birthing myself

i am unsure when the me who wants to be present in this world was born.

i do however remember the exact moment this self miscarried. at the age of nine i first became aware of my power to be. to become a self who is deeply rooted in a wish to be seen, acknowledged and heard when speaking of that which move me. the sound of the wind through trees. the sun catching a leave and then slowly letting it go as it travels onward across the sky. the home which every night awaits it beyond the first evening star. i also became aware of the pain born from not being acknowledged. from not being able to assert my power. from being swept into the conflicts, feelings and fears generated by a family of six. from failing to create a place of safety for us all.

sitting next to a river, flowing past a small stop and sleep-over bed and breakfast, i invited my newly forming self to leave my body. to flow from me and into the round smooth stone beside me. i then gently placed the stone into the river and asked it to take care of this small part of me. to sing to her and lull her until i was ready to claim her once again.

when did i claim back this seed from the river?

did it first take hold in my womb when i allowed myself to dream of creating a future rather than just dreaming of a true home beyond the stars?

did i become aware that i was pregnant when i woke up one morning in my own flat, after rushing away from the disorganized and demanding presence of my first long time lover, only to find myself missing him more than i missed the security of not missing anyone?

and when was i born? when i surrendered to a cesarean rather than a home birth? when rather than drifting above the room in order to escape from the humiliation of a shaved vagina pried open to the bright operating lights and a catheter, i pulled myself back into the room, my body and my chant so that i was fully present to the wonder of my daughter's first breath?

or during the visit to a sexologist when i whispered my deeply private sexual history and fantasies past the flush on my face, the lock on my throat and the frantic lock around my heart? forcing my sexual voice through layers of shame until it burst into this world, this moment, shouting its joy and defiance?

and am i born and reborn every time i hold my friend, my sister, my mother, my lover, my daughter in my heart? when a need to hold and rock my daughter pulls me into this body, this world? My breasts get tightly full, dripping milk on my clothes, my pillow, my sheets. in the first months i found myself singing to her in a freezing bathroom at three in the morning, holding her naked body close to mine and trying to ignore the small puddle of milk forming around my feet and the cold which her small blanket cannot protect me from. now i build a life each day becoming a stone which holds me steady as her small stream joins with those whom i love and become a river which surrounds me.