An old grainy photo

Old friends

Red wine

Broken guitar strings

The moment you get a piece of popcorn kernel out from between your teeth

Spearmint leaves

Braided rugs

New book smell

Old book smell

Rough, work-worn palms

Toes that crack

Wet pavement

Cracked glass

Accidental photos

Cross-processing

Stacks upon stacks of National Geographic, perilously close to tipping over

Old encyclopedias with strange, outdated definitions

Ice cream dripping from your son’s chin

Grey eyes

Rosemary oil

Dirty knees

Tangled hair from wind and rain

Buoy bells clanging at night

Fog

The Muppets

Video calls

The color red

Handmade greeting cards

Finger paint

Cold clay and hot kilns

Linen drapery

Rambunctiously frizzy curls on humid, hot days

The pain in your lower back that comes from hopping on a bike after two years and riding hard into the sunset

Love

I’m not sure how the tradition started, aside from that I must have asked him to take me on the ride when I was five or six. And so, a tradition was born. Beyond the speeches, parades, cookouts, and meaning of the national holiday, what I most look forward to and hold dear is the five minutes my father and I spend in the air, looking out over the carnival and our valley together.

Sometimes we talk about serious things, sometimes we joke, and sometimes we don’t say anything at all. The meaning of it is less in our conversation and more that we’re there together, year after year. That’s the funny, poignant thing about traditions – each time you partake, you’re living not just that moment, but each time before it.

Christmas with my family is filled not just with presents and food, but with all of the love and memories of all of the Christmases before it – before me, even. The music we listen to comes from the grandfather I never met, but now at my own home I play the New Christy Minstrels every Christmas morning. Every election day, my mother takes a hot dinner over to the poll workers, and until we had a baby I helped her every time. Now when I start thinking of who to vote for, I also start thinking about he to schedule my day so that u have the to take food and drinks to the Easterly Parkway polling place. Hopefully Mattie will be coming along with us, soon.

When we had our son, I really started to think about traditions. It’s up to us now, what traditions to start with Mattie – what to do year after year as a family, so that one day he can pass it on to his own family. We don’t join in on some of the more typical traditions (Santa, the Easter Bunny, etc), so we’re making our own. And next year, while I’m in one ferris wheel bucket with my dad, Mattie will be in another with his dad…and hopefully for many years to come.

Photo taken from the Route 150 exit of I-99 on May 17, 2010. The accompanying storm brought golf ball-sized hail and caused significant damage to nearby houses.

Woah! We had an incredible storm here this evening – thunder, lightning, hail, wind, rain…it was close enough that we saw lightning strike a house not far from us, and the storm surge blew out our water heater, our wireless router and modem, and our phone line. Our router et al are a lost cause and need to be replaced, but luckily the power is back on and Verizon seems to have maintained coverage, as I’m posting this from my iPad.

Michael and I were outside with Mattie planting flowers when we both felt the cool vacuum of air that precedes a storm. A hissing in the distance and a glance at the black cloud encroaching had us hightailing it into the house and scrambling to shut windows. Like some kind of cosmic PA system, as I slammed the last window shut a burst of thunder struck, shaking the house and sending Cricket into a shaking ball on the back of the couch.

As I rushed to make dinner before the power went out (wisely, it seems), Michael pulled a chair up to our back windows, which were directly facing the storm. Mattie crawled up into his lap, and they sat there watching the storm for a good half hour. With the wind and rain and hail battering the window just inches from their faces, the two of them whispering to each other, I was arrested by the circle of warmth they created. Fearless in love, they were staring slack-jawed in awe of the storm. It was one of those moments that make you wish photographs could really capture the essence of feeling and heart, rather than just an image.

Aside from the shock I got trying to turn our overhead fan on (which occurred just as our electrical appliances went haywire and then shut down), we spent the hour or so of the storm soaking it in. It was purely exhilirating, even when fear crept in and we contemplated moving ourselves and our fur family to the basement.

Rain happens here quire frequently, but a truly powerful storm is a more rare beast, and I’m always grateful to experience them. Like looking at the Grand Canyon or the Andes, it reminds me of the overwhelming power of nature. This earth, and the processes that have shaped it, are far beyond our control (and only vaguely within our understanding). Sometimes a visceral, crashing reminder of my own smallness and powerlessness is just what I need.

