractice insurance and perhaps the rate of inductions and scheduling is not in the best interest of the mother and baby, but a simple necessity of the doctor (30 births a month is impossible to attend if mother is left to birth on her own).  Do all women know that the hospitals would not survive without the ‘interventive’ birthing industry (including anesthetic and surgeries and pharmaceutical outfits..etc).  Do all women understand the birth is not a guarantee?  Women and babies do die, as in life? Do they understand that no matter where one births, there is risk?  Do they know that moving in birth and positions other than laying down can help babies come out?  Do they understand that sometimes drugs can help a women birth her baby more safely than not? Are they prepared to accept that birth might not be what they thought it was going to be?  Each woman who prepares to birth needs to hear it all. Informed choices equal power.

 There will always be a divide between birthing practices. We argue the esoterics and ethics and medical reasons for either or.  But until we all are offered an array of information, we are marginalized and fall prey to propaganda.  On either side.

What a women needs is love and support.  Offerings of gentle information and people to hold her space safe; to allow her to experience the vastness of pregnancy and birth, whether she feels safe in the comfort of a doctor, or a midwife, or on her own.  Each woman needs the respect to make decisions based on her body wisdom.  All women need to be encouraged that they are indeed FULL of body wisdom, and their babies share in that space.  Women need to be held and encouraged to listen to themselves.  When a woman listens to herself and her baby, makes choices for herself and her baby, regardless of what they are,  she deserves respect in her community, from her care providers, from her culture.  There is a saying…mother knows best.  It starts when the baby is in the womb.

I get annoyed when people try to passively and aggressively tell me it’s dangerous to have my baby in my home, just as I get annoyed when people claim that homebirthing is best and safest choice. I just listened to my body wisdom, my subtle whispering soul, the one that wants me to grow and expand.  That voice, for me, led me to stay at home.  If my body whispered to me that another place, such as a hospital, was where I needed to be, then that is where I would be.  And on top of listening to myself, I was blessed: I knew I had choices.  I know I could be at home and I knew it was safe for me to do so. 

I didn’t personally think The Business of Being Born was the greatest documentary in the world.  but for goodness sake’s she is trying, she is trying to get the word out there so women understand they have choices, all kinds of choices.  There are doctors and hospitals on every corner, filling up chunks of the Yellow Pages. We know we can go there and they are so easy to find, but do all of us know what we might encounter when we birth there?  And in some places finding a midwife to attend your birth at home can be hard to find, and once we do, do we know what it could be like to labor for 3 days at home with no drugs? Are we ready for that? All of us may not know that homebirth IS safe, and so Ricki Lake shares information that allows us to understand that is indeed is.  It is safe.  The rest of our culture is quite sure the other alternatives are better.  Let a little homebirth voice be heard. 

And again Odent is NOT a crackpot.  It is a shame she put that down as words.  He really is a gift.  But that’s just my little opinion.  His waterbirth work probably was a reason I was able to have one.  And to birth without water for me is like living without air.

(Okay, I am going back to being a mushy headed, emotional pregnant woman, soaking in her birth tub, drinking Lime Seltzer Water and reading silly magazines.)

for the sun.

December 21, 2007

The sun rose at 8am today.  It seemed to sink sometime around 4pm.  The moon was out by 1pm this afternoon.

 

These have been dark days.

 

And for the first time in a long time, it is truly dark for me, literally; the light is gone.  We wake in the dark and walk to get the afternoon mail delivery in the dark.  For the past 11 years I have lived under a spotlight, between California and Arizona, the winter sun is strong and you have to really pay attention to see the shortening of the day.  And now I live at a different latitude where I have been swallowed by a force impossible to ignore; the sun wanes.  It goes away.  Nothing else to it. Life revolves around it’s absent..  People retreat inside early not fighting the darkness instead they lie against it.   There is a mystery surrounding people’s homes as we take an evening walk in wild wind.  I sense my neighbors all sit around their fire and unconsciously wonder, like the ancients did as the days got darker and darker:  Will there be light? And there was. 

