In the Reserve, the memory unit where I work part-time, people with advanced stages of dementia are placed. It’s the end of the road for them. People die, about two per month on average. It’s usually a slow process, due to Alzheimers. The brain takes its time in clogging up with the particular detritus of this disease. The malfunctioning of different parts of the brain often follows a pattern of unwinding backwards, through the stages of development. First the cognitive thinking & memories of the forebrain goes. Then it moves slowly deeper and deeper. Impulses lose control. Words disconnect from meaning and finally are often lost altogether. At the end they often do not wish to eat or drink. Finally the swallowing reflex or breathing reflex goes, bringing the end. Others die of concurrent diseases or the influenza.
One of my favorite women, Aggie, was quite feisty, though almost deaf, when she first came to us a couple of months ago. She was stocky, with beautiful, soft, white hair down to her shoulders. It reminds me of angel hair. She loved playing kick ball—yelling –“KICK IT!” when another demented elder lagged in her duty to the game. She puzzled over puzzles, relished eating snacks, and dabbled with watercolors. When I rouse her from her inner world and she sees my face, she breaks into a smile that encompasses her whole face.
But about a week ago she began to decline. Now she declines activities and declines food. Or, if she eats food, she pockets it in her cheeks and later spits it into tissues, if she has them at hand. Otherwise it’s headed for the floor. I see her skin hanging looser on her bones. Each day, I wonder if I will get to see her smile again, whether lost because she dies or because her brain loses even that small blessing of social interaction by the time I am there to see her again.
18 December 2008
15 December 2008
How Pregnancy Grows from the Menstrual Cycle
The menstrual cycle contains the experiences of Maiden, Mother, & Crone within itself. These primordial archetypes of Goddess enliven and inform us of different phases of women’s creative power. Each cycle we are Maiden, made new with the development of possible egg-babies, and with pheromones and fertile mucus for attracting a mate to fertilize them. We are Mother after ovulation, in the phase that prepares and maintains the nurturing womb. And we are Crone when our hormones plummet if pregnancy doesn’t occur, with the emptying of juice and form while filling with subtle, intuitive heart potential.
By bringing awareness & care into the menstrual cycle, we also gain in experience that will serve us if we ever become pregnant. Healthy nutrition, maintaining energetic balance, nurturing herbs, adequate exercise & rest, relaxation practice -- all serve in both situations.
Pregnancy, then, is the fulfilled form of that Mother/luteal phase, when sperm has successfully merged with ripe egg and developing zygote has implanted firmly into receptive uterine lining. It is the long time of nurturing the dream. Even if pregnancy was not planned or desired, it is still the animal dream of the body to reproduce.
This extra juicy, growing pregnancy phase fills the body with more blood, more heart, more weight, and bigger feet. An actual inner ocean of amniotic fluid forms within the amniotic sac and our evolving babies swim in it until they are born and land on solid ground. The intimate physical connection between mother and baby is mediated by the amazing multiple functions of the placenta.
The last month of pregnancy is often a time associated with discomforts of being full to overflowing—just as premenstrually many women experience the heaviness of their engorged womb, dropping downward a bit from the change of their hormones.
The emotional changes of the fertility cycle can prepare us for dealing with pregnancy feelings. Women who listen to themselves with awareness and care for themselves adequately find that heightened emotional sensitivity is not necessarily a call to bitchiness (although that too can be useful). It can be an opportunity to hear themselves more clearly in respect to what in their lives serves them & what does not. More alone time is a common need that women easily overlook at other times of their lives which may become more pressing during pre-bleeding & pre-birthing.
Giving birth is an enhanced form of the menstrual phase, when what has been grown inside is now ready to be released, even pushed, out into the world. Women who have experienced the inward, downward pulling of energy during moon bleeding will be familiar with that feeling in its greatly intensified form during labor. Healthy menstrual practices help preserve the balance of this key energy for pregnancy & birth. Those who have experienced menstrual cramps and found ways to come to terms with them will recognize the early labor sensation of the cervix beginning to open as a familiar one, not so scary. This brings the relaxed familiarity to early labor often considered possible only for those who have already given birth.
Allowed a deep inwardness, our instincts can guide our posture & movements and provide safe passageway for our creation, just as women guided inwardly during menses can find the right physical and emotional attitude to menstruate with more ease and grace. As the baby and placenta are released, a great emptiness is created in our body, even as our heart expands with instinctual, hormonal love. We flow with so large a postpartum “menses” as part of that huge emptying and flow with milk as part of that heart expansion.
Learning from and cultivating awareness during our cycles thus prepares us for pregnancy and birth. It increases our creative potential as Maiden, Mother, and Crone, whether we ever give birth physically or not.
10 December 2008
The Brown Bat
The brown bat with wings the size of my hands, buzzes over our heads, derailing conversation. Nine variously shaped and colored naked people lounge in the deep & wide hot spring pool in the foothills of the San Luis Valley. It’s daytime. I warn the sweet blond woman who wanted to get closer to it that bats flying in the daytime may be disoriented and sick. I’d found a similar bat one day in my backyard a few years ago. Animal Control said not to approach it. That bat died within a few hours.
I feel as though the bat is flying at me. Then he splashes into the pool, within arm’s reach. I scoot my bare body through the still waters, away from him, while he swims with his wings towards the shore. He pulls himself up the rocks and into the bushes. “Is he gone? Can you see where he is?” we all chatter at once.
In a flash I remember stories about bats: bats that get tangled in your hair, so you have to shave it off; bats swooping in near our faces as we run out to the tent in my cousin’s backyard at dusk, balancing a big bowl of popcorn in my hands; bats sneaking into our apartment when I was a child & Dad swinging a broom at them each time to chase them out; bats that have rabies and bite you and then the painful series of shots needed to avoid horrible suffering and mental derangement.
Suddenly the bat launches into the air again, skimming our heads. A few of us startle and scream.
Later at the registration center I mention seeing the bat in the daytime. The host says, ”When in doubt, be cautious. But it sounds like a local bat and in the spring they often feed in the daytime due to the cold of night. And bats dipping into the hot springs pool are not unusual around here.”
I feel as though the bat is flying at me. Then he splashes into the pool, within arm’s reach. I scoot my bare body through the still waters, away from him, while he swims with his wings towards the shore. He pulls himself up the rocks and into the bushes. “Is he gone? Can you see where he is?” we all chatter at once.
In a flash I remember stories about bats: bats that get tangled in your hair, so you have to shave it off; bats swooping in near our faces as we run out to the tent in my cousin’s backyard at dusk, balancing a big bowl of popcorn in my hands; bats sneaking into our apartment when I was a child & Dad swinging a broom at them each time to chase them out; bats that have rabies and bite you and then the painful series of shots needed to avoid horrible suffering and mental derangement.
Suddenly the bat launches into the air again, skimming our heads. A few of us startle and scream.
Later at the registration center I mention seeing the bat in the daytime. The host says, ”When in doubt, be cautious. But it sounds like a local bat and in the spring they often feed in the daytime due to the cold of night. And bats dipping into the hot springs pool are not unusual around here.”
08 December 2008
Butter
Everything is better with butter. You can engrave that on my memorial stone. My family knows that I can only relax if I know that there’s at least a pound of butter in the house. Are there really people who eat cooked vegetables without a dollop of that golden ambrosia gently melting down its slopes & crags, enriching the taste of each spoonful?
Maybe my love of butter is hereditary. My Grandma Moan used to eat it straight from the butter dish. Butter seemed to her like spinach to Popeye the Sailor Man. She was a strong, sparrow of a woman, who lived about ninety years, chopping wood for her stove almost to the end. She’d serve butter up to us on her sturdy, home-baked bread, especially tantalizing straight from the oven, when the butter melts deep into the grain of the slice.
In the dairy states of Minnesota and Wisconsin, eating butter was a form of solidarity with the small farmers of those days. They resisted the push for margarine by passing laws that only allowed margarine to be sold in its unimproved form. Aunt & Uncle Nestor used the stuff. I remember that it came in a sealed plastic bag, all white, like lard, with a red dot of dye in the middle. We’d have simple fun squeezing the bag of lard—I mean butter—over and over until the dye was distributed evenly giving the margarine a butter-like color. But I never forgot what it really looked like. And our family never used margarine no matter what claims were made for it.
In India the cow is sacred and so, milk and butter are holy gifts. Lord Krishna Himself was raised as a cow herder and many a portrait shows Him playing His flute as he tends the cows. Well treated cows give more milk and better milk.
For butter to be at its best, it must come from such cows—treated with love and respect. They should neither be treated like cattle in the pejorative sense or milked for profits using inhumane methods. Such cows are difficult to find in America. Organic farms MIGHT be better. The best is most likely found locally, made from milk received from a small family farm. I remember going to the local creamery with Grandfather, where the nearby farmers brought their milk to a collective to be pasteurized and made into butter and cheese. Now who knows where our milk and butter come from? And if those cows were serenaded ?
Maybe my love of butter is hereditary. My Grandma Moan used to eat it straight from the butter dish. Butter seemed to her like spinach to Popeye the Sailor Man. She was a strong, sparrow of a woman, who lived about ninety years, chopping wood for her stove almost to the end. She’d serve butter up to us on her sturdy, home-baked bread, especially tantalizing straight from the oven, when the butter melts deep into the grain of the slice.
In the dairy states of Minnesota and Wisconsin, eating butter was a form of solidarity with the small farmers of those days. They resisted the push for margarine by passing laws that only allowed margarine to be sold in its unimproved form. Aunt & Uncle Nestor used the stuff. I remember that it came in a sealed plastic bag, all white, like lard, with a red dot of dye in the middle. We’d have simple fun squeezing the bag of lard—I mean butter—over and over until the dye was distributed evenly giving the margarine a butter-like color. But I never forgot what it really looked like. And our family never used margarine no matter what claims were made for it.
In India the cow is sacred and so, milk and butter are holy gifts. Lord Krishna Himself was raised as a cow herder and many a portrait shows Him playing His flute as he tends the cows. Well treated cows give more milk and better milk.
For butter to be at its best, it must come from such cows—treated with love and respect. They should neither be treated like cattle in the pejorative sense or milked for profits using inhumane methods. Such cows are difficult to find in America. Organic farms MIGHT be better. The best is most likely found locally, made from milk received from a small family farm. I remember going to the local creamery with Grandfather, where the nearby farmers brought their milk to a collective to be pasteurized and made into butter and cheese. Now who knows where our milk and butter come from? And if those cows were serenaded ?
01 December 2008
Poem- My Paper Friend
Oh, Paper Friend--
I need your kind patience of pages,
Your passive blankness,
Out of which I can coax my own expression
& see it in the face.
You are true.
You do not gloss or hide or change what I dare reveal.
You just accept
And keep me true to my own words,
For they are still waiting in your perfect memory.
- by Terra Rafael
I need your kind patience of pages,
Your passive blankness,
Out of which I can coax my own expression
& see it in the face.
You are true.
You do not gloss or hide or change what I dare reveal.
You just accept
And keep me true to my own words,
For they are still waiting in your perfect memory.
- by Terra Rafael
26 November 2008
My Adventrues with Prayer - Part II
Studying Maya Healing work with Rosita Arvigo and Miss Beatrice Waight made prayer more specific & essential to my healing work. Miss Beatrice taught me to pray again, as I had as a child, “with all my heart, with all my heart”. My blessings for those I cared for became more focused through prayer, using words to bring it into form.
Miss Beatrice taught me to pray to Archangel Rafael, the patron saint of healers, happy marriages, and casting out of demons. As taught by Rosita & Miss Beatrice, I always pray for my clients and students and myself, to bring the highest good to us all. I invoke many faces of God, which I see as just different energies or languages which are accessible to different people at different times, asking the Higher Power to heal through me and guide me.
In the name of the Father, the Mother & the Holy Child, the Nine Mayan Spirits, Shri Krishna, Mahalaksmi, and Archangel Rafael
I am the one, calling upon you, asking you to heal ____________, of her physical & spiritual disease.
I ask you this with all my heart, with all my heart, and I ask that the spirit of the rose assist with this healing.
While at Cozumel, the island of Maya women’s spirituality, I got to pray at the Temple of Ix Chel, goddess of the moon, She who lives in Sacred Waters, fertility and healing goddess, goddess of weaving. An iguana did a fertility dance for me at one temple—whether to entice me or scare me away from eggs I’m not sure. We shared the traditional prayer of the Primicia ceremony with all the participants in the Maya Abdominal Massage conference there at the central temple plaza. That night we had a sudden rain—an indication she received our prayers. The next day we did the full ceremony and buried our offerings in the sand at the beach. Then we did a healing spiritual bath with flowers in the ocean waves. We played and splashed in Her Sacred Waters – a prayer of laughter.
A few days later I was lucky enough to return to the temple with my friend, Samantha, & her teenaged daughter. Samantha had been told the best place to make offering to Ix Chel, so we went there to offer our personal prayers. When we got to the small pyramid, we found it guarded by two very large iguanas who were about half way up the temple—it was intimidating to look up at them, especially since it was the fierce time of nesting. We started climbing up and the one closest to us went inside the rocks of the temple. When we asked if we could go up further we received a “no” , so we did our prayers where we were, sang a song, and then threw our offerings up to the top of the temple. A few minutes after we descended, both of us felt the answering wetness of a few drops of Her sacred rain, telling us she had again received our prayers & offerings.
Recently I read the book Illuminata by Marianne Williamson. In it she gives examples of prayers for many situations and talks about their use throughout our lives. I’ve been finding that praying more often, extemporaneously, really has been very helpful. I was inspired to pray for guidance when my teenaged daughter came home very late after her curfew, in a state that mothers don’t want to see their daughters. It helped me avoid taking it personally, getting overly emotional and allowed me to focus on her problem, rather than on an emotional reaction on my part. I believe that this helped her learn rather than just react too.
Attending the Columbine Unity church I became part of the Prayer Partner team, partly to practice prayer more regularly. Our training gave us many different possibilities in how to pray with others. Each month I'd take a turn after service to be available to pray with people wanting to share their burdens or joys. I also had a list of nine congregants who I called each month to leave them a prayer, or if I was lucky to reach them in person, to pray with them. This steady practice enriched my ability to find prayers in my heart to share with others. It reminded me how we can support each other--if we don't remember the highest at this moment we can call on others to help lift us up. It was a great blessing.
I hope you will try praying more freely in your life. Let me know how it works for you. Prayer is a way to relate more personally to our chosen deity, to give thanks, ask for help for ourselves and others, and to bless. With prayer we acknowledge that we are children of God/dess and that God/dess wants the best for us, just as parents do, even if we ourselves don’t know what is best.
--by Terra Rafael
If you’d like to have a healing session with Terra using her unique combination of Ayurveda, Maya healing, massage, reiki, flower essences & women’s knowledge call her at 720.628.5015 or email at wisewomanhood@gmail.com.
Miss Beatrice taught me to pray to Archangel Rafael, the patron saint of healers, happy marriages, and casting out of demons. As taught by Rosita & Miss Beatrice, I always pray for my clients and students and myself, to bring the highest good to us all. I invoke many faces of God, which I see as just different energies or languages which are accessible to different people at different times, asking the Higher Power to heal through me and guide me.
In the name of the Father, the Mother & the Holy Child, the Nine Mayan Spirits, Shri Krishna, Mahalaksmi, and Archangel Rafael
I am the one, calling upon you, asking you to heal ____________, of her physical & spiritual disease.
I ask you this with all my heart, with all my heart, and I ask that the spirit of the rose assist with this healing.
While at Cozumel, the island of Maya women’s spirituality, I got to pray at the Temple of Ix Chel, goddess of the moon, She who lives in Sacred Waters, fertility and healing goddess, goddess of weaving. An iguana did a fertility dance for me at one temple—whether to entice me or scare me away from eggs I’m not sure. We shared the traditional prayer of the Primicia ceremony with all the participants in the Maya Abdominal Massage conference there at the central temple plaza. That night we had a sudden rain—an indication she received our prayers. The next day we did the full ceremony and buried our offerings in the sand at the beach. Then we did a healing spiritual bath with flowers in the ocean waves. We played and splashed in Her Sacred Waters – a prayer of laughter.