The science of popcorn is nature’s way of saying that anything those fancy molecular gastronomy chefs dream up is mere child’s play. Mother Earth (sure, with the help of centuries of human hybridization) created popcorn so that there is starch, moisture and oil within a hard husk. The husk doesn’t yield to high heat, so the moisture turns to steam and the starch gelatinizes. Eventually, the outer shell ruptures and the inner starch turns itself inside-out because the sudden drop in internal pressure, combined with the expanding steam, produces a foam that cools and becomes the puff we know and love.

My favorite way to have it is air popped in one of these thingies, spritzed with olive oil (we put it in a spray bottle for coating bakeware anyway), and then tossed with garlic, thyme, salt, and nutritional yeast. If you prepare it that way, you can eat three or so cups of the stuff and still not hit 200 calories. Um, YES PLEASE.

My favorite UN-healthy way is to air pop it, while simultaneously melting 1/4 cup of butter on the stove. When the butter is melted, stir in 1/3 cup sugar, 1/3/ cup brown sugar, 1 tsp vanilla, 2 tsp cinnamon, and 1 tsp salt. Stir until smooth, then drizzle the syrup over your popcorn. Toss the coated sticky puffs of amazing into the oven at 250 degrees for ten minutes, then cool and eat until you’re stuffed.

If you’re not concerned with calories or fat, consider making it the old fashioned way (use olive oil instead of butter, though) – which, let’s all admit, tastes much better. However, if you do it in the oil or butter, it’s hardly a health snack. If you make it with an air popping machine, you’ll find it’s high in fiber, low in calories, and has next to no fat.

Of course, not all popcorn is created alike. Microwavable popcorn is fine if you can’t cook your own, but there’s a wide spectrum of quality. The ACT II line, for instance, is said to be made with butter but that stuff is better off sold as roofing product. Further, most brands contain diacetyl, which has been implicated in causing respiratory diseases.

And the movie popcorn…well, to put it succinctly, one medium-sized movie popcorn has more fat than a breakfast of bacon and eggs, a Big Mac and fries, and a steak dinner combined. Yup, combined. They cook the popcorn in coconut oil, and then coat it in butter which is of a higher fat content than most – because we all seem to think it tastes better that way. I suppose if you aren’t concerned about fat content or cholesterol, movie popcorn will do just fine, but for my part I’d rather eat a ton of chocolate and cheese for the same amount of fat.

And so, Michael and I smuggle popcorn into theatres along with our water bottles. We eat it as a late-night snack, or to take our vitamins with. We throw it at each other, we toss it to cricket, and we read about it with Mattie almost every night. And yes, I’m eating some while I type this

What’s the point?

I’m reminded of two distinct Shakespeare passages dealing with the concept of the performativity of life.

The first, from Macbeth (act V scene V):

“She should have died hereafter.
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time.
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.“

The second, from As You Like It (Act II Scene VII)

“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.“

I’m also reminded of Wittgenstein’s “Forms of life“, Hegel’s “Spirit,” Marx’ performative societal roles, and Derrida’s (and by extension Blanchot’s) event and context interpretations (see “Signature, Event, Context” by Derrida for a cogent summation).

The upshot of all of these theories, literary and philosophical, is that we are more than the sum of our parts. For instance, I am a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a lover, a friend, a leader, an employee, a tutor, &c. That list, however, can’t by any stretch of imagination or creation be a summation of who I am. Part of who I am is a characteristic synthesis outside of my roles, which stands apart from them (i.e how I live them together or in conflict…my own integration of my performances.)

To make a loose analogy, think of cooking. Each ingredient is still present individually, but their synthesis into the larger creation is an independent and new form. You can taste thyme, or basil, or tomato, and more, but when combined they are a new flavor. In this manner do we “cook” our existence. Our roles and actions aren’t the sum of ourselves – and yet it isn’t necessary to look for a spirit or deity to explain the “greater” self.

