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.

my birth.

We come spinning out of nothingness,scattering stars like dust.Rumi

when did i first get born?

was it in the instance when finite matter became an infinitesimally small, infinitely hot, infinitely dense singularity which in turn inflated, self imploded into the universe we now know?

or when rda molecules bloomed into dna, starting a chain of ancestors who all came together when my parents eyes first met?

or did i get born when i gave birth to you my lovely daughter? when under the knife of the surgeon my heart opened and i loved you from a place where i always before felt alone? the place which previously made me long to return to a place and time before my birth?

and will i now infinitely get born and reborn through your eyes meeting that of another?

for as long as i had memory there was a myth surrounding my birth. my father had to fetch the obstetrician from a new year's party. meanwhile, back at the hospital my mother's screams cut through the bullshit of medical bureaucracy. after being bullied, for a month, by a new doctor, his carefully impenetrable birth calculations, and his faithful nurse to shut up, hold back labor and wait until they said the time is now, she had enough. not another minute would she wait. her birth time was now.

so my father dramatically entered the phalaborwa new years ball, crying out that his wife was in labor and in need of her doctor. in my child's imagination, women in bright silk dresses and men in formal black tuxedos parted, allowing the doctor, holding a martini glass and a thin brown cigar, to step through. then, with my father leading the way, thoroughly embarrassed by the laughter and his simple safari suit, the two men stepped into the very first, very early morning of 1972.

As with most myths, a curtain remained drawn across the more intimate physical and emotional processes of the actual birth, the logistics of who took care of the other children and the political turmoil splitting open the country of birth.

why i write

words.

how can words

ever define

birth,

love,

the fiercely delicate

shape of your eyebrows

your eyes

which see me

without reflecting words

back at me.

your smell,

the warm solid softness

of your neck

where my nose

and your shoulder meet.

with each beat

of my heart

the space around me grows

until

the room,

the yellow indian quilt,

your delicately shaped skull

and the soft fine hair

which covers it,

the sound of your breathing,

dog sighs emerging

from down under

the bed,

the warmth of you,

the hiss of the heater

and

the loud beating of my heart

...

swirls around

and becomes mystery.

the mystery of this moment.

of you.

words are not moments.

they are only markers

which in time

could lead me back

to this.

this moment. this love.

a gift

this is just a small post

because i want to start blogging

again

but don't always have the time.

at present i juggle time

between my new love

and my old

the dishes

the wusels

learning the tarot

going to yoga

starting a women's writing circle

exploring links between children, nature and spirit

researching career development in biodiversity

writing about food security and community gardens.

some days i feel like my life have never been

as rich and full

of love and joy.

some days i feel like my life will never be

what it can be.

today i received

the gift of a few hours

all by myself.

i cleaned the house

made some lunch

am doing a bit of blogging

rushing so that

now....

now i am ready to step

into this beautiful day

with a camera in hand

and a heart which seeks

out beauty*

a-life

where to start?

with the rain outside.

the smell of it

the way its coolness makes the late dusk seem bluer?

or with tiny doors opening

to show glimpses beyond patterns

so old they seemed like an undeniable part of life.

great rolling waves of resistance

against change sometimes

makes my days disappear.

lack of sleep sometimes

makes me disappear.

and then i pick up a broom

and start sweeping a small corner

so that i can do five morning exercises.

i cook lunch early so i have time

to walk the dogs after my yoga class.

i get a call from a friend.

phoenix starts a new tongue movement

it keeps her occupied for many minutes.

slowly a new me is carried closer

by a great blue stork

flying across a dusky sky

the blue so close

to the color of her wings

that i almost cannot see her.

mother moon goddess

each night i am momentarily fooled by a streetlight doubling as the moon. i glimpse her through the corner of the bathroom window turning a small spiderweb to a rainbow and the blackness of the night to indigo blue.

being a mother is teaching me about being the moon. about moving closer to god and my spirit. about finding the moons and mothers which surround and is enfolded within me.

as a child all i longed for was to be absorbed in an absolute light. an all knowing god that would sweep me up in his arms and love me totally. who would save me from all the suffering of not feeling good enough. as a young teenager i surrendered to drugs and the oblivion they brought. in their embrace i could see the beauty of the world and celebrate it free of fear. after rehab i once again started desperately searching for a god who could liberate me and send me flying high up through the stars.

for a while before my pregnancy my search once again intensified. i started searching for god in nature, in the old gods and goddesses of india and europe. i chanted and prayed and meditated. at times i felt myself growing light as a feather drifting on a breeze. lighter and lighter until i became the leaves glowing in starlight or dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sun.

now i hold a phoenix in my arms. she smiles at me, cries for me and needs me to love her all the time. i cannot escape from myself or her. i am pulled into this body. my arms are needed to hold her and rock her. My legs follow my feet in stomping out a gentle rhythm to sooth her pain. my breasts get tightly full dripping milk on my clothes, my pillow my sheets. i find 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. her fluffy blanket keeps her warm but is not big enough for the two of us.

i love her slow smile with eyes lighting up as she gently allows a new sliver of our world to slip into hers. i love the smiles that flash like light across the deep calmness of her eyes. i love the soft warmth of her skull cradled in my hand and the heavy weight of her when she falls asleep in my arms. i love that i cannot hide from her.

she lures or tears me out of my safe isolation from where i use to search for god. she turns my longing to escape into a dream of being more fully present in love.

last night i went to bed crying

this morning i woke up crying.

i am so tired.

not knowing how much longer

i can put one foot in front of the other

and keep on going

scares me.

i fight with my partner,

he storms out and leave the two of us alone.

me and the person i now love fiercely.

who makes my heart expand into

more joy than i have ever known.

i cry some more.

waves of sadness hit me when i think

of making lunch

or having to get up

to walk the passage.

up and down.

gently massaging the wind

that rages through a small body

causing my heart,

which i carefully balance on my shoulder,

to cry with rage and pain.

i want to sleep.

or go to the beach. go dancing. make love.

have a bath.

or a cup of tea.

instead i feed her.

as she latches on love pushes against sadness.

we lie down on the bed.

i listen to my neighbors getting on with their lives.

she falls asleep.

an hour later she is still sleeping.

the freedom goes to my head and makes me smile.

yet every now and again i check if she is still breathing.

her smell fills my world.

the memory of her smile makes me stronger.

once more i am ready to walk.

watching my life contracting and expanding.