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
all your mothers
all our mothers
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
instead of mothers.
the bad broke-your-children mothers
the bad were-broken-by-their-mothers mothers
the working-too hard-at-what-they-hate-for-you-without-telling-you-it-mothers
the stretching-it-past-breaking mothers
the getting-you-those-shoes-somehow 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
the woman in that old picture
the woman inside all of our mothers
the woman you don’t know
the woman before you
at the instant
Love for them
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
each one is pushed forth into life
there is pain
there is rending
there is a grueling labor
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
I am the mother of my poetry.