A few days later I was lucky enough to return to the temple with my friend, Samantha, & her teenaged daughter. Samantha had been told the best place to make offering to Ix Chel, so we went there to offer our personal prayers. When we got to the small pyramid, we found it guarded by two very large iguanas who were about half way up the temple—it was intimidating to look up at them, especially since it was the fierce time of nesting. We started climbing up and the one closest to us went inside the rocks of the temple. When we asked if we could go up further we received a “no” , so we did our prayers where we were, sang a song, and then threw our offerings up to the top of the temple. A few minutes after we descended, both of us felt the answering wetness of a few drops of Her sacred rain, telling us she had again received our prayers & offerings.
Recently I read the book Illuminata by Marianne Williamson. In it she gives examples of prayers for many situations and talks about their use throughout our lives. I’ve been finding that praying more often, extemporaneously, really has been very helpful. I was inspired to pray for guidance when my teenaged daughter came home very late after her curfew, in a state that mothers don’t want to see their daughters. It helped me avoid taking it personally, getting overly emotional and allowed me to focus on her problem, rather than on an emotional reaction on my part. I believe that this helped her learn rather than just react too.
Attending the Columbine Unity church I became part of the Prayer Partner team, partly to practice prayer more regularly. Our training gave us many different possibilities in how to pray with others. Each month I'd take a turn after service to be available to pray with people wanting to share their burdens or joys. I also had a list of nine congregants who I called each month to leave them a prayer, or if I was lucky to reach them in person, to pray with them. This steady practice enriched my ability to find prayers in my heart to share with others. It reminded me how we can support each other--if we don't remember the highest at this moment we can call on others to help lift us up. It was a great blessing.
I hope you will try praying more freely in your life. Let me know how it works for you. Prayer is a way to relate more personally to our chosen deity, to give thanks, ask for help for ourselves and others, and to bless. With prayer we acknowledge that we are children of God/dess and that God/dess wants the best for us, just as parents do, even if we ourselves don’t know what is best.
--by Terra Rafael
If you’d like to have a healing session with Terra using her unique combination of Ayurveda, Maya healing, massage, reiki, flower essences & women’s knowledge call her at 720.628.5015 or email at wisewomanhood@gmail.com.
25 November 2008
My Adventures with Prayer - Part I
If meditation is opening to the highest power, then prayer is the speaking through that opening-- with praise, requests and thanksgiving. We connect and invoke the power of creation to bring forth goodness into the world. The highest prayer is for Divine Will to unfold through us. Our ishta deva or chosen deity could be named or unnamed, Mother Nature or Jehovah, Krishna or the Great Spirit. For me these are all names for the same Power & Love, just as we are all separate impulses of the same Oneness. Maybe I am a bit like the character in “The Life of Pi” who worships as a Muslim, Hindu & Christian with equal fervor and belief, even though his various teachers all saw it as impossible and improper to do so.
I remember praying as a child before I went to sleep each night: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take.” It was a little scary to me to contemplate that I might die before I wake every night just before sleeping. I have amended that prayer over the years—“Now I lay me down to sleep, I ask you Mother, grant me peace. Fold me to your loving breast and nourish me with healing rest.”
As I grew I learned the prayers of my Lutheran heritage—my favorite was the Lord’s prayer. “Our Father Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil for Thine is the Kingdom and the Power and the Glory Forever & Ever. Amen.”
Then as my matrix of faith shifted from God the Father to God the Mother I learned to invoke the Goddess in ritual, but there wasn’t much emphasis on prayer. Ritual was where intention was set into motion, not by asking or giving thanks.
As a Sufi belly dancer, I learned to pray the Muslim prayers. First we would do ritual ablutions to wash away the world, then the prayer, facing Mecca. We would say our prayers in Arabic, between a whisper and normal voice, as we did our movements of letting go, and supplication. We also chanted, danced, whirled and studied texts. The power of praying at set times each day was great—to stop whatever you are doing, to turn towards Allah, Allah hu Akbar! God is great! I received the vision of the wave of Muslim prayers moving around the world as time passed around the globe, a constant remembering of the Only One God.
When I began the path of Siddha Yoga, meditation, chanting and selfless service became important spiritual practices to feed my soul. But prayer was not a practice we were taught per se.
Ayurvedic studies included vedic mantras, the invoking of divine power through sacred Sanskrit syllables. It is prayer in a very pure form. Once I was treating a woman with a painful tailbone, hurt over a month before in a fall from her horse. Even her experienced chiropractor husband couldn’t replace it. I was inspired to chant the Sanskrit healing mantra “Tryambakam Yajamahe, Sugandhim Pusti Vardanam, Urva Rukamiva Bandhanan, Myrtyor Mukshiya Mamritat”. This mantra protects as well as heals. It calls upon Lord Shiva, who was the first to utter it to transmute poison he had swallowed to save the world. In ayurveda school we had chanted this mantra thousands of times and it’s also part of the Siddha Yoga tradition in the ancient vedic Rudrum chant, so I was empowered to use it. As I gave her reiki, holding my hand gently over her tailbone, I chanted. Suddenly I felt the tailbone move of its own volition. She reported that it felt better and that the pain was gone from then on.
In giving Reiki we invoke healing energy to course through us, asking that it bring the highest possible good to both the receiver and the practitioner. It is a prayer in action.
-By Terra Rafael
Watch for Part II to hear more about my Adventures with Prayer.
If you’d like to have a healing session with Terra using her unique combination of Ayurveda, Maya healing, massage, reiki, flower essences & women’s knowledge call her at 720.628.5015 or email at wisewomanhood@gmail.com.
I remember praying as a child before I went to sleep each night: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take.” It was a little scary to me to contemplate that I might die before I wake every night just before sleeping. I have amended that prayer over the years—“Now I lay me down to sleep, I ask you Mother, grant me peace. Fold me to your loving breast and nourish me with healing rest.”
As I grew I learned the prayers of my Lutheran heritage—my favorite was the Lord’s prayer. “Our Father Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil for Thine is the Kingdom and the Power and the Glory Forever & Ever. Amen.”
Then as my matrix of faith shifted from God the Father to God the Mother I learned to invoke the Goddess in ritual, but there wasn’t much emphasis on prayer. Ritual was where intention was set into motion, not by asking or giving thanks.
As a Sufi belly dancer, I learned to pray the Muslim prayers. First we would do ritual ablutions to wash away the world, then the prayer, facing Mecca. We would say our prayers in Arabic, between a whisper and normal voice, as we did our movements of letting go, and supplication. We also chanted, danced, whirled and studied texts. The power of praying at set times each day was great—to stop whatever you are doing, to turn towards Allah, Allah hu Akbar! God is great! I received the vision of the wave of Muslim prayers moving around the world as time passed around the globe, a constant remembering of the Only One God.
When I began the path of Siddha Yoga, meditation, chanting and selfless service became important spiritual practices to feed my soul. But prayer was not a practice we were taught per se.
Ayurvedic studies included vedic mantras, the invoking of divine power through sacred Sanskrit syllables. It is prayer in a very pure form. Once I was treating a woman with a painful tailbone, hurt over a month before in a fall from her horse. Even her experienced chiropractor husband couldn’t replace it. I was inspired to chant the Sanskrit healing mantra “Tryambakam Yajamahe, Sugandhim Pusti Vardanam, Urva Rukamiva Bandhanan, Myrtyor Mukshiya Mamritat”. This mantra protects as well as heals. It calls upon Lord Shiva, who was the first to utter it to transmute poison he had swallowed to save the world. In ayurveda school we had chanted this mantra thousands of times and it’s also part of the Siddha Yoga tradition in the ancient vedic Rudrum chant, so I was empowered to use it. As I gave her reiki, holding my hand gently over her tailbone, I chanted. Suddenly I felt the tailbone move of its own volition. She reported that it felt better and that the pain was gone from then on.
In giving Reiki we invoke healing energy to course through us, asking that it bring the highest possible good to both the receiver and the practitioner. It is a prayer in action.
-By Terra Rafael
Watch for Part II to hear more about my Adventures with Prayer.
If you’d like to have a healing session with Terra using her unique combination of Ayurveda, Maya healing, massage, reiki, flower essences & women’s knowledge call her at 720.628.5015 or email at wisewomanhood@gmail.com.
24 November 2008
My Personal Creed
I believe in One – Eternal, Unnameable Source,
Unmanifest Consciousness,
Who conceives of all things, made & unmade,
Who I name the Father so that I might speak of Him
And I believe in She who Manifests and Is the Manifestation of All,
the Material Matter, the Mother, the Matrix
from Whom and in Whom all exists.
Creating as joyful expression of her Love for the Father,
She gives Birth, Life, Death, Afterlife and Rebirth to all Beings
And I believe in the Holy Child,
Human Being,
incarnated as the child of both Consciousness & Matter,
capable of the Highest Manifestation of Both in this world,
Exemplified by Teachers, Saints and Avatars of all peoples,
Who with Free Will Choose in the Holy Moment to go beyond habitual patterns
To shine forth with the Highest Consciousness,
while enjoying the Gifts and Challenges of the Flesh.
Unmanifest Consciousness,
Who conceives of all things, made & unmade,
Who I name the Father so that I might speak of Him
And I believe in She who Manifests and Is the Manifestation of All,
the Material Matter, the Mother, the Matrix
from Whom and in Whom all exists.
Creating as joyful expression of her Love for the Father,
She gives Birth, Life, Death, Afterlife and Rebirth to all Beings
And I believe in the Holy Child,
Human Being,
incarnated as the child of both Consciousness & Matter,
capable of the Highest Manifestation of Both in this world,
Exemplified by Teachers, Saints and Avatars of all peoples,
Who with Free Will Choose in the Holy Moment to go beyond habitual patterns
To shine forth with the Highest Consciousness,
while enjoying the Gifts and Challenges of the Flesh.
22 November 2008
Poem - Like a Deer
my heart is shy like a deer
and yet a hungry deer comes down into town.
I have crossed many barren fields and roads alone.
my doe eyes search for you,
a garden of satisfaction I've already tasted.
And yet, the bright head lights
of time-passing-quickly-by
can still freeze my steps with fear.
and yet a hungry deer comes down into town.
I have crossed many barren fields and roads alone.
my doe eyes search for you,
a garden of satisfaction I've already tasted.
And yet, the bright head lights
of time-passing-quickly-by
can still freeze my steps with fear.
21 November 2008
Caring for the Core-Part II
In "Caring for the Core-Part I" I talked about the placement of the uterus and how Maya Abdominal Massage helps her find her proper position. How does the uterus get out of place? As I mentioned, the uterus is suspended by ligaments in the pelvis in a way that allows her to grow with a pregnancy but also leaves her vulnerable to moving out of place.
The uterus is more vulnerable to going out of place three main times in a woman’s life- just before and during each menses, early pregnancy, and postpartum. This is because in these instances the uterus is larger & heavier than usual. With menses the uterus doubles in weight with a full endometrium. The uterus grows with pregnancy, often falling down on the bladder with weight in the first weeks until it finally starts growing upward out of the pelvic brim. Extensive pushing during childbirth can also over stretch ligaments and cause prolapse of the uterus. Postpartum the uterus which has given birth is getting smaller—but the ligaments that hold her in place have been stretched to the maximum. They take longer to get their full tone back and at this time when the abdominal muscles also are stretched out from the pregnancy, the uterus is vulnerable to misplacement.
Women who have repeated pregnancies close together, or who don’t have proper care after a miscarriage or abortion are also vulnerable to misplacing their uterus. Any jarring or heavy lifting during these vulnerable times can throw the uterus out of place. No snowboard jumping during your periods!!!
Even outside of these vulnerable times, someone who is constantly running on cement or doing any sports or activities which jar the body is more likely to have a uterus out of place. One friend jarred her uterus out of place when tobogganing with her kids. Another did it shoveling snow. It can happen from falling on the sacrum or being in car accidents. Having poor pelvic alignment can cause the uterus to tip with the pelvis. Chronic constipation or coughing can bear down on the uterus and cause her to prolapse or go lower into the yoni. Walking barefoot on cold floors can cause the circulation to bring coldness to the uterus which makes her vulnerable, as can a sedentary lifestyle, or emotional armoring from sexual abuse.
Avoiding these causes when possible is one way to care for our core. If it’s an unavoidable cause, then having some care from a certified Maya Massage Therapist and learning to do the self care on yourself will help replace the uterus, tone the ligaments, and restore circulation of blood, lymph & energy in the belly.
by Terra Rafael, Certified Arvigo Maya Massage Therapist & Registered Midwife
The uterus is more vulnerable to going out of place three main times in a woman’s life- just before and during each menses, early pregnancy, and postpartum. This is because in these instances the uterus is larger & heavier than usual. With menses the uterus doubles in weight with a full endometrium. The uterus grows with pregnancy, often falling down on the bladder with weight in the first weeks until it finally starts growing upward out of the pelvic brim. Extensive pushing during childbirth can also over stretch ligaments and cause prolapse of the uterus. Postpartum the uterus which has given birth is getting smaller—but the ligaments that hold her in place have been stretched to the maximum. They take longer to get their full tone back and at this time when the abdominal muscles also are stretched out from the pregnancy, the uterus is vulnerable to misplacement.
Women who have repeated pregnancies close together, or who don’t have proper care after a miscarriage or abortion are also vulnerable to misplacing their uterus. Any jarring or heavy lifting during these vulnerable times can throw the uterus out of place. No snowboard jumping during your periods!!!
Even outside of these vulnerable times, someone who is constantly running on cement or doing any sports or activities which jar the body is more likely to have a uterus out of place. One friend jarred her uterus out of place when tobogganing with her kids. Another did it shoveling snow. It can happen from falling on the sacrum or being in car accidents. Having poor pelvic alignment can cause the uterus to tip with the pelvis. Chronic constipation or coughing can bear down on the uterus and cause her to prolapse or go lower into the yoni. Walking barefoot on cold floors can cause the circulation to bring coldness to the uterus which makes her vulnerable, as can a sedentary lifestyle, or emotional armoring from sexual abuse.
Avoiding these causes when possible is one way to care for our core. If it’s an unavoidable cause, then having some care from a certified Maya Massage Therapist and learning to do the self care on yourself will help replace the uterus, tone the ligaments, and restore circulation of blood, lymph & energy in the belly.
by Terra Rafael, Certified Arvigo Maya Massage Therapist & Registered Midwife
20 November 2008
Poem - Me Embryo
Once I was Oneness-
Me Embryo-
Made by the merging of two that knew each other.
I was whole and holy, full of grace.
Already a female cell,
I floated.
I was fruitful and multiplied,
Cloning myself as myself-
a Raspberry of a kid-
I floated further.
I started knowing that there were many jobs to be done.
I differentiated and curled in upon myself.
About that time I planted firmly into Mother.
-by Terra Rafael
Me Embryo-
Made by the merging of two that knew each other.
I was whole and holy, full of grace.
Already a female cell,
I floated.
I was fruitful and multiplied,
Cloning myself as myself-
a Raspberry of a kid-
I floated further.
I started knowing that there were many jobs to be done.
I differentiated and curled in upon myself.
About that time I planted firmly into Mother.
-by Terra Rafael
19 November 2008
Caring for Our Core - Part One
Our belly is where we begin—the umbilicus was our original root to nourishment from Mother. This area continues to nourish us physically, emotionally, & energetically throughout our lives—when it is free to do its work. When the area is constricted by the uterus being out of place and/or stored tensions, this work does not happen properly. When the constrictions are released we are freer to have belly laughs and feel our gut reactions—as well as avoiding many discomforts & female complaints, such as menstrual cramps & irregularities & fertility problems.
I experienced first hand that these techniques work to move the uterus. My uterus had been sitting low in my yoni for some time—it had to be scooped up to see the cervix when doing a speculum self exam. When I received the massage from traditional Maya healer, Miss Beatrice, I felt my uterus move!! It’s a unique sensation. After having the massage done on me & practicing self massage for a couple of days I checked my cervical position and it had risen up. My next moon time was absolutely free of cramping and in subsequent cycles my blood remained fresh—no brown blood came out at the beginning or end as I HAD thought was normal. (The old, brown blood indicates that the uterus is not releasing all the blood from each period and there is an unhealthy build-up inside.)
