pushing

Can I imagine that these days of pain, of the mental merry-go-round, the itchy, skin-crawling sensation of antsiness and despair, are labor pains?

Mayana says she can hear that my heart is wanting to show up. She will gaze in my eyes and ask me, “Where are we going?”

In becoming a mother, am I also birthing myself?

“I’ve heard this mumbo jumbo before,” that nasty little inner critic says.

But what is changing? What has changed?

A realization that my life is finite. That death will come, for me, for all my loves. That one day this awe-some planet will also die, the stars will be pulled back in to their source, and we will all return to Nothing.

A deeper attachment than I’ve ever experienced. The deepest love, the deepest awareness of another. Listening so carefully to her smile, her soul.

This heavy wanting to make sure this world will hold her as tenderly as I can hold her. That the water and the air and the green trees and the sacred mountains will hold my little one. That Man will not injure her with purpose or malice – please if she gets hurt may it be only small accidents, scraped knees.

The knowledge that I’m showing her the way. That she will see me as The First Woman. She may idolize some parts, she may rebel against other parts. But what do I turn towards? With what do I fill my time? How do I speak to myself? My time and my attention show my real values. What would I have her notice?

 

Labor pains. Contracting. Downward. Wrapping from my back to my core. The solar plexus. My center. The triple heater and the heart. The fire in my body. The life. The breath.

Do I nurture it, that tiny flame, do I blow gently to encourage it to catch? Do I give it tinder?

The pushing. Convulsive. Compelled. So inward almost inside out. Impossible to open my eyes. So inward and yet opening so vastly. Open. Vulnerable.

Some moments when I nudge gently at the antsiness, I feel my body dancing. A dream, only in my head. Will this be what my soul feels upon my death? That my consciousness can experience the Dance without my body moving at all?

My body/my body in my head/It moves as when I was younger. That improvisational joy. Is it telling me to dance?

Little nasty critic: Is that metaphorical? Or literal? Are you supposed to be a dancer? Professionally?

ME: Nasty little critic, why are you so concerned with professions? I’ve noticed you like to nail things down with certainty.

LNC: I’m trying to keep you safe. I want you to have security.

ME: Some say security is an illusion, that it is a waste to chase something that is false. But I hear you saying you trying to protect me. So thank you.

LNC: Oh no, I’ve heard this in therapy before. I know you’re trying to soothe me, so that I will stop. I’m not falling for it.

ME: Ok. I won’t try to do that right now.

Groudnedness. Better even than happiness.

Gardening. Digging in the dirt. Dancing, perhaps only for a moment or two. Coaching. Listening. Singing silly songs to my delighted daughter. Turning towards her, catching her eye, we both smile. Laughing with my husband. Holding his hand and kissing him completely.

Fucking mindfulness. Of course.

flame.

My flame is a delicate sputtering, without enough fuel or oxygen. Every force overwhelms - from tiny droplets of criticism and judgment, to well-meaning suggestions that I should shine brighter that still feel like a sign of failure. Not strong or self assured, the flame dwindles in the face of there's convictions. Or rises in sudden defensive fury that burns loving and critical hands alike. Then shame sets in, for the drama, and even for setting a boundary at all. Another force smothering the dwindling fire and all it's passion, light and heat.

How to navigate the world with do little faith, so little hope for abundance. Instead the nagging presence of discomfort at being Self, profound pain, a constant effort to be small, avoid conflict.

I dreamt of vastness, of bigness, vitality, exuberance, and the whole world my oyster.

Rather I cringe and shy from every communication, loathe to burn with my drowning yet uncontrollable wisp of flame.

It will be a life of too much regret.

little one.

I know this is normal. That so much of this is hormones and their effects on my brain. Much as I've experienced various hormones and neurochemicals over the course of my life - provoking anxiety, and "depression" that is a visceral pain and exhaustion.

Knowing it is normal doesn't make it easier, or even tolerable.

More provoking than the hormone-inflated anger and crying jags are the tiny but growing flames of doubt of the path I've set myself on. And some crushing feeling of claustrophobia and hopelessness that I cannot see how to find any other path NOW, fast enough, to make alternatives possible.

This little one, that I've longed to grow, and nurture, and welcome and love, for so SO long. This little one also reminds me that I've not built a life of joy, balance, quiet, mindfulness. Or even loud exuberant messiness.

I've built a life to get by. To pay the bills. To avoid appearing too odd, or colorful, or freakish, or sub-par. I submit and I subsist. Emotional tenderness, intensity, fuming anger, enthusiasm.

In my belly, with my little one, is a stand of trees, a tiny plot of dirt ready to grow seedlings, a sweet mess of a home with a hearth and hearty soup. There are twinkle lights, and collages, and cozy sleeping companions, and croaking frogs and breezes, and joyfully stomping on the Chetzemoka sand flats at low tide. There is attention to this brief moment of aliveness, the perfect cup of tea, and the most comforting of hugs from dad. Belly laughs, butt-wiggly dance parties, big brothers who are always big brothers, a mama reading Heidi and always smelling like home.

There is me, before.

I cannot fathom how to birth all that. But the rat race, the crawl, the struggle. For success, or standing, or some Thing that is disguised as the only true and lasting legacy. The attention and energy it requires, to twirl this wheel in endless circles that lead nowhere. It is untenable.

If only I could find the exit.