“A lot can happen to a person in a night. In the age of the social network, it can even happen when you’re sleeping. While you’re rosy cheeked and dreaming about Ryan Gosling rescuing you from a flash flood (you do have that dream, right?), a torrential dialogue can play itself out in a comment thread on a post about Jesus and tax law. Or maybe, like me, you awake to discover that during the night, a friend request has been accepted by someone from your past. It’s nothing to blink at; it happens all the time. But…I’m stalling. I’m stalling because I’m terrified that I shouldn’t write what I want to write, that somebody will be hurt or offended or express that I have, once again, breached the boundaries of good taste and common sense. Or maybe I’m just nervous because tragic stories make people uncomfortable, especially the kinds that involve near death, physical disfigurement and a brutal occupation that masquerades as a war. All I know is that when I woke up this morning…”
This is an excerpt from a larger work; please continue reading here.
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.
“…be attentive to what is arising within you, and place that above everything else…What is happening in your innermost self is worthy of your entire love; somehow you must find a way to work at it.
~Rainer Maria Rilke
…Innermost self…worthy of your entire love…
Empowerment. Ultimately we are the only ones who can give ourselves permission to love, “what is rising within us,” above everything else. How many among us are able to grant ourselves that? I was born into a culture that revers ideals that represent the opposite of what Rilke encourages; self-sacrifice & martyrdom are fed to us, especially to females from the time of conception.
We are guided and prized along a path of continuous service. Service to our parents, our siblings, our faith. All needs, wants, desires, that rise within us are set aside to attend to the others: warm your father’s and brother’s tortillas; wash their dishes; do their laundry; make their beds; sweep the floors; mop…an endless circular list of chores. The older attend to the younger, females to males, younger to elderly.
We are encouraged to yearn for the day we will be the zero to the right of a man that will choose us based on our virginal worth. A silent partner that will give him courage, strength, and value. To raise our children in line with the values we have been raised with.
We have, many of us, been raised to distrust what may ever happen in our “innermost self.” We are provided with stories of fallen women, social discards, continuing examples of what could happen to us.
And then there are those among us who–so loved, were they, for their uniqueness by their mothers, fathers, a “strange” aunt or grandparent–were allowed, and who allowed themselves to escape to their innermost selves!
God was in love when He made me. His eyes were focused on something in the distance when His hands slid across clay to form my face. He stared for a long time in that direction, His warm fingers at rest against my rough, wet cheeks. As He pushed at the clay, I could feel a likeness being formed. A gentle frown creased His scarred brow as He corrected inconsistencies, perfected the proportions of eyes to nose, nose to mouth, mouth to chin.
Between two palms He rubbed a line of clay, steaming hot from friction, folded it in half, pressed it flat, then rubbed it round again; three times He did this, tempering and strengthening the rod until it curved in a subtle S.
God spun each rib with a practised hand, easily connecting each of eight to sternum and spine and tethering the floating ribs to harbor. But it was clear from the emptiness of His eyes that building my ribcage was not first in His thoughts that day.
He pulled at the layers of clay clinging to his hands, pushing the excess out of the scars in his hands. He kneaded the cracked and drying clay into a ball of earth between His fingers absent-mindedly. He looked down at it as if for the first time and put it in my ribcage, still warm and soft from His touch.
My belly He churned like whipped cream, and laid down the soft foam over my spine to fill my pelvis. He tucked it up into my ribcage, insulating my heart and lungs on a cushion of stomach and intestines. Sometimes He would become restless and bury His chin in it. We would lay there like that, He strewn across His workbench like a lazy child, and I only alive enough to feel the blush of pleasure from His closeness. Then His focus would return, and the pressure on my stomach would lift, and the starry sensation of being Made would begin again.
Into the back of my skull He carved a cavity and filled it with water. He pulled more of the clay off of his fingers and, finding it dry, dipped it into His mug next to the muddy water bowl. Feeling the hotness of his drink, He looked down to see the lump was stained black and dripping with coffee. Seeing it was good, he set it to float in my skull. With a smirk, He pulled down the back of my head and sealed it without a seam.