 

This is my favorite time of year.  Not because my energy is at a peak or because I get things done or because I love the cold or because it makes me feel good and alive.  Quite the contrary.  This time of year I go so deep, so inside, like a crab I crawl and withdrawl inside my shell and wait; protected and hermit-like. I die a bit, happy to get rid of some things that I don’t need. I sleep in hope of something else, not expecting or anticipation, just knowing. The possibility of light, I suppose, whatever that word ‘light’ means.  Not good or better, just different. My insides create a new path for the next cycle during this hibernation, the light on the other side just helps me walk it; a little more clearly and out in the open. This is what I like about it all.  Knowing that even though I can’t see shit right now, soon things will be revealed, things that have always been there I’ll be able to see a bit more clearly. This year there is child within this dark mystery, and with the return of some daylight hours, my baby comes closer to reality.  There is nothing symbolic about the Solstice and birth of newness this year.  I live it tangibly.

 

Growing up Catholic, our life was infused with ritual; frankincense and myrrh resin burning in golden vessels, holy water held in bowls throughout the house.  We chanted mantra to Mary, fingering beads until we completed each mystery. The Mother held center in the faith, through Her we could ask for grace.  We had prayers for an array of saints, all representing a variety of needs from hopeless causes to lost keys.  We had little altars set up everywhere.  We never, ever owned a Bible.  In essence, I was being schooled in paganism. As every good Catholic should know: their religion was cleverly modeled after the pagans and indigenous cultures they sought to reform. 

 

At an early age, the face of my god could be found in a knot of a tree or in the quick shift of a weather system.  I found salvation watching the dandelions turn from yellow flower to puffy seeds. My childhood was totally inconsistent inside my house, things changed on a daily basis with no meaning to me.  I never knew if I should be scared or happy or if I was bad or good, no boundaries where ever defined and depending on the moods of my parents, nothing was ever the same, no rules or schedules were ever implemented to feel safe and real. But I found my own sense of peace through ritual and system; I watch the weather change with my nose pressed up against my window.  I sniffed for the fallen leaves and the chimney smoke in the air.  I waited for the ice to melt into water and drip its ping-ping from the storm drain onto my awning.  I knew it was time to run wild in the sun and get color in my cheeks and on my nose at the first scent of grilled meat and sweet wild strawberries wafting through the neighborhood.  These seasons, these shifts, are what gave me license to truly live, to grow.  To feel safe and to feel protection, what lacked in my home, I got from the Earth..

 

Because my birthday just so happened to land on the Winter Solstice, we always celebrated that day.  It was festive. It came natural to us, being bound by winter and the unconscious desire to bring in the newness were good reasons to party.  My parents would hold their yearly bash for their youngest girl combined with a huge Christmas party.  This day the fire was lit strong, wine bottles were emptied, shot glasses of Sambuca were clinked with the chorus of Salute! My mother’s biscotti was arranged in pretty little dishes all over the house and the cherries jubilee was aflame.  There was drunken singing and ladies in funky seventies faux furs dancing in my living room.   It was a party of all parties and I loved every minute of it.  And because my mother always said to me, On the darkest day of the year, a light was born: You. I got the deeper meaning of the day.

 

And so despite my Catholic upbringing, I was well aware of what happened on the Solstice.  And it was hard not to see the parallel from a very early age: The birth of The Son (Jesus) just so happened at about the same time as The Birth of The Sun.  In the middle dark, the virgin midwinter Sun appeared and gave us hope; for food, for warmth, for days filled with light to guide.

 

And so I celebrate the Sun.  I gave thanks.  And as I  get older and less judgmental and less righteous about my beliefs, I see no difference in a Son being born, or the Sun being born.  I give thanks to both.  They both deserve celebration and reverence; lighting a fire, doing a little dance, getting a little drunk, committing to love and warmth, sitting in meditation or prayer, taking a walk in the night womb right before The Great Labor begins.  I will savor these moments; the last ones where I can really hide inside, curl up in the coziest (yet sometimes uncomfortable) internal ball and catch a few more moments of deep sleep and learn just a bit more about myself, embracing the ugly and the beautiful of my inner winter, my raging storm, my dark sky. And then I am invited to open up wide and catch a glimpse of what is to come, I can see it a little better with the sun on the edge of the world, that heat burning a bit flame into my sacred heart.  But tonight, on the eve of the Solstice,  I will stir that soup in wool socks and sweats one more time and put myself to bed right after I am done eating it.  I will sit in this space and not bother to turn on more lights to keep the day going a bit longer.  It is over soon.  Tomorrow is a new day.  The darkest day, but also the portal to an expanding light.