Then I was blessed to attend two incredible workshops taught by Rosita Arvigo: Self Care & Professional training in the Arvigo Techniques of Maya Abdominal/Uterine Massage. Her teacher Don Elijio Ponti gave her permission to share what he had taught her to her American people, to help us care for our cores. Rosita had apprenticed with him for 12 years in Belize. She has integrated his teachings with American knowledge of anatomy & physiology; the work of Wilhelm Reich on energy bands; and her training in napropathy (a form of chiropractic which includes graduate level massage training).
At the Professional training we learned also techniques for the upper abdomen. This helps to loosen tight diaphragms and increases circulation, digestion and the ability to breathe deeply. Tightening here can be a way to store old unspoken & unresolved traumas in our body. By gentle work these can be healed. I personally experienced a deep healing with upper abdominal & other techniques regarding past sexual abuse. With the prayers and support of my Arvigo therapists I was able to release some very old yucky stuff from my body in a safe & simple way.
The techniques for pregnant women are specially designed for gentle support of the growing uterus, allowing it to go from the usual 4 oz of weight to about 15 lbs while staying in its physiological position. The increased blood flow, lymph drainage & nerve & energy flows allows for optimum growth of the baby and function of the uterus in labor. By properly position, the uterus can “aim” the baby out most easily. There are also special techniques reserved to use at 38 weeks to be sure the body is primed for labor. Practitioners report less incidence of overdue labors on women regularly receiving this technique. Also reported were successes with breech babies moving head down when the uterus is properly positioned.
I’m excited to include this work as part of my healing practice & look forward to serving you & your friends with these ways to enhance your health & happiness.
I experienced first hand that these techniques work to move the uterus. My uterus had been sitting low in my yoni for some time—it had to be scooped up to see the cervix when doing a speculum self exam. When I received the massage from traditional Maya healer, Miss Beatrice, I felt my uterus move!! It’s a unique sensation. After having the massage done on me & practicing self massage for a couple of days I checked my cervical position and it had risen up. My next moon time was absolutely free of cramping and in subsequent cycles my blood remained fresh—no brown blood came out at the beginning or end as I HAD thought was normal. (The old, brown blood indicates that the uterus is not releasing all the blood from each period and there is an unhealthy build-up inside.)
Then I was blessed to attend two incredible workshops taught by Rosita Arvigo: Self Care & Professional training in the Arvigo Techniques of Maya Abdominal/Uterine Massage. Her teacher Don Elijio Ponti gave her permission to share what he had taught her to her American people, to help us care for our cores. Rosita had apprenticed with him for 12 years in Belize. She has integrated his teachings with American knowledge of anatomy & physiology; the work of Wilhelm Reich on energy bands; and her training in napropathy (a form of chiropractic which includes graduate level massage training).
At the Professional training we learned also techniques for the upper abdomen. This helps to loosen tight diaphragms and increases circulation, digestion and the ability to breathe deeply. Tightening here can be a way to store old unspoken & unresolved traumas in our body. By gentle work these can be healed. I personally experienced a deep healing with upper abdominal & other techniques regarding past sexual abuse. With the prayers and support of my Arvigo therapists I was able to release some very old yucky stuff from my body in a safe & simple way.
The techniques for pregnant women are specially designed for gentle support of the growing uterus, allowing it to go from the usual 4 oz of weight to about 15 lbs while staying in its physiological position. The increased blood flow, lymph drainage & nerve & energy flows allows for optimum growth of the baby and function of the uterus in labor. By properly position, the uterus can “aim” the baby out most easily. There are also special techniques reserved to use at 38 weeks to be sure the body is primed for labor. Practitioners report less incidence of overdue labors on women regularly receiving this technique. Also reported were successes with breech babies moving head down when the uterus is properly positioned.
I’m excited to include this work as part of my healing practice & look forward to serving you & your friends with these ways to enhance your health & happiness.
18 November 2008
Song - Your Healing Waters
Hal-le-lu-jah for Your Healing Waters
Flowing through my life.
Faith helps me jump right in
I’m going to swim
To the Higher Side.
Your Healing Waters dissolve pain & sadness
In tears that set me free.
I’m left washed clean of my doubts & fears
By the never-ending waves of Your Love.
Chorus:
Your Healing Waters let me dive deep
Into my inner Soul.
The world’s busy words are all drowned out
By the unfathomable peace of Your Love.
Chorus:
Your Healing Waters are a steady stream
Bringing all that I need.
You are the Source that quenches all thirst
With the everflowing gift of Your Love.
Chorus:
Flowing through my life.
Faith helps me jump right in
I’m going to swim
To the Higher Side.
Your Healing Waters dissolve pain & sadness
In tears that set me free.
I’m left washed clean of my doubts & fears
By the never-ending waves of Your Love.
Chorus:
Your Healing Waters let me dive deep
Into my inner Soul.
The world’s busy words are all drowned out
By the unfathomable peace of Your Love.
Chorus:
Your Healing Waters are a steady stream
Bringing all that I need.
You are the Source that quenches all thirst
With the everflowing gift of Your Love.
Chorus:
17 November 2008
Poem - Slow Dance with the Aspen Tree
Wind is the music,
Altitude and Gentian, freshly picked, the aphrodesiacs.
My leg against your leg,
Leaves whisper in my Ear.
The masculine roughness of your bark against my face makes
My sap rise, even though it is fall.
Altitude and Gentian, freshly picked, the aphrodesiacs.
My leg against your leg,
Leaves whisper in my Ear.
The masculine roughness of your bark against my face makes
My sap rise, even though it is fall.
16 November 2008
Eating Fat
Eating Fat
I’ve always loved eating fat. As a child, I would savor sinking my teeth into the fat on a piece of roast beef. I followed the tradition of my Norwegian grandma who would eat butter by the spoonful. She lived almost into her 90’s.
My other grandma taught me the joys of mayonnaise. She would make some simple chip dip by mixing garlic salt into mayo. We’d dip into that fatty emulsion, scooping up generous portions on top of our potato chips. She only lived into her early 70’s.
As a teenager I began to delve into the mayonnaise jar with a spoon, especially when I was stressed. It was a quick fat fix. It calmed me—I didn’t know why. This was a secret perversion well into my adult years – until I learned about Ayurveda.
In Ayurveda my fat cravings were vindicated. I was trying to balance the dryness of my constitution through added fats and oils. By making sure that I went for the healthy forms of it, I could do what my basically healthy instincts called for without worrying that it was something I had to hide.
Meanwhile, the country was on a low fat craze. “Fat is bad,” became the message heard high and low. “Low fat-no fat” became the advertiser’s mantra. How could so many people be wrong???
Then menopause struck. My metabolism slowed down and I gained weight. Not usually having to be concerned about my weight, maybe that low fat idea was good after all. Some of that collective mind seeped in and I hedged on my better instincts. After all, if I wanted to BE low fat I’d have to EAT low fat. Right???
Then recently I heard about Diane Schwartzbein, MD and her books on nutrition and health. An endocrinologist, through her work with diabetics she came to see that the low fat diet actually leads down the road to insulin resistance and Type 2 diabetes. A higher amount of good fats, non-starchy vegetables, and proteins, and carbs only to the level needed by the body according to activity level can bring the body into balance, leading to a slow weight loss and healthy metabolism. She explains metabolism, insulin, weight, cholesterol, why dieting doesn’t work, and more.
So last night for our book release party I made my famous artichoke heart dip. People raved about it and craved it. They must be dying for fat. If you want to try it for yourself, here’s the recipe:
Artichoke Heart Dip
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Mix together: 1 cup cold-pressed oil mayonnaise
1 cup sour cream (whole fat, not low fat!)
1 cup parmesan cheese
at least 1 cup copped artichoke hearts
1 bunch green onions, finely chopped
Put the mixture (or mix it in) an oven-friendly container.
Sprinkle a bit more parmesan on top.
Bake about 30 minutes – until bubbly and golden on top.
Try this on break, crackers or other favorite dippers. Or mix with cooked green beans or other veggies for an enriching experience.
And read Diane Schwartzbein’s books—you’ll be amazed and healthier.
I’ve always loved eating fat. As a child, I would savor sinking my teeth into the fat on a piece of roast beef. I followed the tradition of my Norwegian grandma who would eat butter by the spoonful. She lived almost into her 90’s.
My other grandma taught me the joys of mayonnaise. She would make some simple chip dip by mixing garlic salt into mayo. We’d dip into that fatty emulsion, scooping up generous portions on top of our potato chips. She only lived into her early 70’s.
As a teenager I began to delve into the mayonnaise jar with a spoon, especially when I was stressed. It was a quick fat fix. It calmed me—I didn’t know why. This was a secret perversion well into my adult years – until I learned about Ayurveda.
In Ayurveda my fat cravings were vindicated. I was trying to balance the dryness of my constitution through added fats and oils. By making sure that I went for the healthy forms of it, I could do what my basically healthy instincts called for without worrying that it was something I had to hide.
Meanwhile, the country was on a low fat craze. “Fat is bad,” became the message heard high and low. “Low fat-no fat” became the advertiser’s mantra. How could so many people be wrong???
Then menopause struck. My metabolism slowed down and I gained weight. Not usually having to be concerned about my weight, maybe that low fat idea was good after all. Some of that collective mind seeped in and I hedged on my better instincts. After all, if I wanted to BE low fat I’d have to EAT low fat. Right???
Then recently I heard about Diane Schwartzbein, MD and her books on nutrition and health. An endocrinologist, through her work with diabetics she came to see that the low fat diet actually leads down the road to insulin resistance and Type 2 diabetes. A higher amount of good fats, non-starchy vegetables, and proteins, and carbs only to the level needed by the body according to activity level can bring the body into balance, leading to a slow weight loss and healthy metabolism. She explains metabolism, insulin, weight, cholesterol, why dieting doesn’t work, and more.
So last night for our book release party I made my famous artichoke heart dip. People raved about it and craved it. They must be dying for fat. If you want to try it for yourself, here’s the recipe:
Artichoke Heart Dip
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Mix together: 1 cup cold-pressed oil mayonnaise
1 cup sour cream (whole fat, not low fat!)
1 cup parmesan cheese
at least 1 cup copped artichoke hearts
1 bunch green onions, finely chopped
Put the mixture (or mix it in) an oven-friendly container.
Sprinkle a bit more parmesan on top.
Bake about 30 minutes – until bubbly and golden on top.
Try this on break, crackers or other favorite dippers. Or mix with cooked green beans or other veggies for an enriching experience.
And read Diane Schwartzbein’s books—you’ll be amazed and healthier.
15 November 2008
The Burgundy Shawl
When I first wore the burgundy shawl it was Christmas, 1978. It was a gift from Frannie, the office manager at the investment firm I worked for. I delivered stocks in downtown Denver. Knowing I was a free spirit, she figured that I was a person who would wear shawls. She was right.
Since then, this 3’ by 3’ woven square of wine-colored woolen yarn has served me well. It has sheltered me through 3 marriages, 2 divorces, 2 childbirths, countless menstrual moons, as well as menopause.
It reminds me of how my Grandpa Johnson complimented me whenever I wore red.
Worn around my neck in the winter, it’s protected me from chills, with a flare of fringe. Worn around my waist, I am a gypsy. Worn as a head scarf, I am a Muslim or Audrey Hepburn. Held in my hands, it can unfurl into a moving cloud of color, and I am a belly dancer. It has been a blanket for picnics and sudden sex.
Countless meditations have been marked by wrapping it around my body, to cocoon the flesh, and allowing my inner self to merge into oneness.
It has been my prayer rug, as I have prayed in the Muslim tradition as a Sufi, facing Mecca.
As an altar cloth, it has served as I have honored my ancestors and celebrated the pagan high holidays, both outside under the stars and inside in solitary rituals.
The fringe around the edge still quavers in the breeze.
This shawl is steeped in the many flavors of my life. It carries forward what I have been into what I am now, reminding me of that inner fiber that is always the same no matter how it is styled and used from day to day.
Since then, this 3’ by 3’ woven square of wine-colored woolen yarn has served me well. It has sheltered me through 3 marriages, 2 divorces, 2 childbirths, countless menstrual moons, as well as menopause.
It reminds me of how my Grandpa Johnson complimented me whenever I wore red.
Worn around my neck in the winter, it’s protected me from chills, with a flare of fringe. Worn around my waist, I am a gypsy. Worn as a head scarf, I am a Muslim or Audrey Hepburn. Held in my hands, it can unfurl into a moving cloud of color, and I am a belly dancer. It has been a blanket for picnics and sudden sex.
Countless meditations have been marked by wrapping it around my body, to cocoon the flesh, and allowing my inner self to merge into oneness.
It has been my prayer rug, as I have prayed in the Muslim tradition as a Sufi, facing Mecca.
As an altar cloth, it has served as I have honored my ancestors and celebrated the pagan high holidays, both outside under the stars and inside in solitary rituals.
The fringe around the edge still quavers in the breeze.
This shawl is steeped in the many flavors of my life. It carries forward what I have been into what I am now, reminding me of that inner fiber that is always the same no matter how it is styled and used from day to day.
14 November 2008
Solitaire as a Spiritual Practice
My Grandma Johnson used to play solitaire a lot. I learned from her how to line up the cards in a neat row of 7 and then transfer them, according to the rules, to the 4 piles of suits, beginning with aces. The gentle slapping as the end of each card recoils from fingers to table is a soothing sound to my ears.
So I’ve continued my solitaire throughout my life. It’s such a convenient way to be alone when I want time to myself; when I don’t want to talk with someone; or I’m tired of thinking too much. And it’s a great way to while away the time when waiting or flying cross country.
I got into playing on my PDA (personal digital assistant!) for that reason. I missed the feel and sound of the cards but the speed of dealing out the cards made up for it. I could play games at lightening speed. I started rejecting games that looked like losers once they were dealt. This way I won quite frequently. It was very rewarding – at the end of a winning game the cards on the screen would do a cascading dance. I’d often call over anyone nearby to see it when I won.
When I was younger sometimes I would cheat, but it became apparent that since only I was playing I was only cheating myself. And with my PDA and computer that was strictly verboten. Not even possible. So I gave that up completely.
After awhile I became more aware of my attachment to winning. I’d get emotionally involved and rail against losing. I decided to practice just playing-- letting it be, very simply, the game as it was. Noticing its form, yet letting it dissolve back into its pile of anonymity-- like the K’aaba of the Middle East or the uncarved stone of Taoism, the shuffled deck undealt. Thorough shuffling became a ritual of my religion.
Some games would die quickly and early, while others would go almost to winning but then have a fatal flaw that I could see but do nothing about. Some would be winning. I saw how sometimes I gave up too easily. I learned tricks to open up a corner into a doorway. Each game became a relationship reminding me of the various trajectories of life and how to work with them. And how to accept them when there was nothing else to be done. Solitaire serves me well.
So I’ve continued my solitaire throughout my life. It’s such a convenient way to be alone when I want time to myself; when I don’t want to talk with someone; or I’m tired of thinking too much. And it’s a great way to while away the time when waiting or flying cross country.
I got into playing on my PDA (personal digital assistant!) for that reason. I missed the feel and sound of the cards but the speed of dealing out the cards made up for it. I could play games at lightening speed. I started rejecting games that looked like losers once they were dealt. This way I won quite frequently. It was very rewarding – at the end of a winning game the cards on the screen would do a cascading dance. I’d often call over anyone nearby to see it when I won.
When I was younger sometimes I would cheat, but it became apparent that since only I was playing I was only cheating myself. And with my PDA and computer that was strictly verboten. Not even possible. So I gave that up completely.
After awhile I became more aware of my attachment to winning. I’d get emotionally involved and rail against losing. I decided to practice just playing-- letting it be, very simply, the game as it was. Noticing its form, yet letting it dissolve back into its pile of anonymity-- like the K’aaba of the Middle East or the uncarved stone of Taoism, the shuffled deck undealt. Thorough shuffling became a ritual of my religion.