I think that Shakespeare, the philosophers, and to a certain extent the Sutras, are teaching the same thing…that what’s important is not just your role in life or your self-actualization (your independent and free actions), but (forgive my German) Beisichsein – or for Hegel, “Bei sich sein im Anderen sein“. The phrase is notoriously hard to translate, but it basically means “being at home with oneself in the other”. It might make more sense to phrase it as a concept of personal freedom for the good of the community, though that can (and has) lead down a slippery slope to totalitarian state when applied to political design and action. I’m vaguely connecting this to the Sutras based on the fact that the “individual” deities are parts of a larger conceptualization of Brahman (or Spirit, Geist, &c. if you want to continue with the German philosophers’ terms).

To me the idea of Beisichsein is a syntheses of the independent “separate” (if you’ll permit that expression) self and the communal, role-playing self. It eliminates the idea of a consciousness outside of your performative roles, and yet eliminates the idea that you’re nothing more than them, either. That gets into Wittgenstein’s (and Cavell’s) idea of the “beyond” which isn’t actually beyond, but that which we inhabit and create by our form of life.

What’s fascinating to me is that Buddhism, and a philosophy which was later perverted to justify the Holocaust (the idea that a Christian State was the destiny of the world and that sacrifices were necessary to reach that state or Idea*) are teaching/exemplifying the same concept. To me, it’s a signal that there’s something profound and universal that can’t be crushed by the dogma of individual religions or philosophies.

[*To be fair, Hegel drew that connection not out of a belief in the superiority of those who attended Catholic church - or any Christian denomination - but out of his rhetorical analysis of the concept of the "Holy Trinity".]

In my less focused perusal of articles far and wee, I find a persistent positing of the question “who am I?” I find it in scholarly articles on science, in opinion pieces for the New York Times, on Elephant Journal, on facebook, and beyond. The answer, for every single one of us, is quite simple…annoyingly so. You are the synthesis of your various roles in life – the combination of all of the facets of yourself, that is uniquely yours. This synthesis – this being at home in oneself within the other – or Beisichsein, is who you are. Who I am. Even as we’re all the same, we are all uniquely ourselves, and exist even beyond our own concept of our identity.

I suppose in a roundabout way, my gratitude for today is for the concept of beisichsein. Synthesis. Synchronicity. Through my studies I’ve accessed a tool and a language that allow me, at least internally, to sense and interpret answers to the questions that keep other people up at night. In the same way that I find some meditation “practice” perplexing, and in the way that I find the idea of working to get into “heaven” odd (after all, didn’t guru Jesus declare that “heaven” is in and around you?), I find the idea of questioning the nature of self to be counterproductive. [Then again, the very fact of questioning it is yet another component of the whole of your self, which in that sense makes it just as vital, which...this hall of mirrors doesn't end.]

Put simply, I’m thankful for my self, for the questioning that led myself and others to the concepts I’ve just discussed, and for the odd cosmic order that keeps bringing these ideas back into my life.

NB: It’s been too long since my last university course, and my skills at teaching philosophy have dulled in that time. This is surely my most impenetrable post, and I assure you I’ll go back to your regularly scheduled family and lifestyle posts tomorrow. For today, however, I couldn’t help but write what was on my mind. Thank you for taking the time to read it

Marriage. I still have trouble spelling it (does anyone else write “marraige” all the time?), but it’s one of the best things to ever happen to me – second only to the birth and life of my son, and meeting and falling in love with the man I married.

I Choose You

Michael and I were recently talking about what it means to be married, more in a philosophical sense than a personal one, and the conclusion we came to was choice. That an ideal marriage is one that is held together not by duty, or obligation, or even lust, but by choice.

We got married because we’d fallen in love and wanted to be side by side to the end of our lives. We stay married because that hasn’t changed…but behind our love is a choice. I think most people would like to believe that you can stay 100% “in love” forever, but it’s rarely, if ever, possible. Every day I choose to be with Michael; I choose to be faithful to him, choose to seek out his good side even when all I can see at the moment are the flaws, choose to subsume my own ego for the sake of harmony, choose to love him day in and day out. Choice.

Some couples seem to be together because of stasis and nothing more; they’re together now, so they stay that way. This kind of flat, uninspired relationship rarely works out in the long run, unless those people are willing to stay in the same place for their entire lives. Oddly enough, some of the best couples have some of the rockiest points in their relationship, and still actively choose each other.