 

Here’s to what’s been so very dark.  And to the precious gift of tomorrow, heres to The Sun; a light savior, indeed.

detachment.

July 11, 2007

The road was winding down out of the pine thick green forest, into the lighter juniper brush and finally hitting the land covered with our Desert Guardian, The Saguaros. The sky was so blue, electric-bright and the sun seemed to be relentless. The temperature said 115 and for the third time in 2 months, my air conditioning in my beloved Outback just went out. I began to have a panic attack. A real one. My heart jumped to my throat. Its pounding raced like there was a finish line for it somewhere. My palms sweat like a faucet. My breathing was shallow. All I could do was make a strange humming noise and flutter my hands by my face. My husband glanced at me while he drove, and I think that at that moment he realized how insane I was. I started to whimper.

“I know, wifey, it’s hot. We’ll be home soon.”

No. Not hot. Not that at all.

WHAT IF THE HOUSE DOESN’T SELL? I think I screamed it.

Here my deepest, darkest, scariest fear lives and it lives with me every moment. The possibility that it just. wouldn’t. sell. In time. In time for what? I guess in time for me to get up to Washington before this baby came swirling out of me. In time to find someone, like a midwife, to guide us with this birth. In time to find a place to live other than a pop-up. In time to take a leisurely vacation up the coast with my little family. In some kind of time.

“I’ve been scared of that, too, wifey,” says He. “But while you all slept last night and I sat outside the tent and watched the stars shoot and got to hear nothing, absolutely nothing for the first time in a long time, I realized I had to detach myself from it all, especially any time frame. The house will sell. But we need let go of the desperation that it must sell now. I hope it will, I think it will, but if it doesn’t, we’ll deal with it. I think in the detachment we’ll find some freedom. It’ll help us de-stress a bit.”

Okay Mr. Zen-y-pants. Fine. Don’t you just know it all? But I want to get the FUCK outta here NOW. NOW!! I cannot have another child here. FUUUUCK.

“I can’t have this kid here.”

“I know you don’t want to, but if we have to, we have to. But I am sure we won’t have to.”

“No, if we have to I will have this baby along side the Scenic Highway they call The 1.” I quickly remember a mystic I went to see back in 2000. Her name was Maya and her cards told me that I would have a baby on the road someday. (This thought quickly brings me to the fact that we probably should invest a bit bigger vehicle.)

He starts to talk again about how all our stress is because we are putting this strict timeline on ourselves. That we just need to let it all be and let this action, this shift happen on its own because we have done the work for it.  I plug my ears and hum some more. He sighs.

This I don’t want to hear. This means I have to let go of myself, my desires, my needs. My expectations of my future. This means I have to just take what comes to me, prepared to allow its own happening, like a river, around the rocks, knowing I am going somewhere, emptying myself out in more water, but the path is not written, or rigid. It just is and I flow with it.  Shit. All this work; ripping up floors and tearing up warped butcher block, and installing stone and making wholes in the ceiling for fancy lights and painting walls and living with nothing except empty space; this vision board I carefully crafted with times and dates and numbers and photos of rocky coastline and kids playing with chickens; the talks with the realtor in Washington; the dreams of being all cozy and pregnant in warm wool wraps, for the first time not carrying to term in triple degree temperatures, instead birthing with a light snow falling, a fireplace lit, a foggy, marine layer, a winter morning when my child comes to me. Wool socks on. Frost on a window. Broth on the stove.

All this, all this wanting, longing, and still i must become detached.

The wise let go of the self and being free of attachment they depend not on knowledge. Nor do they dispute opinions or fix upon any view. For those who have no wishes for either extreme of becoming, here or in another existence, there is no conflict….
From Sutta-Nipata, teachings of the Buddha.