Some games would die quickly and early, while others would go almost to winning but then have a fatal flaw that I could see but do nothing about. Some would be winning. I saw how sometimes I gave up too easily. I learned tricks to open up a corner into a doorway. Each game became a relationship reminding me of the various trajectories of life and how to work with them. And how to accept them when there was nothing else to be done. Solitaire serves me well.
11 November 2008
Poem - In Honor of Veteran's Day and Anarchist Day
the movie that showed them slaughtering women & children
some mother’s child was killing another mother’s child.
I heard the baby in my womb cry out amidst the sound of gunshots.
I had to cry, when I realized what war really means.
How can mothers allow it?
some mother’s child was killing another mother’s child.
I heard the baby in my womb cry out amidst the sound of gunshots.
I had to cry, when I realized what war really means.
How can mothers allow it?
10 November 2008
What My Family Gave Me
Grandma Johnson gave me a pile of books, a green thumb and an ear for music.
Grandpa Johnson encouraged me to dress beautifully, praising how I looked in the new clothes he bought me.
Grandma Moan gave me the taste of bread freshly baked in her wood stove and water, freshly pumped from deep in the earth and the knowledge that an 80 year old woman could still chop wood.
Grandpa Moan gave me a vision of an angry Norse god shaking his cane like Thor, shaking the lightning, followed by the thunder of his Norwegian words.
Uncle Manley gave me the chance to overcome his abuse and my shame, and a deep-seated attunement to sex.
Dad gave me a two-wheel bike that I could grow into, a canoe that I could paddle alone around Side Lake, and a love for a neat and clean home.
Mom gave me the chance to be responsible for my sisters and brothers, a childhood with a soundtrack of crooners and show tunes, and a warm cuddle now & then.
Grandpa Johnson encouraged me to dress beautifully, praising how I looked in the new clothes he bought me.
Grandma Moan gave me the taste of bread freshly baked in her wood stove and water, freshly pumped from deep in the earth and the knowledge that an 80 year old woman could still chop wood.
Grandpa Moan gave me a vision of an angry Norse god shaking his cane like Thor, shaking the lightning, followed by the thunder of his Norwegian words.
Uncle Manley gave me the chance to overcome his abuse and my shame, and a deep-seated attunement to sex.
Dad gave me a two-wheel bike that I could grow into, a canoe that I could paddle alone around Side Lake, and a love for a neat and clean home.
Mom gave me the chance to be responsible for my sisters and brothers, a childhood with a soundtrack of crooners and show tunes, and a warm cuddle now & then.
09 November 2008
Poem - Coming Home
I’m riding the night snake road eastward on my rubber road-wings,
Home to the Garden of our Delights.
A wild mushroom might be growing in our bed,
Fed by dark moist leavings of our past.
When I taste It , It tastes me back.
The colors come alive until they all burn white
And my eyes close to grow the Garden of brightly blooming waves of light & fragrance
inside of me now—
Home to the Garden of our Delights.
A wild mushroom might be growing in our bed,
Fed by dark moist leavings of our past.
When I taste It , It tastes me back.
The colors come alive until they all burn white
And my eyes close to grow the Garden of brightly blooming waves of light & fragrance
inside of me now—
08 November 2008
Reiki & Worry
Insomnia didn’t just take away sleep time—it added worry time. When I couldn’t sleep, I often would find someone or something to worry over. With my midwifery practice both insomnia and worry were easy pathways to follow.
Reiki helped me through both the worry and the insomnia. This energy healing system from Japan was originated by Dr. Usui in the late 1800’s. “Rei – Kei” means Universal Healing Energy. Through initiation, the channels that carry this energy are opened widely to allow it to flow more freely. It can be focused for specific uses as well—mental /emotional healing and distance healing.
It was the distance healing that came in handy during my night wakings. I promised myself that rather than worrying, which was counterproductive to both sleep and anyone’s well-being, I would send Reiki to the “worry-ee” instead. Permission is necessary for giving Reiki to someone—and my midwifery clients had given me implicit permission do what was helpful to for them and their pregnancy. So, I’d tune into Reiki, invoke the distance healing symbol for them, and send Reiki.
Did my night sessions help? It certainly helped me. While giving Reiki to others it flows through me, filling my energy body with that healing energy. So even if still half awake, I calmed and rested.
Reiki is like food. We take it in and our body does what it naturally does when nourished and working well. Reiki is like sleep. The deep relaxation often accompanying Reiki allows the body to go into deep healing mode. One of the things I like best about Reiki is that it can do no harm.
During prenatal visits, when massaging the woman’s pregnant belly and the baby inside, Reiki would be flowing to them. And at the births, Reiki was filling the room.
The other outstanding phenomenon in my practice after beginning to use Reiki was that babies didn’t have meconium staining in labor. “Mec”, the release of the baby’s bowels, can result from stress. It is not uncommon—except in my midwifery practice. It was so uncommon that, in fact, my apprentices had never practiced the standard procedure of deep suctioning of the baby to prevent aspiration of the meconium when breathing begins. When later my apprentices started attending births with other midwives I was accused of not performing this crucial procedure when needed, since the apprentices didn’t know how to do it. Babies simply didn’t need it. Whether it was the Reiki or some other factor in my practice is hard to discern.
Still, Reiki is such a convenient tool—nothing to carry; no supplies to buy; just initiated hands and the will to share some healing energy.
Reiki helped me through both the worry and the insomnia. This energy healing system from Japan was originated by Dr. Usui in the late 1800’s. “Rei – Kei” means Universal Healing Energy. Through initiation, the channels that carry this energy are opened widely to allow it to flow more freely. It can be focused for specific uses as well—mental /emotional healing and distance healing.
It was the distance healing that came in handy during my night wakings. I promised myself that rather than worrying, which was counterproductive to both sleep and anyone’s well-being, I would send Reiki to the “worry-ee” instead. Permission is necessary for giving Reiki to someone—and my midwifery clients had given me implicit permission do what was helpful to for them and their pregnancy. So, I’d tune into Reiki, invoke the distance healing symbol for them, and send Reiki.
Did my night sessions help? It certainly helped me. While giving Reiki to others it flows through me, filling my energy body with that healing energy. So even if still half awake, I calmed and rested.
Reiki is like food. We take it in and our body does what it naturally does when nourished and working well. Reiki is like sleep. The deep relaxation often accompanying Reiki allows the body to go into deep healing mode. One of the things I like best about Reiki is that it can do no harm.
During prenatal visits, when massaging the woman’s pregnant belly and the baby inside, Reiki would be flowing to them. And at the births, Reiki was filling the room.
The other outstanding phenomenon in my practice after beginning to use Reiki was that babies didn’t have meconium staining in labor. “Mec”, the release of the baby’s bowels, can result from stress. It is not uncommon—except in my midwifery practice. It was so uncommon that, in fact, my apprentices had never practiced the standard procedure of deep suctioning of the baby to prevent aspiration of the meconium when breathing begins. When later my apprentices started attending births with other midwives I was accused of not performing this crucial procedure when needed, since the apprentices didn’t know how to do it. Babies simply didn’t need it. Whether it was the Reiki or some other factor in my practice is hard to discern.
Still, Reiki is such a convenient tool—nothing to carry; no supplies to buy; just initiated hands and the will to share some healing energy.
05 November 2008
Peaches
A peach is the closest thing to a breast in the fruit realm. It has the same inviting, soft roundness, with an aura of fuzz, making its skin more human. And inside is a sweet juiciness that drips like mother’s milk from the corner of our sated, innocent lips. The same trancelike state of contentment can result. If the apple was offered from the tree of knowledge, then surely the tree of life offers us peaches.
This helps explain my rivalry with my stepson for claims on the peach tree in our yard. He says that it’s his—because the peach tree planted when he was born was left at the house of his parent’s broken marriage and this one replaces it. I say it’s mine—because I have watered and tended it, watched it and talked with it. After all, we are both vying for the mother nurturance of those breasts that each of us still feel we need.
If only peach trees, like breasts, produced more peaches the more one suckled from them. On the Front Range of Colorado, our trees bear fruit sporadically. Our changeable springs often warm enough to coax the branches into blossom, only to destroy the flowers with a late freeze.
Yet, I remember one year when the peach tree of my previous marriage was so full of peaches that we had to prop up the branches. And that was after doing some serious thinning earlier in the season.
Oh, what glorious juice those peaches yielded – so tree-ripened tasty. Such joy of plucking off the tree and immediately biting in, the fruit still teeming with life force. Sweet Peach Mother, I hope for a spring that pleases You and brings us enough peach nectar to satisfy us all.
This helps explain my rivalry with my stepson for claims on the peach tree in our yard. He says that it’s his—because the peach tree planted when he was born was left at the house of his parent’s broken marriage and this one replaces it. I say it’s mine—because I have watered and tended it, watched it and talked with it. After all, we are both vying for the mother nurturance of those breasts that each of us still feel we need.
If only peach trees, like breasts, produced more peaches the more one suckled from them. On the Front Range of Colorado, our trees bear fruit sporadically. Our changeable springs often warm enough to coax the branches into blossom, only to destroy the flowers with a late freeze.
Yet, I remember one year when the peach tree of my previous marriage was so full of peaches that we had to prop up the branches. And that was after doing some serious thinning earlier in the season.
Oh, what glorious juice those peaches yielded – so tree-ripened tasty. Such joy of plucking off the tree and immediately biting in, the fruit still teeming with life force. Sweet Peach Mother, I hope for a spring that pleases You and brings us enough peach nectar to satisfy us all.
04 November 2008
Pregnant Belly Painting
It began with a smiling belly button. This particular woman’s belly button reacted to the growing belly of pregnancy by curling into a smile shaped wrinkle. I couldn’t help but notice it while massaging the belly and baby inside during prenatal visits. One day we decided to surprise her husband by turning it into a cartoon—with two dot eyes and a balloon from the smiling mouth that said, ”Hi!” 
After that, I began to notice how the burgeoning bellies of late pregnancy were actually curvaceous canvases waiting to be painted upon. It seemed right to make this painting part of a ritual marking the ripeness of pregnancy. At 37 weeks we paint the belly, celebrating the safety for a homebirth at that stage of development.
The woman can indicate her preferences as to what is included in the painting, but most leave it up to the painters. Usually the painters include me and my apprentices. The woman’s partner and children are also welcome to paint, as desired by the woman.
Women look forward to the ritual as a fun time as well as the marker that all is ready for giving birth. And it adds some fun photos to their pregnancy journal.
After that, I began to notice how the burgeoning bellies of late pregnancy were actually curvaceous canvases waiting to be painted upon. It seemed right to make this painting part of a ritual marking the ripeness of pregnancy. At 37 weeks we paint the belly, celebrating the safety for a homebirth at that stage of development.
The woman can indicate her preferences as to what is included in the painting, but most leave it up to the painters. Usually the painters include me and my apprentices. The woman’s partner and children are also welcome to paint, as desired by the woman.
Women look forward to the ritual as a fun time as well as the marker that all is ready for giving birth. And it adds some fun photos to their pregnancy journal.
03 November 2008
Placenta- excerpt from "Giving Birth to Ourselves, contemplations for midwives and other birth companions."
The placenta is an amazing organ of nourishment & cleansing, which also maintains the hormonal state of pregnancy in the mother. The beauty of a healthy placenta goes far beyond its meaty mother's side and shiny baby's side. Yet many people in this culture abhor the thought of seeing and touching it. It is treated as garbage or made into cosmetics after the birth. Honoring the placenta is a way of honoring nourishment and the process of life itself.
In giving birth to ourselves we each have that which nourishes and cleanses us, maintaining the state of creation in us. That is our placenta now. It may be something very meaty, motherly , shiny, or baby-like. It may be Mother Earth Herself . Whatever it is that provides for us in this way brings us the blessings and nourishment of our Great Mother. By honoring it - acknowledging & thanking it for it's support- we honor ourselves and the process of giving birth to ourselves.
Contemplations--
· Do I know what constitutes my placenta now?
· Do I honor it?
· What could I do to better respect this aspect of giving birth to myself?
Activities--
In giving birth to ourselves we each have that which nourishes and cleanses us, maintaining the state of creation in us. That is our placenta now. It may be something very meaty, motherly , shiny, or baby-like. It may be Mother Earth Herself . Whatever it is that provides for us in this way brings us the blessings and nourishment of our Great Mother. By honoring it - acknowledging & thanking it for it's support- we honor ourselves and the process of giving birth to ourselves.
Contemplations--
· Do I know what constitutes my placenta now?
· Do I honor it?
· What could I do to better respect this aspect of giving birth to myself?
Activities--
Create a physical representation of your placenta to help remind you of it. It could be a special pillow, or a collage of pictures that represent that which sustains you.
Start a placenta book. It could include anything you learn about nourishing yourself and physical placentas.
Be sure that all birth placentas you are in contact with are treated with respect - if need be, take custody.
Giving Birth to Ourselves, contemplations for midwives and other birth companions by Terra Rafael is available as a print on demand book or download at www.lulu.com
02 November 2008
Blueberries
There is nothing like the taste of wild blueberries. It’s been decades since I had them, yet the memory of them lingers. In the Wisconsin Indian summer, Grandma, Grandpa & I would go into the woods to gather them. It was still warmish weather, yet we’d wear long sleeves to protect us from scratches from undergrowth and itches from mosquitoes. I carried a little metal pail, shiny silver with a silvery metal wire handle that would squeak a bit on the hinge where it connected to the pail.
The woods were shady and damp, the perfect habitat for wild blueberries, mosquitoes and bears. I never saw the bears but knew that they were there, somewhere in the bushes, and that they too love blueberries, so I was their rival.
I definitely ate at least half of all the berries that I picked, right there on the spot. When the dark blue skin gave way to my teeth, the burst of concentrated sweetness and blue flavor pleased me ever so much. But I still managed to have at least half my child-sized pail filled when we went home—along with some itchy red bumps from bug bites.
Since I moved to Colorado 33 years ago I haven’t had a chance to visit the wild blueberry patches of Wisconsin. So when I first saw blueberries at the grocery store I was hopeful about resuming my blue-tinged pleasure. Those first ones were almost the size of grapes--& tasteless. I wouldn’t really call them blueberries, and although blue on the outside, even the skin color was less vivid. The sweet and blue flavor was diluted by domestication. Wild blueberries grew where they willed, whereas domesticated rows were coaxed into productivity where the farmer chose. Those reluctant blueberries didn’t have what they needed to make that amazing wild flavor. Perhaps bred for production and size, somehow the flavor genes got lost. Most Coloradans might never have tasted the real thing, but I was sorely disappointed.
Over the years commercial blueberries have greatly improved—especially the organic ones. They taste nearer to wild, with more of the flavor, and now aren’t so big. I indulge in my blue-tinged pleasure at will—especially because they have so many health benefits as well. Micro-nutrients packed into that delicious package prevent –or even reverse- mental decline due to aging, prevent cancer, and lower cholesterol.
One summer we tried to grow some blueberry plants in our Colorado yard. I never would have bought the plants, knowing that the climate is all wrong here. But my husband Victor bought them because blueberries are a family favorite.
So we planted the two plants in our back yard. That’s how I found out that rabbits love blueberry plants even more than I do. They ate all of the leaves, down to the ground, before there was even a hint of a blueberry on them. The bare stems forlornly bore no more leaves. It was sad but perhaps for the best. I would have been even more disappointed to bring pseudo-blueberries into the world.
The woods were shady and damp, the perfect habitat for wild blueberries, mosquitoes and bears. I never saw the bears but knew that they were there, somewhere in the bushes, and that they too love blueberries, so I was their rival.
I definitely ate at least half of all the berries that I picked, right there on the spot. When the dark blue skin gave way to my teeth, the burst of concentrated sweetness and blue flavor pleased me ever so much. But I still managed to have at least half my child-sized pail filled when we went home—along with some itchy red bumps from bug bites.