Looking at our marriage this way makes it seem more significant. More romantic. More solid. I know that I’ll always be his choice, and he knows that I’ll always pick him. That solidity and confidence is what I’m most thankful for about marriage. It forms a bedrock upon which we’ve built a family and grown individually. Through graduations and new schools, new jobs and the loss of old ones, loosing friends and gaining new ones, we’ve always chosen each other. Knowing, deeply and truly, that I have and will always have a partner in life, is an incredible feeling. There’s nothing he can do that will change my love for him, and he feels the same way for me.

Swapping Spit

We participated in a study at Penn State once, where we submitted saliva samples, then sat in a room and talked for half an hour while being observed, then submitted more samples, then went over a questionnaire together, and then finally gave more saliva. The study was measuring the levels of cortisol in our spit, which is an indicator of stress. The researchers wanted to see what we talked about when we were talking freely (the only constraint being that at some point in the half hour, we each had to bring up something that annoyed us about the other), and whether or not there was any stress involved, and then how we’d react to some pretty tough questions. Questions like, “Do you sometimes wish you hadn’t gotten married, or had waited longer before marrying?” or “Have you ever seriously considered cheating on your spouse?”

One that really struck me was this: “In what situation would you divorce your husband or wife?”  Michael answered in a way that has still stuck with me – “I guess I’d only ever leave her if she told me it was the only way she could be happy. Even then I wouldn’t stop loving her. And leaving her would have to be because I love her. Because I want – no, need – her to be happy.”

I broke from script then, and asked him if there wasn’t a situation in which he would decide to leave me.

He said, plainly, “no.”

“But what if I cheated?” I countered.

He responded without pause: “First of all, you’d never cheat. And secondly, if you did I’d find a way to forgive you.”

Weeks later we got the results from the study back, which showed that our levels of stress had remained constant throughout the study. What that told me was that we were truly on the same page. Even tough questions like the one above didn’t cause either of us to worry, even subconsciously.

With the results, they included a packet of information on their generalized findings, and resources for further reading. Without a long-term study of relationships, it was impossible for them to predict the success or failure of any given marriage (for that, you have to look to John Gottman, PhD, of the ‘Love Lab’). What they did notice, however, is that couples who sought common ground in conversation, who laughed at the same times, and who were playful with each other, were likely to have less stress overall. Perhaps it’s that laughter and smiling lower your stress levels, but without a solid relationship the light and joy aren’t possible.

Something About You…

Marriage gives Michael and I the space to be fully ourselves. Within the framework of a healthy relationship, we both move about as independent people with a common bond. In that space, I’ve had the great pleasure of watching Michael come into himself more fully. He’s pursuing his love of plants in all aspects – from education, to work, to our home life. He’s grown into fatherhood brilliantly and completely. I’ve grown as well, and our marriage is the fertile ground from which we both blossom. Today, and every day, I’m grateful for our partnership – for the solidity it provides, and the level of love it demonstrates.

__________________________________

I would like to recount a conversation my wife and I had today. In typical Mike and Lauren fashion, is started out fairly normal and turned into something else entirely.

Me: Look at the light…[the sun was going down, illuminating all the little bits of dust and pollen floating through the air]

Lauren: Motes!

Me: Um…. Well, I was talking about the pollen.

L: I know! The motes!

M: It sounds like a word from a Dr. Seuss book…  Is a mote smaller or larger than a speck?

L: (cracking a smile) Definitely smaller. Like what Horton hears.

M: You know what’s smaller than a speck?

Lauren: I don’t know, what?

Me: A Spickle.

L: Oh yeah?

M:  What’s smaller than a Spickle?

L: [Laughing] Um…. A Mote?

M: Well then whats smaller than a Mote?

L:  A Meet!

M: (laughing) You know what’s smaller than a Meet?

L: I don’t know, what?

M: A Zipple.

L:  That is definitely not smaller than a Meet. /

M: I know!  It totally sounds bigger, doesn’t it.

L: A zipple is definitely bigger than a speck, much less a meet.

M: Ok, ok… What is smaller than a Meet?….I know!  A Bip!

L: [Laughs] You know what’s smaller than a Bip?

M: What?

L: An ‘eee’!

We both start laughing uncontrollably at this point, broken by a debate on the spelling of eee.

