The womb is where life begins.
As women we are the mighty warriors of life giving creatures. Our womb speaks. Many times we are not aware. We don’t often listen to the powers of its growth and impact on our daily lives. This blog revolves around when I began to listen to my womb thru my miscarriages.
Recurrent pregnancy loss (RPL) takes “balls” to live with. It means persevering when all your hope has been washed away. Growing strength in areas you never knew you’d visit or even existed.
Walking, falling, crawling humbly with all your might.
Holding your heart, your tears, bare foot, broken on the path that has twists, storms, mountain’s to climb with no guarantee at the end.
Each day. Each minute is a mystery.
My womb spoke to me in way I didn’t expect. Not like when my son was born. That was joy, bliss, & the meaning of the miracle of my womb. My precious womb was alive. Despite my loss’s. My womb worked. My womb did what mother nature intended it to do.
It’s alive. It works.
My mind and heart are empty. But, my womb works. It’s doing it’s job. Sometimes, with RPL it can be interpreted that the womb isn’t working. It feels like the womb isn’t producing the life it was meant to give when there is a miscarriage. However, I believe in my womb.
In the midst of all the grief and pain, I know my womb is wise.
I know she hears my tears and yearning to carry another full term life. I believe in her.
God placed in her my body. Mother nature is wise. Together they will do miracles, as they already have.
Love for all the mothers
the grandmothers
all your mothers
all our mothers
good
bad
perfect
imperfect
human.
Love
the step mothers
the foster mothers
the run away mothers
the absent mothers
the baby mama mothers
the girls not-ready-to-be-mothers
the girls too-ready-to-be-mothers
the girls letting-another-woman-be-mother-mothers
the would-be mothers
the never-will-be-mothers
the never-wanted-to-be-mothers
the never-can-be-mothers.
the sisters
the aunts
the aunties
the misses
the nannies
the amahs
the nurses
the nuns
the attendants
the teachers
the substitutes
instead of mothers.
the bad broke-your-children mothers
the bad were-broken-by-their-mothers mothers
the didn’t-protect-you-mothers
the didn’t-protect-themselves-mothers
the-keeping-the-silence-mothers
the-creating-the-silences-mothers
the-making-the hate-mothers
the drugs-instead-of-food-mothers
the wrong-instead-of-right-mothers
the working-too-hard-mothers
the working-too hard-at-what-they-hate-for-you-without-telling-you-it-mothers
the working-at-what-they-hate-and-making-sure-you-know-it-mothers
the-cleaning-up-after-strangers-mothers
the-holding-other-children-instead-of-you-mothers
but-they’re-still-your-mother-mothers
the putting-you-through-school-mothers
the keeping-their-word-mothers
the doing-the-best-they-can-mothers
the stretching-it-past-breaking mothers
the getting-you-those-shoes-somehow mothers
the right-instead-of-wrong-mothers
the loving-all-their-children-mothers
the loving-all-the-children-mothers
the-hope-I-can-be-like you-someday-mothers
and-they’re-still-your-mother-mothers
the story-telling-mothers
the pancakes-for-dinner-mothers
the-child-support-didn’t-come-again-mothers
the pawn-the-ring-again-mothers
the Sunday-funnies-as-wrapping-paper-mother
the-how-many-cupcakes-for-a-bake-sale-when-there-is-nothing-here-to-bake-mothers
the-make-you-hug-til-you-ain’t-angry-no-more-mothers
the laughing-til-it-hurts-mothers
the crying-til-it-hurts-mothers
the-too-tired-to-laugh-or-cry-mothers
the holding-it-all-in-mothers
the letting-it-all-the-way-out-mothers
the mothers behind walls
the mothers behind borders
the mothers behind barricades
the mothers behind river lines
the mothers behind ocean currents
the mothers past your
walls
borders
barricades
lines
currents.
the woman in that old picture
the woman inside all of our mothers
the woman you don’t know
the woman before you
the woman
you forget
at the instant
she became
mother
to you.
Love for
birth mothers
ultimate mothers
mother nature
mother earth
grandmother moon
Love for them
all
and
love
for the fathers
who are also mothers, too.
I am the mother of my poetry
for each new poem is a labor of love
each one is conceived
and woven together
in the womb of my soul
each one flutters and kicks inside me
dancing into being
and when
each one is pushed forth into life
there is pain
there is rending
there is a grueling labor
and then
there is
joy
sweet
ecstatic
euphoric
bliss
and wonder–
the kind that lets hours escape
while you gaze upon that
which is made up of the very pieces of you
the kind that makes you weep at what beauty
can come out of such a dark place inside of you
and is brought to life through such pain
the kind that erupts in irrepressible smile
out of the blue to daydream how
this new creation will move through the world–
I love my poetry
with a conviction I cannot comprehend
with a loyalty I cannot name
with a tenderness I cannot explain
other than:
I am the mother of my poetry.
if the womb of this belly
never bears fruit
am I still a woman? what about all the poetry
that has been conceived
in the womb of my soul?
if these loins
never labor forth a child
am I still a woman? what about all the dreams
that have labored
out of the loins of my mind?
if these breasts
never nourish a babe’s belly
am I still a woman? what about all the
hungry hearts this
breast has fed?
if the pieces of me and those of another
never become one
am I still a woman? what about those who
of my flesh were not born
but to my soul have been knit?
if this body
never shudders in pain to give another, life
am I still a woman? what of the beautiful piece of pain
that is loving and nurturing
the offspring of my heart, all the days of my life?
I just need to know
does my labor
and my life
and my love
and my loss
count?