Since I moved to Colorado 33 years ago I haven’t had a chance to visit the wild blueberry patches of Wisconsin. So when I first saw blueberries at the grocery store I was hopeful about resuming my blue-tinged pleasure. Those first ones were almost the size of grapes--& tasteless. I wouldn’t really call them blueberries, and although blue on the outside, even the skin color was less vivid. The sweet and blue flavor was diluted by domestication. Wild blueberries grew where they willed, whereas domesticated rows were coaxed into productivity where the farmer chose. Those reluctant blueberries didn’t have what they needed to make that amazing wild flavor. Perhaps bred for production and size, somehow the flavor genes got lost. Most Coloradans might never have tasted the real thing, but I was sorely disappointed.
Over the years commercial blueberries have greatly improved—especially the organic ones. They taste nearer to wild, with more of the flavor, and now aren’t so big. I indulge in my blue-tinged pleasure at will—especially because they have so many health benefits as well. Micro-nutrients packed into that delicious package prevent –or even reverse- mental decline due to aging, prevent cancer, and lower cholesterol.
One summer we tried to grow some blueberry plants in our Colorado yard. I never would have bought the plants, knowing that the climate is all wrong here. But my husband Victor bought them because blueberries are a family favorite.
So we planted the two plants in our back yard. That’s how I found out that rabbits love blueberry plants even more than I do. They ate all of the leaves, down to the ground, before there was even a hint of a blueberry on them. The bare stems forlornly bore no more leaves. It was sad but perhaps for the best. I would have been even more disappointed to bring pseudo-blueberries into the world.
01 November 2008
Let's Recreate the Birth Matrix
Birth is an inherently female, feminine process. Through the ages woman alone has given birth. It is only in the modern age, with the gaze of science turned upon her that Birth has been taken into the masculine realm of measurement, logic and engineering. It has been reduced to “Stages of Labor, ” “Progress or Lack of Progress”, and “Labor Management.” Reduced to “Home Like” labor rooms and Pain Relief.
Birth is a transformation—what has been created within is revealed to the world. The woman moves from physiological inner mothering in pregnancy to outer, more deliberate mothering postpartum. The separation begins that leads on to an independent adult. The stamp of culture is imprinted on this adult, beginning with Pregnancy, but most emphatically with Birth.
It’s time to deliberately recreate the Birth Matrix – reweave the rich fabric of the creative process that is birth, into the mantle of womanhood, replacing the thin uniform of the hospital gown.
Through my work as a midwife and mystic the threads of this reweaving have been revealed to me by birthing women, the community of midwives and the inspiration of the Feminine in Her many guises. I wish to share them with you so that we can knit together that which has been unraveled by generations of lost woman-knowledge.
Birth is a transformation—what has been created within is revealed to the world. The woman moves from physiological inner mothering in pregnancy to outer, more deliberate mothering postpartum. The separation begins that leads on to an independent adult. The stamp of culture is imprinted on this adult, beginning with Pregnancy, but most emphatically with Birth.
It’s time to deliberately recreate the Birth Matrix – reweave the rich fabric of the creative process that is birth, into the mantle of womanhood, replacing the thin uniform of the hospital gown.
Through my work as a midwife and mystic the threads of this reweaving have been revealed to me by birthing women, the community of midwives and the inspiration of the Feminine in Her many guises. I wish to share them with you so that we can knit together that which has been unraveled by generations of lost woman-knowledge.
How Pregnancy Grows from the Menstrual Cycle
The menstrual cycle contains the experiences of Maiden, Mother, & Crone within itself. These primordial archetypes of Goddess enliven and inform us of different phases of women’s creative power. Each cycle we are Maiden, made new with the development of possible egg-babies, and with pheromones and fertile mucus for attracting a mate to fertilize them. We are Mother after ovulation, in the phase that prepares and maintains the nurturing womb. And we are Crone when our hormones plummet if pregnancy doesn’t occur, with the emptying of juice and form while filling with subtle, intuitive heart potential.
By bringing awareness & care into the menstrual cycle, we also gain in experience that will serve us if we ever become pregnant. Healthy nutrition, maintaining energetic balance, nurturing herbs, adequate exercise & rest, relaxation practice -- all serve in both situations.
Pregnancy, then, is the fulfilled form of that Mother/luteal phase, when sperm has successfully merged with ripe egg and developing zygote has implanted firmly into receptive uterine lining. It is the long time of nurturing the dream. Even if pregnancy was not planned or desired, it is still the animal dream of the body to reproduce.
Pregnancy, then, is the fulfilled form of that Mother/luteal phase, when sperm has successfully merged with ripe egg and developing zygote has implanted firmly into receptive uterine lining. It is the long time of nurturing the dream. Even if pregnancy was not planned or desired, it is still the animal dream of the body to reproduce.
This extra juicy, growing pregnancy phase fills the body with more blood, more heart, more weight, and bigger feet. An actual inner ocean of amniotic fluid forms within the amniotic sac and our evolving babies swim in it until they are born and land on solid ground. The intimate physical connection between mother and baby is mediated by the amazing multiple functions of the placenta.
The last month of pregnancy is often a time associated with discomforts of being full to overflowing—just as premenstrually many women experience the heaviness of their engorged womb, dropping downward a bit from the change of their hormones.
The emotional changes of the fertility cycle can prepare us for dealing with pregnancy feelings. Women who listen to themselves with awareness and care for themselves adequately find that heightened emotional sensitivity is not necessarily a call to bitchiness (although that too can be useful). It can be an opportunity to hear themselves more clearly in respect to what in their lives serves them & what does not. More alone time is a common need that women easily overlook at other times of their lives which may become more pressing during pre-bleeding & pre-birthing.
Giving birth is an enhanced form of the menstrual phase, when what has been grown inside is now ready to be released, even pushed, out into the world. Women who have experienced the inward, downward pulling of energy during moon bleeding will be familiar with that feeling in its greatly intensified form during labor. Healthy menstrual practices help preserve the balance of this key energy for pregnancy & birth. Those who have experienced menstrual cramps and found ways to come to terms with them will recognize the early labor sensation of the cervix beginning to open as a familiar one, not so scary. This brings the relaxed familiarity to early labor often considered possible only for those who have already given birth.
Allowed a deep inwardness, our instincts can guide our posture & movements and provide safe passageway for our creation, just as women guided inwardly during menses can find the right physical and emotional attitude to menstruate with more ease and grace. As the baby and placenta are released, a great emptiness is created in our body, even as our heart expands with instinctual, hormonal love. We flow with so large a postpartum “menses” as part of that huge emptying and flow with milk as part of that heart expansion.
Learning from and cultivating awareness during our cycles also prepares us for pregnancy and birth. It increases our creative potential as Maiden, Mother, and Crone, whether we ever give birth physically or not.
Learning from and cultivating awareness during our cycles also prepares us for pregnancy and birth. It increases our creative potential as Maiden, Mother, and Crone, whether we ever give birth physically or not.
31 October 2008
A Song for the Witches
wisewomen healers who were burned at the stake-
you who were stoned and tortured-
I mourn your fate-
witches, my sisters, millions through the years-
patriarchal fires be drowned with my tears.
through the full moon that shines on me as it did on you-
through the lunar cycles you watched as I do-
pass me your power and courage tonight-
to fight the oppressions you fought long ago.
pass me your power and knowledge to heal-
to heal all the people as you did long ago.
wisewomen healers who were burned at the stake-
you who were stoned and tortured-
I mourn your fate-
you who were stoned and tortured-
I mourn your fate-
witches, my sisters, millions through the years-
patriarchal fires be drowned with my tears.
through the full moon that shines on me as it did on you-
through the lunar cycles you watched as I do-
pass me your power and courage tonight-
to fight the oppressions you fought long ago.
pass me your power and knowledge to heal-
to heal all the people as you did long ago.
wisewomen healers who were burned at the stake-
you who were stoned and tortured-
I mourn your fate-
30 October 2008
Past Death Experience
Sometimes I wonder if I will die soon and that’s why I feel so compelled to write about my life. When my daughter, Alana, was about four years old, she would often ask me if she could have certain of my possessions when I died. This happened often enough that I became suspicious that she had a psychic knowledge that I was soon to die. But 15 years later I’m still here.
When Alana was a baby I wondered if she would die soon. She seemed too perfect, too angelic, to live in this world. These fears came up for me even more strongly after I attended a stillbirth.
Part of my healing from that experience was to go to someone who did past life regressions. She led me into a past life where Alana had been my daughter. It was centuries ago in England, in a small village along the coast. We had settled recently in my husband’s ancestral place and then he had to go away for several long months in his job as a trader. The minister of the town church tried to seduce me. When I rebuffed him, he countered by accusing me of being a witch. Because I loved plants and intimately knew their ways, and also was a newcomer, some of the villagers believed him. Shortly thereafter he died unexpectedly and some of the villagers accused me of poisoning him. It was talked up until, one night they stormed our house. Alana and I fled to the upstairs loft where we were trapped as they set fire to our home with torches. Our spirits flew away together into the night, with the smoke rising from our burning house.
This is why both of use anticipated each others death at times of insecurity – me, after a stillbirth and her, beginning preschool.
When Alana was a baby I wondered if she would die soon. She seemed too perfect, too angelic, to live in this world. These fears came up for me even more strongly after I attended a stillbirth.
Part of my healing from that experience was to go to someone who did past life regressions. She led me into a past life where Alana had been my daughter. It was centuries ago in England, in a small village along the coast. We had settled recently in my husband’s ancestral place and then he had to go away for several long months in his job as a trader. The minister of the town church tried to seduce me. When I rebuffed him, he countered by accusing me of being a witch. Because I loved plants and intimately knew their ways, and also was a newcomer, some of the villagers believed him. Shortly thereafter he died unexpectedly and some of the villagers accused me of poisoning him. It was talked up until, one night they stormed our house. Alana and I fled to the upstairs loft where we were trapped as they set fire to our home with torches. Our spirits flew away together into the night, with the smoke rising from our burning house.
This is why both of use anticipated each others death at times of insecurity – me, after a stillbirth and her, beginning preschool.
29 October 2008
Reunion With Mother Nature
I’ve reached an age where my own death looms as a real possibility. The Hospice volunteer training that I did had something to do with it. We talked about how helpful and useful it is to the family if you make your end-of-life plans ahead of time. And write them down.
For me, death is when that part of me which is nature returns to the Mother and that part which is spirit returns to the Father. Each deserves consideration. I spend time daily meditating, praying, and serving to prepare for my union with the Father. Yet how would the Mother most like to receive me? How do I prepare for physical reunion with Mother Nature? How might my body be of service to the ecosystem?
Definitely not embalmed and in a sealed metal box. This was designed to keep the body from Her – to avoid that final dissolution of the “me” with which we each have so long identified.—to deter decay, which is, in fact, the process of becoming one again with the Mother Earth.
For some time I’ve thought cremation might be my way, burning it all up. I envisioned my ashes later being sent up into the night sky with fireworks and exploding into one final exciting orgasm of light. Sent off with the “oohs” and “ahhs”. But now that seems a great waste of my nutrients—just burning them. Spectacular, yes. But why not pass on what I have in the form of physical nourishment to other living beings instead of wasting it?
Once I read a novel which told of necrophagia as a spiritual practice. They would respectfully eat the dead, to take their beloved’s physical self into their continuing bodies, to literally carry them with them in their very own cells. This might not go over with my dear ones. And I’m not sure how I could arrange it. Could I find a butcher willing to be prepaid to quickly skin and chop my flesh into eatable cuts? I think I’d like to be stewed with lots of vegetables and spices.
The Native American tradition of placing the body on an open, wooden platform, out in nature, leaving the dead to the elements and scavenging birds appeals to my airy nature. But this probably wouldn’t fit in with the health codes. And I’m sure that there would be objections from some of the neighbors, if not my husband, with the public display of my bones being pecked clean.
Maybe the waters could claim me, with a burial at sea. I love the ocean and the creatures swimming in that world. Snorkeling has been a great pleasure for me. So maybe I could be dropped off the side of a boat, wrapped in a simple silk cloth and go under to feed the fishies. But I’m living in landlocked Colorado.
So going back to Mother Earth may be about feeding bacteria in the earth to enrich the land Herself, putting my bare body into the ground and covering it with dirt. Would this be too brutal for my beloveds? I’d like a tree planted on my grave—maybe a peach tree. That would bring me into full juiciness and sweetness in their memories and their mouths.
Death is so full of questions.
For me, death is when that part of me which is nature returns to the Mother and that part which is spirit returns to the Father. Each deserves consideration. I spend time daily meditating, praying, and serving to prepare for my union with the Father. Yet how would the Mother most like to receive me? How do I prepare for physical reunion with Mother Nature? How might my body be of service to the ecosystem?
Definitely not embalmed and in a sealed metal box. This was designed to keep the body from Her – to avoid that final dissolution of the “me” with which we each have so long identified.—to deter decay, which is, in fact, the process of becoming one again with the Mother Earth.
For some time I’ve thought cremation might be my way, burning it all up. I envisioned my ashes later being sent up into the night sky with fireworks and exploding into one final exciting orgasm of light. Sent off with the “oohs” and “ahhs”. But now that seems a great waste of my nutrients—just burning them. Spectacular, yes. But why not pass on what I have in the form of physical nourishment to other living beings instead of wasting it?
Once I read a novel which told of necrophagia as a spiritual practice. They would respectfully eat the dead, to take their beloved’s physical self into their continuing bodies, to literally carry them with them in their very own cells. This might not go over with my dear ones. And I’m not sure how I could arrange it. Could I find a butcher willing to be prepaid to quickly skin and chop my flesh into eatable cuts? I think I’d like to be stewed with lots of vegetables and spices.
The Native American tradition of placing the body on an open, wooden platform, out in nature, leaving the dead to the elements and scavenging birds appeals to my airy nature. But this probably wouldn’t fit in with the health codes. And I’m sure that there would be objections from some of the neighbors, if not my husband, with the public display of my bones being pecked clean.
Maybe the waters could claim me, with a burial at sea. I love the ocean and the creatures swimming in that world. Snorkeling has been a great pleasure for me. So maybe I could be dropped off the side of a boat, wrapped in a simple silk cloth and go under to feed the fishies. But I’m living in landlocked Colorado.
So going back to Mother Earth may be about feeding bacteria in the earth to enrich the land Herself, putting my bare body into the ground and covering it with dirt. Would this be too brutal for my beloveds? I’d like a tree planted on my grave—maybe a peach tree. That would bring me into full juiciness and sweetness in their memories and their mouths.
Death is so full of questions.
28 October 2008
Treated Like a Dog
What is it about people and their dogs now-a-days? I’ve lived with dogs and loved them. But to me they are not human. They are expressions of that uniquely loveable animal called dog. They are endowed with a spark of divinity, just as, I believe, all of creation is. They should be respected.
Yet, no one uses the phrase “treated like a dog” anymore. At one time that meant being left outside in the weather and being fed table scraps. Now, many dogs are treated as well or better than many children. I see doggie bakeries, doggie day care, doggie chemotherapy, doggie this and doggie that. It goes beyond respect.
What ethics are involved in providing more medical care to a dog than some people can get? My bottom line -- as long as there are people who are medically underserved I find it unethical to spend thousands on prolonging the life of a dog. Does it serve the dog to prolong its time of disability? Does it serve nature to try to cheat death? Does it serve society to spend money in this way? Does it serve the family to postpone facing the death of a loved one?
I believe in reincarnation. If we let the dog die, then it can be born again, maybe as a human. But alas, then the reborn one might have less food, less medical care and less attention than during its doggie life.
Yet, no one uses the phrase “treated like a dog” anymore. At one time that meant being left outside in the weather and being fed table scraps. Now, many dogs are treated as well or better than many children. I see doggie bakeries, doggie day care, doggie chemotherapy, doggie this and doggie that. It goes beyond respect.
What ethics are involved in providing more medical care to a dog than some people can get? My bottom line -- as long as there are people who are medically underserved I find it unethical to spend thousands on prolonging the life of a dog. Does it serve the dog to prolong its time of disability? Does it serve nature to try to cheat death? Does it serve society to spend money in this way? Does it serve the family to postpone facing the death of a loved one?