This is a typical conversation between me and my wife.  It is also the reason I love my wife, and one of the biggest reasons I asked her to marry me.  We share a unique, if crazy, sense of humor.  She understands me and my strange sense of humor.  She understands my convoluted thought process as well; when I make some offhand comment that most people would take as a non-sequitur, she gets it.  Its almost as if she sees what I see, can follow my thoughts, and beats me to the punch.

I cannot tell you how many times I say something about something I see to coworkers or classmates, and all I get are blank stares from people who obviously think I have a bad case of diarrhea-mouth.  I do have coherent thought patterns, they are just hard to follow.  The only person I have ever met who seems to fill in the blanks between an observation or occurrence to the offhand comment I might make is my wife.

This goes hand in hand with our habit of always singing along to music at the exact same time. We’ll be in the car, listening to something but talking to each other, and at some moment we both start singing along. Synchronicity. We finish each others sentences.

More than any one else, she gets me. Gets me twisted logic and warped sense of humor. I make sense to her, and she makes sense to me. We find the same inane things hilarious, and whenever I think of a joke I know she’ll be right there with me. Like she is in all other aspects of our lives. I *really* have found one in a million, and I know it. My wife is what I am grateful for today.

Today Michael and I had the opportunity to sell off some of our belongings, in an effort to make a bit of money from them before they go to the Salvation Army or Goodwill. As such, it’s not particularly generous to give these things away, since in some ways the person taking it is doing us a favor by taking it.

There were three people today who inspired us to give something…two strangers and one who we’ve known but not had a chance to spend much time with. Each time, their reactions were incredible. It gave me a feeling that was something like the natural high that comes from whitewater rafting, or summiting a mountain. It felt good. A neighborhood boy got a few toys, a young couple got a baby bottle sterilizer, and an elderly man got a bag of books.

A few months ago I bought a cell phone for someone. He was a stranger, and just happened to be at the cell phone store at the same time. He was obviously poor, and was trying to get the most basic phone and calling plan available. He had no money to speak of, and while the phone was free with a plan, the carrier required a security deposit of $140.

As I waited at the counter, shamelessly eavesdropping, I was struck by the idea of making it possible for this man (who was at that point digging out old pay stubs in an effort to show that he could afford the monthly fees) to have a phone. Running the numbers in my head, I figured that we’d count the expense towards our charity budget for the year (which is small, but important to us). With some creative use of pantry items and a few less miles driven in our car, we could give him a phone to use for work, for fun, for whatever.

Since I’m awkward socially on the best of days, and especially when any kind of focused attention is on me, I didn’t want him to know who it was. I pulled the sales associate aside, handed him our card, and asked that he take care of the deposit. Not the monthly bills, but the deposit that would allow the man to get his foot in the door. The clerk was surprised, but also a fast thinker. After running my card through quickly, he grabbed the man just as he was leaving and concocted a story about finding a way around the security deposit. The look of relief on his face was enough thanks for me to have a buzz for the rest of the week.

What’s striking to me is that the gift of $140 had the same impact to me as the gift of an old toy that would have been thrown out…and that the reactions on the part of the recipients were nearly identical. Surprise, joy, confusion. The value didn’t matter one whit – it was the giving that counted.

Michael gets a thrill from purchasing meals for strangers – at a restaurant, he’ll spot someone (usually someone alone) and ask the server to put their bill on our card, and to please not tell them who it was. Then we wait, and watch, and usually have to struggle to keep from beaming when the person smiles. It doesn’t matter if it’s a three-dollar bill – what matters is that someone walks away feeling like there really are random acts of kindness going around.

It also saddened me, a bit, when my offer of the books was met with more suspicion than anything else. He said, with a frown, “nothing’s ever free.” Well, technically speaking no, everything has a cost, but on a theoretical level I disagree. The only thing I wanted from him was for him to take the books he’d selected without giving me money for them. A thanks wouldn’t have gone unappreciated, but it wasn’t required.

It got me thinking about the world we inhabit, and how the commercialism of our consumption of products has infected our human relationships. A gift should simply be a gift, and the getting of one should cause joy and thanks, not confusion or suspicion. Even our childish tradition of Santa Claus has strings attached – those gifts are a reward for good behavior, not just presents for the sake of giving.