Having done all of these things, God decided He was satisfied with His work for now. He took me to His beloved and pushed me into your arms, saying I Was Working And The More I Looked At Her, The More I Thought Of You. And when you smiled down at me, I couldn’t help but laugh at the goofy look on His face, how much He blushed when you called me beautiful, and how He clicked His heels when He thought He was far enough down the hallway that you wouldn’t notice.
A note written at the request of Paulo Coehlo. He wanted to know if I believed in Angels
I believe in Angels.
Angels can be as big as a planet or as small as a microscopic speck of dust.
Angels can speak through a ray of sun,
which then, can speak through the sparkles of the leaves of trees.
Angels can blend through the colors of this world
and also, touch through the aroma of nature.
Illuminations occur through the eyes of children,
Also, throughout numerous interactions in my life,
with the homeless, suffering, mentally ill.
Angels reveal themselves through the eyes of passers-by.
When death is eminent, Angels arrive in gently unyielding force;
especially when friends and family are in disarray, and faith is fragile.
Angels ride on the notes of music and swim around in the soul.
A breeze caresses and how can that not be,
at one time, or possibly another, a sweep of an angel’s wing.
Angels need not have wings, but some most certainly do …
One can ramble on and on and on about Angels …
they are born from the inhaling and exhaling of God … just for us (I’d like to think) …
My Angel’s name is … MERCY.
No doubt that I am surrounded by all sorts at all times.
But, the main one who is there for me always is MERCY.
I believe this for the simple reason that I often sing a quiet, little tune to myself. … “mercy, mercy, mercy…. Mercy meee…oh mercy mercy MERCY, yes MERRRR- CEEEEE” ….
Like a lullaby / chant. … and my body gently rocks.
It is sung in the line at the grocery store; it is sung throughout a rigorous day at work;
and it is sung while riding through the L.A. traffic.
It is sung while looking into my daughter’s eyes;
it is sung while all understanding is blurred.
It is simple, and it is a miracle. My Angel is my song …
and the song flows through this life…
That is an exhalation for you, Paulo Coehlo with regards to angels, and whoever else may read this.
Again … one could ramble on and on and on about Angels… most likely for an eternity…
I hurried into a religious bookstore one day anxious to pick up a book previously ordered. Old-time church hymns played on overhead speakers. As I waited in line a nearby magazine caught my eye, the caption reading, “Woman of the Year.”
My eyes traveling upwards saw a blond woman with long softly curled hair, pictured in a white skirt and blouse. The blouse buttoned to the neck with a long bow draping over a pink brocaded vest. Continuing further up the page I saw the title: VIRTUE.
The choir hymns droned on, their words echoing in my mind like indigestion repeating. The walls seemed to narrow, the air diminished as the room for self-expression evaporated. I choked attempting to swallow this standard of womanhood for myself. Each breath became progressively more suffocating, evoking memories of agonizing contortions in appearance and belief to gain acceptance into this fellowship of women, thus pronouncing me valid for relationship with men.
I handed my money to the woman at the register as she smiled warmly yet seemingly vacantly of any inkling that womanhood could be anything more that what she had been told. I groped for the door and gasped fresh air as oxygen once again filled my lungs.
Sitting inside my car I gazed out through the window trying to name my sadness. Noticing a nearby tree I got lost in its configuration of branches. Each branch was different from another. Some branches were thick and sturdy, some thin and willowy, each were free to grow in its own direction, unique and distinct, yet still very much a branch.
When realizing women have shared this same freedom I understood my grief. As I drove away I thought, nothing is more stultifying to genuine feminine expression and growth than a superimposed standard of womanliness.
It’s hard to explain what I mean when I say that I don’t believe in “God” anymore, so I don’t really bring it up. Some people who love me, they get sad.
It seems that what they hear is loss and despair–fearfully, desperately I claw my way through the dark unknown. But it is more like: exhilaration and relief! With hope and joy I fly into a limitless blue sky; or, fall slowly and safely into a good and happy, never-ending, fully accepting awesome. Things are better than they have ever been. I am more brave than I was ever allowed to be. The only thing that I really grieve is how firmly the feet of old friends and family seem to be planted on the shore from which I am gladly sailing away. I tell them, “How wide and clear is the horizon! Anything is possible now.” And I fly a flag that means freedom.
It is alright with me that the people who understood me once no longer do so. I only wish that we could all dare to dream that everything we’ve ever wanted might actually be true.