I believe in reincarnation. If we let the dog die, then it can be born again, maybe as a human. But alas, then the reborn one might have less food, less medical care and less attention than during its doggie life.
27 October 2008
Blending
One day, while talking on the phone I paced around the house, doing thoughtless, little household tasks. Suddenly, right in front of me, in the kitchen, the blender turned itself on high, loudly whirring, with smoke spreading from the base. Wow! I quickly unplugged it.
Sometimes, being in a blended family feels like that useful appliance gone wild. The step family unit whirrs wildly into blending mode, short circuited into action by our fantasies of family. The blades mash our hard edges against each other, trying to smooth out our exotic flavors and textures originating in five or six different families into a new, hopefully pleasing melange.
We get mixed up. What are we? More than roommates, not quite a family.
Sometimes, being in a blended family feels like that useful appliance gone wild. The step family unit whirrs wildly into blending mode, short circuited into action by our fantasies of family. The blades mash our hard edges against each other, trying to smooth out our exotic flavors and textures originating in five or six different families into a new, hopefully pleasing melange.
We get mixed up. What are we? More than roommates, not quite a family.
26 October 2008
Visits to the Land of Dementia- Searching for Words
We’re going around the table, practicing finding words and sharing something we like about ourselves. Most of the women spurt out some disconnected sentences, dementia limiting their fluidity in language. I try interpret their personal dialect and mirror it back. They nod or look at me with a puzzled expression.
“You mean you were a good mother?”
“You take good care of your husband?”
Maggie’s turn. She struggles and then, realizing her struggle, haltingly forms a new question for me. I mirror it back to her.
“You mean, can God understand your prayers when it’s hard for you to find words? God understands every language, even the language of silence. He knows what is in your heart and hears your prayers, even without words. God loves you.”
Tears well up in her eyes. “Thank you for telling me this. I know it’s true.”
“You mean you were a good mother?”
“You take good care of your husband?”
Maggie’s turn. She struggles and then, realizing her struggle, haltingly forms a new question for me. I mirror it back to her.
“You mean, can God understand your prayers when it’s hard for you to find words? God understands every language, even the language of silence. He knows what is in your heart and hears your prayers, even without words. God loves you.”
Tears well up in her eyes. “Thank you for telling me this. I know it’s true.”
06 October 2008
Happy Birthday to Me -- Where Do I Come From?
I arrived on the ripples of desire that Mom felt over 50 years ago when she first met Dad, at that Wisconsin dance hall. “He was real cute!” Mom still says with an excited giggle.
I was sparked by the sparkling of snow on Norwegian hillsides my Grandma Moan skied to school and also by the beams of midnight sun in the village where my Grandpa Moan learned to speak his stubborn, Norwegian mind. Those Nordic lights became holograms twinkling in my father’s eye.
I also sprang from Grandpa Johnson’s Swedish immigrant parents whose first six children died before the age of 3. Grandpa Johnson came at the right time to survive, to marry three times and father three daughters.
I was born here by my Grandma Johnson’s spacious womb, where my mother gently gestated, when I was just half of me, a Terra egg in Mom’s fetal ovaries. Mom breeched her way out into the world and I was waiting for the right time when Dad’s Norway and Mom’s mostly Sweden met to form my physical geography.
Then the spirit song that I am, sang through that baby landform, to populate it with a personhood that came to America to live long and prosper and create new vistas for those who would follow.
I was sparked by the sparkling of snow on Norwegian hillsides my Grandma Moan skied to school and also by the beams of midnight sun in the village where my Grandpa Moan learned to speak his stubborn, Norwegian mind. Those Nordic lights became holograms twinkling in my father’s eye.
I also sprang from Grandpa Johnson’s Swedish immigrant parents whose first six children died before the age of 3. Grandpa Johnson came at the right time to survive, to marry three times and father three daughters.
I was born here by my Grandma Johnson’s spacious womb, where my mother gently gestated, when I was just half of me, a Terra egg in Mom’s fetal ovaries. Mom breeched her way out into the world and I was waiting for the right time when Dad’s Norway and Mom’s mostly Sweden met to form my physical geography.
Then the spirit song that I am, sang through that baby landform, to populate it with a personhood that came to America to live long and prosper and create new vistas for those who would follow.
22 September 2008
Poetry - Warm Autumn Moment
This warm autumn moment
crisp, sunny, dried leaves chacha to the song of the breeze.
The sky burns bluely.
This warm autumn moment
a boy asks why people gather.
He asks if they discovered gold.
This warm autumn moment
the leaves are the gold,
the boy is the sky,
& I am the chacha to the song
of the breeze.
crisp, sunny, dried leaves chacha to the song of the breeze.
The sky burns bluely.
This warm autumn moment
a boy asks why people gather.
He asks if they discovered gold.
This warm autumn moment
the leaves are the gold,
the boy is the sky,
& I am the chacha to the song
of the breeze.
18 September 2008
Waves of Tomatoes
Waves. The nature of Nature often flows in waves--inward and outward, or repeating Herself. This truth washed over me this summer, not at the beach, but in my vegetable garden.
The cherry tomato plants I bought in May seemed innocent enough. But they became a virtual explosion, with waves reaching out and reverberating across half of my garden. The chard & basil were overshadowed by them, and the butternut squash would have been overcome too, if I hadn't returned from vacation soon enough to cut back the tomato tidal wave to give them sun and space. The small supportive cages I'd put around the plants before my trip were easily overcome and covered with branches, leaves and the repeating pattern of tiny yellow flowers.
Those flowers were arranged along the growing edge of the side branches. As they were fertilized and bore their fruit, the tomatoes themselves also ripened in waves, the most inner growing and ripening first. The tiny green globes grew to be that cherry size and then ripen into the red tomatoes we all know and love. And it was over abundance. I couldn't pick them fast enough-- some of them ripened but split. Whether this is a "condition" or just a usual course of events for cherry tomatoes is still unknown to me-- I'm too busy keeping up with the plant, along with the zucchinis, to search it out, for now.
I had to do major pruning of the tomato plants but felt that sadness of wasting all those green babies that hadn't yet ruby-ed up. So I found a recipe for pickled green cherry tomatoes, bought some canning jars and tried 6 jars of the stuff. Now, after the time of fermenting, they taste like---pickles shaped like green tomatoes. Yum--I love them. My family, fearing my inexperience at such a project and less in love with pickles, has shunned them. Oh, well, more for me.
And wow-- they do green up over time if you leave the green ones together. Magic gases are released from them and they help ripen each other. So somedays I didn't have to trek out, just grab what I needed for salads from my ripening bowl. And as I continue to prune my plants, as they continue their slow motion explosion, I can now save those unriped ones for later use.
Soon the waves of summer tomatoes will subside. But I'll still have some of my pickles to remind me of them, as I plan my garden for next summer-- with more room for tsunamis of tomatoes.
The cherry tomato plants I bought in May seemed innocent enough. But they became a virtual explosion, with waves reaching out and reverberating across half of my garden. The chard & basil were overshadowed by them, and the butternut squash would have been overcome too, if I hadn't returned from vacation soon enough to cut back the tomato tidal wave to give them sun and space. The small supportive cages I'd put around the plants before my trip were easily overcome and covered with branches, leaves and the repeating pattern of tiny yellow flowers.
Those flowers were arranged along the growing edge of the side branches. As they were fertilized and bore their fruit, the tomatoes themselves also ripened in waves, the most inner growing and ripening first. The tiny green globes grew to be that cherry size and then ripen into the red tomatoes we all know and love. And it was over abundance. I couldn't pick them fast enough-- some of them ripened but split. Whether this is a "condition" or just a usual course of events for cherry tomatoes is still unknown to me-- I'm too busy keeping up with the plant, along with the zucchinis, to search it out, for now.
I had to do major pruning of the tomato plants but felt that sadness of wasting all those green babies that hadn't yet ruby-ed up. So I found a recipe for pickled green cherry tomatoes, bought some canning jars and tried 6 jars of the stuff. Now, after the time of fermenting, they taste like---pickles shaped like green tomatoes. Yum--I love them. My family, fearing my inexperience at such a project and less in love with pickles, has shunned them. Oh, well, more for me.
And wow-- they do green up over time if you leave the green ones together. Magic gases are released from them and they help ripen each other. So somedays I didn't have to trek out, just grab what I needed for salads from my ripening bowl. And as I continue to prune my plants, as they continue their slow motion explosion, I can now save those unriped ones for later use.
Soon the waves of summer tomatoes will subside. But I'll still have some of my pickles to remind me of them, as I plan my garden for next summer-- with more room for tsunamis of tomatoes.
08 September 2008
Contemplation on Belly Fat
Why is it so terrible to have belly fat? Maybe Ameria is preparing for an upcoming emergency and we need the stored fat to survive. And same with sunshine on the bare naked skin - without sunscreen. The skin cancer police want us to slather on chemicals which for all we know contribute to skin cancer years down the line. AND now we are all deficient in Vitamin D -- the little time many of us spend in the sun has been cloaked by sunscreen, leaving us vulnerable to bone fractures, coronary problems and cancers (besides skin cancer). They sell us sunscreens and then osteoporosis medicines, statins and chemotherapy. Mmmm - very profitable.
Yes-- I want to live a long and healthy lilfe. But do I have to believe every health bulletin that comes along? It's only when I'm too busy or too unsure of myself, plus exposing myself to the harmful rays of the media that I take in that bullshit. I have never been into sunscreen. So for me to now buy into "the studies" about excess belly fat making me a likely candidate for heart disase and diabetes -- well, enough of that negative expectation. It's fear. Fear of being like my grandparents, my parents. Fear of not being attractive. Fear of death or disability.
I actually like my heavier, more womanly body, after I adjust my wardrobe to fit. How many women don't get a bit more belly with age? And one of my heroines, Susun Weed says it helps with menopause to have 10 lbs of extra to help with estrogen production when the ovaries ramp down.
OK-- so is this denial or am I standing in my own truth?
Yes-- I want to live a long and healthy lilfe. But do I have to believe every health bulletin that comes along? It's only when I'm too busy or too unsure of myself, plus exposing myself to the harmful rays of the media that I take in that bullshit. I have never been into sunscreen. So for me to now buy into "the studies" about excess belly fat making me a likely candidate for heart disase and diabetes -- well, enough of that negative expectation. It's fear. Fear of being like my grandparents, my parents. Fear of not being attractive. Fear of death or disability.
I actually like my heavier, more womanly body, after I adjust my wardrobe to fit. How many women don't get a bit more belly with age? And one of my heroines, Susun Weed says it helps with menopause to have 10 lbs of extra to help with estrogen production when the ovaries ramp down.
OK-- so is this denial or am I standing in my own truth?
11 August 2008
Grandma and Her Plants- memoir
It all began when I was just a baby, crawling about on the ground. For some reason I wouldn’t venture into the grass. My mom could put me down on a blanket in the yard and I wouldn’t wander off it. Maybe it was the texture of grass—all pokey & tickly on my tender hands & knees. Or could it have been the color or smell?
As I grew I learned to love plants from my Grandma Johnson. She kept plants at her house, inside & out. The dormer window in her living room afforded them year round light. There was a fern that grew like a green fountain on top of the white, metal water heater in the kitchen. Its wispy, lanky leaves trickled down towards me, inviting me to play with them. I remember secretly, gently petting the velvet leaves of African violets. Grandma taught me as a young one not to touch the house plants, to look without disturbing them. This instilled a sense of awe.
When I was old enough to carry a child-sized watering can, I helped water the summer blossoms. Next to her back steps was a large rose bush with fragrant pink blossoms. There behind the bush, under the water spigot was a gray metal washtub. We filled it each evening with cold tap water so that the water could warm to air temperature before the next evening when we would sprinkle it lovingly on the plants.
We each would dip & fill our watering cans and I’d follow behind my big Bertha Grandma in her familiar house dress to each flower bed in turn – the purple pansies, the two large purple clematis vines growing on each side of the front porch entrance surrounded at their feet with red & white petunias, the lilies of the valley hidden in a shadier spot, and the pink snap dragons, bluebells, & cosmos flowers between the white picket fence and the driveway.
Afterwards we would sit outside a while in the white lawn chairs Grandpa had made in his wood shop & enjoy the summer evening air. (Of course I had a small chair made just my side.)
This nurturing of plants nurtured something in me that has grown through out my life, wherever I may be.
As I grew I learned to love plants from my Grandma Johnson. She kept plants at her house, inside & out. The dormer window in her living room afforded them year round light. There was a fern that grew like a green fountain on top of the white, metal water heater in the kitchen. Its wispy, lanky leaves trickled down towards me, inviting me to play with them. I remember secretly, gently petting the velvet leaves of African violets. Grandma taught me as a young one not to touch the house plants, to look without disturbing them. This instilled a sense of awe.
When I was old enough to carry a child-sized watering can, I helped water the summer blossoms. Next to her back steps was a large rose bush with fragrant pink blossoms. There behind the bush, under the water spigot was a gray metal washtub. We filled it each evening with cold tap water so that the water could warm to air temperature before the next evening when we would sprinkle it lovingly on the plants.
We each would dip & fill our watering cans and I’d follow behind my big Bertha Grandma in her familiar house dress to each flower bed in turn – the purple pansies, the two large purple clematis vines growing on each side of the front porch entrance surrounded at their feet with red & white petunias, the lilies of the valley hidden in a shadier spot, and the pink snap dragons, bluebells, & cosmos flowers between the white picket fence and the driveway.
Afterwards we would sit outside a while in the white lawn chairs Grandpa had made in his wood shop & enjoy the summer evening air. (Of course I had a small chair made just my side.)
This nurturing of plants nurtured something in me that has grown through out my life, wherever I may be.
30 July 2008
Menstrual Memories - Part 3- The Menopausal Transition
My moons had been quite regular, about 28 days apart and lasted about 5 days, medium the first three days and light the others. (To me medium means I change my pad 3-4 times a day and light is 1-2 times). Frequently I marked ahead in my calendar when my moon bloods were expected to appear. It felt comforting to include it more as part of my life plan, to honor my fertility and myself. I kept track of my moon cycles on moon calendars and have them back for about 10 years.
My moon times began to come closer together & less regularly as my late 40’s progressed. Sometimes instead of PMS I seemed to get post menstrual syndrome of feeling down. I never knew when it would hit. There were times when my estrogen was supercharged, my body busy trying hard to get pregnant. This got the blood going because the lining was extra thick -- and also the fertile mucus at ovulation time. Once, I remember sitting on the toilet and when I went to wipe seeing a long thick thread of fertile mucus that stretched from my bottom to the water. Now I know that by knowing when I ovulate I could have know my moonblood would appear about 14 days later. Women are internally consistent on their time between ovulation and bleeding, for the most part. That too becomes a bit more wobbly during the menopausal transition.
Then around becoming 50 years old my moonbloods spaced out and became lighter. Sometimes I didn't have fertile mucus and would have anovulatory bleed. At that point I suddenly realized that I wouldn’t always have my period. I had finally embraced my moonbloods as a big part of my womanhood, counter to society’s norm. Now I had to let go it again. I began to wonder each time if this were my last time to bleed and savored the bloodiness of it. I even used it to paint several designs. Sometimes there were phantom periods where I felt like I was getting my bloods. Nothing came out but my sensations and emotions were very menstrual. Then it became six months between bleeds and my final moonblood was in April, 2005. I was 52, the average age for menopause. Of course I didn’t know for another year if I was totally done.
The hormones seem to be settling down now. I've learned from Susan Weed, herbalist, that after the period stops the hromones take several years to toally settle into the final levels of cronehood. My body is changing. The skin on my hands seems thinner and less elastic. More skin tags are appearing as my estrogen drops suddenly now and then. So far my libido and yoni haven’t suffered. I’m 55 now.
The hot flashes are few and far between at this point – maybe days between now. They were never too troublesome for me—just a bit of disrobing when the heat came and then redressing when they passed. The hardest part of hot flashes for me is that getting too hot can trigger them. Whenever I cuddled with my sweet husband I would get too hot and have a hot flash and have to push away from him. Thats gotten better at this point. Herbs did help me through —shatavari root, an ayurvedic female tonic and taking Oregon grape root tincture about 5 days a month before menses or, when I stopped cycling, 5 days a month near the full moon.