I’m not sure why we, as a society, are so uncomfortable with unencumbered gifts. Even charities do it: when you donate to the Humane Society, you receive a blanket. NPR has whole catalogues of things you can receive for your “gift”…which to my mind is a purchase, not a donation. Even the little tags that you put your name on at the grocery store are a reward – you receive the recognition of having a place on the wall (although I often write “in memory of…” on those cards).

My challenge to everyone, then, is to give freely. Give anonymously. Say no to the rewards, except for the greatest reward of them all – knowing you’ve done something wonderful for someone else, even in a tiny way. Maybe, just maybe, if everyone reading this gives just a little something, it’ll spread. Happiness is infectious, and maybe that person whose doorstep you leave flowers on will turn around and buy some stranger a hot meal. Or maybe they’ll just smile, and that’s enough.

Completely drained and blissful

The labor was long. Nothing can really prepare you for it – That’s why they have drugs. Yet, I wanted nothing of the sort. I wanted to experience life, not hide from it. It was the hardest thing I have ever done. Birth hurts. It engages every part of your being inside and out. Your bones expand, thankfully, due to hormones that are released to soften everything, (so that even when you lay down at night, you feel your lower back vertebrae float into position.)

When birthing, you become an animal. A very human animal.

You lose touch with reality. The veil between this world and that becomes soft. You moan with every contraction to ride the waves of pain. It scares you as it gets more intense. Your legs are spread eagle and you don’t care. You want to rip off your gown, or anything constricting. Every muscle in your body is calling for your attention.

You do not want to be distracted by voices or sounds that might bother you, being acutely aware of the task at hand. This is not the time to be nice. The moment is poignant. What has been growing in that precious belly, so much a part of you, that you have so loved and nurtured, bathed and anointed from the outside, fed and rested, is coming out. Soon to be separate of you, yet still dependent. Everything will change. Your mind is trying to grasp all of the emotions at once.

Girl to woman. Woman to mother. Instant growing up. Immediate loss of innocence. No more playing house—this is the real deal and it hurts. It’s beyond excruciating and beyond your control. You are possessed with an energy that you don’t recognize, a power that you didn’t know you had, coming from the depths of your being.

You breathe and breathe, as long and slow as you can, so grateful that your breath is your friend, and scream once in a while, low tones, forcing that energy down into your pelvis. You wait, barely able to catch your breath before it comes again and again and… again… in my case, two and a half hours of pushing after fifteen hours of labor.

The infamous stage of transition. Not in, not out. No resting easily in this painful place. The pure surrender it takes to relax is like trying to find the eye of a hurricane. The “ring of fire” that is so aptly named. Then with one big breath and a concentrated push!…the baby slides out into your waiting, trembling hands. Reality slips back in. You pull him up to your chest, all slippery and wet, eyes wide and awake. Both shaking, a new mother and child. My son wasn’t the only one born then. It was the birth of me, as well.

It was the hardest thing I have ever endured in my life and the most blissful. To this day, I see it as the single most important experience teaching me about my own inner strength. A strength I didn’t know I had. After that, I felt anything was possible. A 6.5  pound baby is small, but he was twisted around, making his shoulders hard to fit through the birth canal. It took longer than it should have – just long enough for me to pop through to a different dimension to access a deeper and more confident part of myself.

These words, by poet David Whyte, have inspired me and resonated deeply. My pregnancy, my birthing, and now my parenting, has been all my own. No label fits any of it, and I like it better that way. We’re finding the right path together, as a family. Giving birth has given me the confidence and self-knowledge to hold my head up and inhabit my role as mother fully and truthfully.

“Take all the elements that you find in your life and make something of it. No existential disappointment here. No gospel of despair. Be yourself! You are a sacred frontier of experience that has never appeared before in the whole of time and will never appear again. There is no one else who can occupy your corner of creation and taste and see the flavor of things the way you do. The act of participating and appreciating the world in the way that you do, is an act of incarnation. All the strategic works you do will come out of that frontier. But without it, everything becomes a second willful act merely of self necessity. Get back to the core that is occurring underneath it all, the invisible foundation that you will build your life on. A radical simplification on what brings flavor to your life, a fearless harvest of what makes you, you.”