All in all there was much emotion, experience and meaning that came through my moonbloods. I treasure my memories and learnings about womanhood that came through them, even though sometimes they seemed like a curse and society still insists it is.
My moon times began to come closer together & less regularly as my late 40’s progressed. Sometimes instead of PMS I seemed to get post menstrual syndrome of feeling down. I never knew when it would hit. There were times when my estrogen was supercharged, my body busy trying hard to get pregnant. This got the blood going because the lining was extra thick -- and also the fertile mucus at ovulation time. Once, I remember sitting on the toilet and when I went to wipe seeing a long thick thread of fertile mucus that stretched from my bottom to the water. Now I know that by knowing when I ovulate I could have know my moonblood would appear about 14 days later. Women are internally consistent on their time between ovulation and bleeding, for the most part. That too becomes a bit more wobbly during the menopausal transition.
Then around becoming 50 years old my moonbloods spaced out and became lighter. Sometimes I didn't have fertile mucus and would have anovulatory bleed. At that point I suddenly realized that I wouldn’t always have my period. I had finally embraced my moonbloods as a big part of my womanhood, counter to society’s norm. Now I had to let go it again. I began to wonder each time if this were my last time to bleed and savored the bloodiness of it. I even used it to paint several designs. Sometimes there were phantom periods where I felt like I was getting my bloods. Nothing came out but my sensations and emotions were very menstrual. Then it became six months between bleeds and my final moonblood was in April, 2005. I was 52, the average age for menopause. Of course I didn’t know for another year if I was totally done.
The hormones seem to be settling down now. I've learned from Susan Weed, herbalist, that after the period stops the hromones take several years to toally settle into the final levels of cronehood. My body is changing. The skin on my hands seems thinner and less elastic. More skin tags are appearing as my estrogen drops suddenly now and then. So far my libido and yoni haven’t suffered. I’m 55 now.
The hot flashes are few and far between at this point – maybe days between now. They were never too troublesome for me—just a bit of disrobing when the heat came and then redressing when they passed. The hardest part of hot flashes for me is that getting too hot can trigger them. Whenever I cuddled with my sweet husband I would get too hot and have a hot flash and have to push away from him. Thats gotten better at this point. Herbs did help me through —shatavari root, an ayurvedic female tonic and taking Oregon grape root tincture about 5 days a month before menses or, when I stopped cycling, 5 days a month near the full moon.
All in all there was much emotion, experience and meaning that came through my moonbloods. I treasure my memories and learnings about womanhood that came through them, even though sometimes they seemed like a curse and society still insists it is.
27 July 2008
Poetry - Twin Souls
Now it does not matter that our births were a decade apart.
We are twins, born together into each other’s arms.
We have grown from one egg & even when we divide & differentiate into our separate lives
Each of our cells remembers the unity of floating together in the Great Ocean of Motherness.
We cannot help but desire that oneness again in the midst of this disjointed world.
So we meet again-
First our eyes, which have looked upon the wide wide world, return to each other.
Then our laughter & stories meet until they are the moan of our merging.
Our hands clasp & then speak silently while all of our skin becomes ears to hear their poetry.
Our lips & mouths conjoin – form a wet bower for our baring bodies.
The whole of our flesh finds entrance into what we were before each of us was,
as we dive again into each other, & the waters part in waves around us,
And we are floating forever
And all to briefly
Before being forced through the tunnel of love
Back to where we are both separate & seeking.
We are twins, born together into each other’s arms.
We have grown from one egg & even when we divide & differentiate into our separate lives
Each of our cells remembers the unity of floating together in the Great Ocean of Motherness.
We cannot help but desire that oneness again in the midst of this disjointed world.
So we meet again-
First our eyes, which have looked upon the wide wide world, return to each other.
Then our laughter & stories meet until they are the moan of our merging.
Our hands clasp & then speak silently while all of our skin becomes ears to hear their poetry.
Our lips & mouths conjoin – form a wet bower for our baring bodies.
The whole of our flesh finds entrance into what we were before each of us was,
as we dive again into each other, & the waters part in waves around us,
And we are floating forever
And all to briefly
Before being forced through the tunnel of love
Back to where we are both separate & seeking.
24 July 2008
Menstrual Memories Part 2- Learning by Experience
It’s interesting how I often got, as Kate Clinton (feminist comedian) puts it, "menstrual amnesia." I'd start feeling off, more tired, cry easily, cranky, poor digestion and then achy in my lower abdomen. Suddenly I’d realize or my husband would remind me -- it's time for my moon blood! Once the bloods started flowing freely my cramping was better.
When I took space and time in my life for my increased premenstrual and menstrual sensitivity and did only what felt good for me, I felt nourished. When I tried to ignore it and go on as though I was no different at this time, I ended up feeling out of touch and unfulfilled.
When I learned the teachings of Ayurveda about menstrual self care it coincided with my own experience. Resting allows the body to really let go well and use its energy for cleansing and rejuvenating. Eating warm, cooked foods eases digestion. Balancing the body throughout the month brings an easier time during the menstrual cycle, as well as healthy fertility.
I began wearing a moon blood gown for at least my first day of bleeding. It was brownish red with bleach dyed spirals on it. It flowed loosely around my body with voluminous sleeves that made it easier to let go of doing too much activity. I rested as much as my life could allow. At prenatals my apprentices would take up the slack for me those days (and visa versa when it was their time of month.) They’d bring me my tea and lunch and clean up for me, as well as doing the linear things like blood pressure, measuring the belly, weighing for the pregnant women. Somehow the birth energy coordinated well with my menstrual state—they seemed similar in terms of the expanded consciousness, openness of mind, and instinctual connection, so births didn’t seem to disturb my menstrual rest as much as the more linear world. My family knew it was my moon time and would give me more space and fewer demands as well.
When I learned about Maya Abdominal Massage and healing their teachings coincided with those nurturing practices, as do most of the native medicines of the world. Maya Massage uses massage techniques to reposition a tipped uterus, which eases menstrual cramping.
I had a Maya Massage first from Miss Beatrice Waight, a Maya midwife and healer who visited Boulder. After just one massage from her my next menses was painless. The brown blood which preceded and followed the red went away. She told me that the brown blood was old blood due to poor drainage during previous periods. After beginning to do the self massage techniques taught by Rosita Arvigo, another Maya massage teacher, I never had brown blood again!
Over the years of menses I used tampons of varying types, disposable pads of differing brands, sea sponges, a diaphragm, recycled diapers & finally, nicely sewn cloth pads to catch my blood. A few times I bled directly onto the Earth and this felt particularly satisfying. When I used the cloth type of pads I often soaked them and fed the moon water to my houseplants. This blood demanded more respect and utility than being treated it like garbage.
Using tampons seems counter to the body’s wisdom, not only because of toxic shock syndrome, or Ayurvedic teachings about disturbing the downward energy. They can irritate the cervix, causing more cramping, in my experience and other women I've talked with. And that sensation of blood coming out is a primordial experience of womanhood – it may be a key to the mysterious processes of fertility and birth which we do not yet understand.
When I took space and time in my life for my increased premenstrual and menstrual sensitivity and did only what felt good for me, I felt nourished. When I tried to ignore it and go on as though I was no different at this time, I ended up feeling out of touch and unfulfilled.
When I learned the teachings of Ayurveda about menstrual self care it coincided with my own experience. Resting allows the body to really let go well and use its energy for cleansing and rejuvenating. Eating warm, cooked foods eases digestion. Balancing the body throughout the month brings an easier time during the menstrual cycle, as well as healthy fertility.
I began wearing a moon blood gown for at least my first day of bleeding. It was brownish red with bleach dyed spirals on it. It flowed loosely around my body with voluminous sleeves that made it easier to let go of doing too much activity. I rested as much as my life could allow. At prenatals my apprentices would take up the slack for me those days (and visa versa when it was their time of month.) They’d bring me my tea and lunch and clean up for me, as well as doing the linear things like blood pressure, measuring the belly, weighing for the pregnant women. Somehow the birth energy coordinated well with my menstrual state—they seemed similar in terms of the expanded consciousness, openness of mind, and instinctual connection, so births didn’t seem to disturb my menstrual rest as much as the more linear world. My family knew it was my moon time and would give me more space and fewer demands as well.
When I learned about Maya Abdominal Massage and healing their teachings coincided with those nurturing practices, as do most of the native medicines of the world. Maya Massage uses massage techniques to reposition a tipped uterus, which eases menstrual cramping.
I had a Maya Massage first from Miss Beatrice Waight, a Maya midwife and healer who visited Boulder. After just one massage from her my next menses was painless. The brown blood which preceded and followed the red went away. She told me that the brown blood was old blood due to poor drainage during previous periods. After beginning to do the self massage techniques taught by Rosita Arvigo, another Maya massage teacher, I never had brown blood again!
Over the years of menses I used tampons of varying types, disposable pads of differing brands, sea sponges, a diaphragm, recycled diapers & finally, nicely sewn cloth pads to catch my blood. A few times I bled directly onto the Earth and this felt particularly satisfying. When I used the cloth type of pads I often soaked them and fed the moon water to my houseplants. This blood demanded more respect and utility than being treated it like garbage.
Using tampons seems counter to the body’s wisdom, not only because of toxic shock syndrome, or Ayurvedic teachings about disturbing the downward energy. They can irritate the cervix, causing more cramping, in my experience and other women I've talked with. And that sensation of blood coming out is a primordial experience of womanhood – it may be a key to the mysterious processes of fertility and birth which we do not yet understand.
21 July 2008
Poetry - From Momma
I know from long ago
the slush of my mother’s guts
the beat beating of her heart –
now part of me now
in the way that I walk & dance
& sing a song, a sing song.
the slush of my mother’s guts
the beat beating of her heart –
now part of me now
in the way that I walk & dance
& sing a song, a sing song.
17 July 2008
Sleep as a Midwife
My mother told me that I loved to sleep as a child. Whenever I rode in the car, I fell asleep. So when I was fussy as a baby or toddler, she’d take me in the car and drive around the block to settle me in slumber. I also napped well past the age that most children gave it up. As I got older, I liked to lie on the couch in the middle of the commotion of our large family and go to sleep.
This ability to sleep in various situations came in handy as a midwife. During one long, early labor, I remember squeezing onto a couch with my midwifery partner, the only warm place to rest up for the work ahead.
Even though I was a deep sleeper, I could wake in a flash. When the phone rang in the dead of the night, I always answered after the first ring and I’d be wide, wide awake as the expectant father told me what was happening with his mate.
Sleeping at a birth was NOT a deep sleep. Usually the woman would be moaning with her contractions, while her mate and my midwifery partner sat with her. I dozed in a nearby room, to the rhythm of her labor song. Her vocalizing was a subconscious gauge for me to know when I needed to awaken—a shift in the sound of her throat often signaled a shift in the opening of her cervix as well.
After staying up most of the night at a labor and birth I would drive home, amazed at how the world kept moving and hadn’t paused in awe at the timeless experience of childbirth. I felt like announcing to each person, place & thing, “A woman gave birth! A baby was born!”
By the time I got home, my tired eyes could barely see, which was lucky since my home was usually in disarray when I got there – like the rest of the world my family hadn’t paused its activities in amazement at another baby’s birth. I’d make sure children were tended, prenatals rescheduled, and stomach was satisfied. Then I’d close the blinds, remove my clothes stained by the blood and waters of birth, bathe away the residue of that intense experience, and FINALLY put my aching body into my familiar bed to enjoy some deep sleep.
Hopefully another laboring family wouldn’t call before I awoke refreshed as that sleep-loving baby I once was.
This ability to sleep in various situations came in handy as a midwife. During one long, early labor, I remember squeezing onto a couch with my midwifery partner, the only warm place to rest up for the work ahead.
Even though I was a deep sleeper, I could wake in a flash. When the phone rang in the dead of the night, I always answered after the first ring and I’d be wide, wide awake as the expectant father told me what was happening with his mate.
Sleeping at a birth was NOT a deep sleep. Usually the woman would be moaning with her contractions, while her mate and my midwifery partner sat with her. I dozed in a nearby room, to the rhythm of her labor song. Her vocalizing was a subconscious gauge for me to know when I needed to awaken—a shift in the sound of her throat often signaled a shift in the opening of her cervix as well.
After staying up most of the night at a labor and birth I would drive home, amazed at how the world kept moving and hadn’t paused in awe at the timeless experience of childbirth. I felt like announcing to each person, place & thing, “A woman gave birth! A baby was born!”
By the time I got home, my tired eyes could barely see, which was lucky since my home was usually in disarray when I got there – like the rest of the world my family hadn’t paused its activities in amazement at another baby’s birth. I’d make sure children were tended, prenatals rescheduled, and stomach was satisfied. Then I’d close the blinds, remove my clothes stained by the blood and waters of birth, bathe away the residue of that intense experience, and FINALLY put my aching body into my familiar bed to enjoy some deep sleep.
Hopefully another laboring family wouldn’t call before I awoke refreshed as that sleep-loving baby I once was.
15 July 2008
Giving Birth to Alana
The morning before I gave birth to my second child, I met my 8-month pregnant friend Delta to go shopping at the used clothing store for baby clothes. We sighed and laughed at the tiny baby T shirts. So cute. Would our babies really be this size, like little dollies? It had been 9 years since my son was born and I felt almost like a first time mom again. I couldn’t resist the T shirts and bought way more than needed. As we wrestled our way through the rest of the clothes, guessing what might fit, might be right for our own precious and unique offspring, I began to feel some rumblings of the cervix presaging labor.
We decided to go to the L.A.Diner for a naughty treat of French fries and chocolate milk shakes. We watched the server glide by on her roller skates as we settled into the classic red vinyl booth to discuss the ups and downs of our pregnant bodies and minds.
After the outing, I went home and napped a bit, feeling labor might be coming, yet adhering to my technique of shortening labor by ignoring it as much and as long as possible, rather than getting everyone too excited too soon. After the nap I felt refreshed and went on a walk through south Boulder to circumambulate the closest body of water—Viele Lake-- a pond which in dry Colorado passes for a lake.
Gravity and walking were moving my sweet baby’s head downward onto my cervix, stimulating early labor contractions. They were still easy to move through but when I got home again I checked inside “just in case”. It’s not easy to reach your own cervix especially with a big baby belly, but I did it well enough to know that it was still early labor. Still menstrual cramp contractions.
I decided to take to the water again, this time in the bath tub. The late afternoon sun streamed down on me through the skylight as I refreshed myself after the summer sweaty walk. Julien, then 9 years old, came in to ask me about supper. I told him, ”Your baby brother/sister might be born tonight.” He was the first one I told. After awhile I got out of the tub, dripping bathwater on the warm linoleum, lightly drying myself off and throwing on a cool summer dress. Then I went for another long walk. I wasn’t into eating dinner.
As evening progressed, Julien went to bed and Charlie patiently attended me as I paced around the house. I shed my clothes, feeling so hot. I began to moan with the contractions, crescendoing into loud cries of “MY BONES ARE BREAKING” or “MA-MAAA”. Although my vocalizations sounded like cries of suffering, inside I felt safe and sure. It was as though the sound waves carried away the suffering, leaving me to peacefully coexist in the present moment with each contraction pain and the stretching open of my pelvic bones.
After an hour of these more intense contractions Charlie called the midwives, Willy & Ursula, to help with the birth. A part of me wanted to do it alone and if Charlie hadn’t have been there I probably would have. I felt sufficient unto myself. By the time they got there it was so intense that I agreed to lie down only for the brief minute between contractions for an exam. I was 8 centimeters- heavy into process. I jumped back up as the next contraction began to do my walking meditation and moaning. Willy tied a turquoise and black scarf around my middle as I continued my naked pacing. “This will keep your kidneys warm,” she said. As if I could care less.
About half an hour later I settled in the living room, next to the couch, kneeling and leaning against it in a body prayer of surrender. Charlie massaged my back for awhile before going into the kitchen to get a quick snack. Shortly after that my waters broke open and my body started pushing with my natural urges. Leaning forward like I had been made it feel like my clitoris was being pinched, so I knelt upright instead, with good effect. After just a few pushes Willy caught my baby before he/she fell out onto the floor. As the baby came out I thought I caught a glimpse of a penis between the cute little baby legs. I sat back to hold my newborn—the cord was so short I could barely bring the baby to my chest. We didn’t yet look to see if it was a boy or girl yet. Julien was going to do the honors but couldn’t be awakened from his deep sleep to be at the birth. That was my only disappointment. So Charlie checked in the receiving blanket to see the sex and he said “She’s a girl!” I knew this was his first time checking for this so I encouraged him to look again—“Are you sure? I thought I saw a penis.” “I’m sure,” he said, pointing towards her obviously feminine anatomy. I had wanted a girl so badly that I’d told myself that I didn’t care so I wouldn’t be disappointed. It must have been the umbilical cord that I saw between her legs.
When I looked around the living room I noticed the small crowd there—all people I’d invited to be at the birth- Willy’s husband Larry, their girls Sela & Robin, Delta, and our housemate, Linda. Charlie’s brother Thomas arrived shortly after the birth. It was a festive & friendly feeling having these friends around us. We were so happy to have our beautiful bald baby girl in our arms.
We decided to go to the L.A.Diner for a naughty treat of French fries and chocolate milk shakes. We watched the server glide by on her roller skates as we settled into the classic red vinyl booth to discuss the ups and downs of our pregnant bodies and minds.
After the outing, I went home and napped a bit, feeling labor might be coming, yet adhering to my technique of shortening labor by ignoring it as much and as long as possible, rather than getting everyone too excited too soon. After the nap I felt refreshed and went on a walk through south Boulder to circumambulate the closest body of water—Viele Lake-- a pond which in dry Colorado passes for a lake.
Gravity and walking were moving my sweet baby’s head downward onto my cervix, stimulating early labor contractions. They were still easy to move through but when I got home again I checked inside “just in case”. It’s not easy to reach your own cervix especially with a big baby belly, but I did it well enough to know that it was still early labor. Still menstrual cramp contractions.
I decided to take to the water again, this time in the bath tub. The late afternoon sun streamed down on me through the skylight as I refreshed myself after the summer sweaty walk. Julien, then 9 years old, came in to ask me about supper. I told him, ”Your baby brother/sister might be born tonight.” He was the first one I told. After awhile I got out of the tub, dripping bathwater on the warm linoleum, lightly drying myself off and throwing on a cool summer dress. Then I went for another long walk. I wasn’t into eating dinner.
As evening progressed, Julien went to bed and Charlie patiently attended me as I paced around the house. I shed my clothes, feeling so hot. I began to moan with the contractions, crescendoing into loud cries of “MY BONES ARE BREAKING” or “MA-MAAA”. Although my vocalizations sounded like cries of suffering, inside I felt safe and sure. It was as though the sound waves carried away the suffering, leaving me to peacefully coexist in the present moment with each contraction pain and the stretching open of my pelvic bones.
After an hour of these more intense contractions Charlie called the midwives, Willy & Ursula, to help with the birth. A part of me wanted to do it alone and if Charlie hadn’t have been there I probably would have. I felt sufficient unto myself. By the time they got there it was so intense that I agreed to lie down only for the brief minute between contractions for an exam. I was 8 centimeters- heavy into process. I jumped back up as the next contraction began to do my walking meditation and moaning. Willy tied a turquoise and black scarf around my middle as I continued my naked pacing. “This will keep your kidneys warm,” she said. As if I could care less.
About half an hour later I settled in the living room, next to the couch, kneeling and leaning against it in a body prayer of surrender. Charlie massaged my back for awhile before going into the kitchen to get a quick snack. Shortly after that my waters broke open and my body started pushing with my natural urges. Leaning forward like I had been made it feel like my clitoris was being pinched, so I knelt upright instead, with good effect. After just a few pushes Willy caught my baby before he/she fell out onto the floor. As the baby came out I thought I caught a glimpse of a penis between the cute little baby legs. I sat back to hold my newborn—the cord was so short I could barely bring the baby to my chest. We didn’t yet look to see if it was a boy or girl yet. Julien was going to do the honors but couldn’t be awakened from his deep sleep to be at the birth. That was my only disappointment. So Charlie checked in the receiving blanket to see the sex and he said “She’s a girl!” I knew this was his first time checking for this so I encouraged him to look again—“Are you sure? I thought I saw a penis.” “I’m sure,” he said, pointing towards her obviously feminine anatomy. I had wanted a girl so badly that I’d told myself that I didn’t care so I wouldn’t be disappointed. It must have been the umbilical cord that I saw between her legs.
When I looked around the living room I noticed the small crowd there—all people I’d invited to be at the birth- Willy’s husband Larry, their girls Sela & Robin, Delta, and our housemate, Linda. Charlie’s brother Thomas arrived shortly after the birth. It was a festive & friendly feeling having these friends around us. We were so happy to have our beautiful bald baby girl in our arms.
14 July 2008
Menstrual Memories-part 1
I don't really remember when my moon blood began. When I was in 6th grade all the girls were brought to the gymnasium to watch a movie. Mothers were invited. No boys or men were allowed. It was a cartoon, "tastefully" done by Disney but it wasn't very funny and no one sang songs -- "The Story of Menstruation." We watched dutifully and took home booklets that reiterated the plot, with illustrations straight from the movie. My mother asked if I had any questions. I couldn’t relate enough to think of any. I felt I was not to mention this whole thing to my friends who were boys. This was my initiation into womanhood. When I recently found and watched a copy of the film on “YouTube” I saw that it was factually correct and complete – but empty of emotion, experience, and meaning. Very empty.
In 7th grade, I decided I had to start acting like a girl instead of a tomboy. My next menstrual remembrance was as a 10th grader who had a gymnastics meet -- and my period. I locked myself in the bathroom and tried for an hour to get a tampon into my vagina. "Tampax" was the only kind available in those days and my mom used super sized ones after having five kids. Mom offered to help but I was too embarrassed, so embarrassed that I gave up and wore a pad under my leotard, which was humiliating.
Since before she was three years old my daughter noticed when I had my moon blood. She knew early that when she became a woman she would have moon bloods too and that it meant that she could grow a baby in her. One day, she was singing one of her hundreds of variations of "Mary has a little lamb.." It was "Mary has her moon blood." At age 7 1/2 she said," Some women call their moon blood their period, so it doesn't sound so gross." When she began her periods I wanted to give a blessing party-- "but, Mom~" and it was too wierd and embarassing for her-- so I did a simple ceremony, giving her a rose, a foot massage, and a little gift.
In 7th grade, I decided I had to start acting like a girl instead of a tomboy. My next menstrual remembrance was as a 10th grader who had a gymnastics meet -- and my period. I locked myself in the bathroom and tried for an hour to get a tampon into my vagina. "Tampax" was the only kind available in those days and my mom used super sized ones after having five kids. Mom offered to help but I was too embarrassed, so embarrassed that I gave up and wore a pad under my leotard, which was humiliating.
Since before she was three years old my daughter noticed when I had my moon blood. She knew early that when she became a woman she would have moon bloods too and that it meant that she could grow a baby in her. One day, she was singing one of her hundreds of variations of "Mary has a little lamb.." It was "Mary has her moon blood." At age 7 1/2 she said," Some women call their moon blood their period, so it doesn't sound so gross." When she began her periods I wanted to give a blessing party-- "but, Mom~" and it was too wierd and embarassing for her-- so I did a simple ceremony, giving her a rose, a foot massage, and a little gift.
How My Daughter Came Into My Life
It’s 1987. I’ve been dating Gaunt Murdock for about 3 years now. We’ve lived together for awhile and we’re in a comfortable loving place with each other. I’m 34, he’s 24 and my son Julien is 7.
We’re relaxing in each other’s arms and I hear a child’s voice say “This isn’t my real father. You have to go find my real father.” Whoa! Too surprising, yet in my heart I know it’s absolutely true. I’ve been longing for another child and Gaunt isn’t ready for that. And he might not be until I’m too old to be pregnant again.
The reality of our age difference becomes painful. “Love is not enough” becomes theme for writing in my journal. We’re just out of phase in our life paths. So after contemplating that voice for awhile I know I have to follow it, for my sake, that child’s sake, and even for Gaunt’s sake. In this way he too would be able to find a partner who was in phase with his younger life. So I begin the gentle, slow pulling away process. I move into my own apartment so I have the space to explore other relationships. I suggest we start dating other people. And I begin, looking for the “real father” of my next child.
There are definite side tracks now and then. One gentle and thoughtful man had already had a vasectomy – so we are out of phase. Though I knew I could love him I broke it off to continue my quest for the “real father.” I told my spirit child, “You’d better help arrange this from your side too.”
Halloween night, when the veil is thin between the spirit and mortal worlds, the moon is full. The original plan was that Gaunt, Julien and I would go to a potluck and party at a friend’s house. But Julien begs to go trick or treating and then stay overnight at his buddy Anson’s house. Then Gaunt calls to say he has the flu so needs to stay home but that he’s heard there’s a fun dance at Naropa. He encourages me to go to, knowing how much I love to dance.
Suddenly I feel like someone in West Side Story—singing out loud as I dress--
"It’s only just out of reach, Down the block, on a beach, Under a tree. I got a feelin’ there’s a miracle due, Gonna come true, Comin’ to me! Could it be? Yes, it could. Something’s coming, something’ good, If I can wait! Something’s comin’, I don’t know what it is But it is Gonna be great! With a click, with a shock, Phone’ll jingle, door’ll knock Open the latch! Something’s comin’, don’t know when, But it’s soon-- Catch the moon, One-handed catch! Around the corner, Or whistling’ down the river, Come on -- deliver To me! Will it be? Yes, it will. Maybe just by holdin’ still It’ll be there! Come on, something’, come on in, Don’t be shy, Meet a guy, Pull up a chair! The air is hummin’, And something’ great is comin’!" Who knows? It’s only just out of reach, Down the block, on a beach. Maybe tonight.
I put on my traditional Halloween costume as a gypsy. Excitement fills me—is it just the full moon, the chance to dance, or someone I am about to meet?
I live downtown so I walk in the clear, warm night to the Boulder Mall. There were some groups and individuals wandering around the Mall. Their strange and exotic costumes further build the sense of going into a new reality. I sashay my gypsy way up and down the Mall and then head to Naropa. I’m the first one to arrive at the dance and when I enter the empty gym I wonder a bit if I am dreaming. This evening is surreal.
People begin arriving, the music starts and I dance around the floor. I’m checking out everyone, to see where the “real father “ pull might be. I whisper to my soul baby, “Show me, so I know for sure.”
Then I see a group dancing together, a couple of women with three guys. The most assertive of the group is attractive to me immediately. But my heart warns me that with him it would be short lived and unfruitful. Then I see Charlie, dancing in the shadow of Mr. Personality. He’s tall and slender, with a T-shirt and mask decorated with stars and a moon. I begin flirting with him from afar. I vow to myself that he must come to me, making the first move. That would be the sign.
All too soon I hear one of his friends say that they’re leaving to go to the L. A. Diner. The man dressed in the night sky seems torn, and starts to leave with them. At this I go lean against the wall, a bit discouraged. But he quickly returns and comes directly over to me.
“Hi, I’m Charlie. Would you like to dance with me?”
I smiled. “Sure. My name’s Terra.”
“Oh and can you give me a ride later. My friends left me here so I could dance some more.”
“Yeah, of course.”
We dance for about half an hour and then leave to get my car and meet his friends at the Diner. He laughs as I start my rusty, orange Toyota by vigorously pumping and pumping the gas petal. I joke, “My car, Joe, always makes me jerk him off before he’ll take me where I want to go.”
At the Diner we run into his friends just before they leave. They invite me to dinner at their house tomorrow night. Charlie and I hang out longer, talking and talking. We’re surrounded by clowns, axe murderers, fairies, nuns, and uncountable other strange beings. The waiters and waitresses roll by on their roller skates, trays precariously balancing.
When I drive Charlie home and drop him off, he gives me a sweet friendly kiss and makes sure that I’m planning to come to the dinner party the next evening.
Charlie hadn’t mentioned that he already had another date for the party. It’s a bit awkward when she & I realized that we are both supposed to be his date. When I take him aside, he confesses that she’d been a blind date set up long before but he really wants to be with me.
That was the beginning of my relationship with Alana’s real father.
A week later we dance together after an intimate day of hiking and talking. We both want a child and soon. We dance to Tina Turner. I have a very transcendent feeling of oneness with Charlie and experience the spiritual conception of our daughter.
We are engaged that Christmas. Ever practical, Charlie gives me a car instead of an engagement ring. We celebrate our marriage April 20- Beltane, another pagan holy day. At our rustic wedding outside in a field, surrounded by flowers and friends, we have an ostrich egg on our altar to symbolize our child to come.
We immediately give up using birth control. Each month feels like I’m pregnant, and each month my period comes and it’s like having a miscarriage. Each birth I attend as a midwife I half-jokingly ask, “ Are you sure you want this baby – and if not, could I have it?
One fall night after teaching my midwifery class I feel exhausted. Yet this is that time of the month to try again. I am fertile. When we make love that night, something is different. I have a vision—first I see fireworks, then two dolphins, leaping out of the water together. Then I see a child’s face- morphing back and forth between a girl and boy.
I keep this in my heart—it was too unusual, too private. I feel pregnant again—yet the pain of past times makes me too anxious to look at the little pregnancy test stick to see what it says. I make Charlie look. It’s Positive! Our dream is coming true!
We’re relaxing in each other’s arms and I hear a child’s voice say “This isn’t my real father. You have to go find my real father.” Whoa! Too surprising, yet in my heart I know it’s absolutely true. I’ve been longing for another child and Gaunt isn’t ready for that. And he might not be until I’m too old to be pregnant again.
The reality of our age difference becomes painful. “Love is not enough” becomes theme for writing in my journal. We’re just out of phase in our life paths. So after contemplating that voice for awhile I know I have to follow it, for my sake, that child’s sake, and even for Gaunt’s sake. In this way he too would be able to find a partner who was in phase with his younger life. So I begin the gentle, slow pulling away process. I move into my own apartment so I have the space to explore other relationships. I suggest we start dating other people. And I begin, looking for the “real father” of my next child.
There are definite side tracks now and then. One gentle and thoughtful man had already had a vasectomy – so we are out of phase. Though I knew I could love him I broke it off to continue my quest for the “real father.” I told my spirit child, “You’d better help arrange this from your side too.”
Halloween night, when the veil is thin between the spirit and mortal worlds, the moon is full. The original plan was that Gaunt, Julien and I would go to a potluck and party at a friend’s house. But Julien begs to go trick or treating and then stay overnight at his buddy Anson’s house. Then Gaunt calls to say he has the flu so needs to stay home but that he’s heard there’s a fun dance at Naropa. He encourages me to go to, knowing how much I love to dance.
Suddenly I feel like someone in West Side Story—singing out loud as I dress--
"It’s only just out of reach, Down the block, on a beach, Under a tree. I got a feelin’ there’s a miracle due, Gonna come true, Comin’ to me! Could it be? Yes, it could. Something’s coming, something’ good, If I can wait! Something’s comin’, I don’t know what it is But it is Gonna be great! With a click, with a shock, Phone’ll jingle, door’ll knock Open the latch! Something’s comin’, don’t know when, But it’s soon-- Catch the moon, One-handed catch! Around the corner, Or whistling’ down the river, Come on -- deliver To me! Will it be? Yes, it will. Maybe just by holdin’ still It’ll be there! Come on, something’, come on in, Don’t be shy, Meet a guy, Pull up a chair! The air is hummin’, And something’ great is comin’!" Who knows? It’s only just out of reach, Down the block, on a beach. Maybe tonight.
I put on my traditional Halloween costume as a gypsy. Excitement fills me—is it just the full moon, the chance to dance, or someone I am about to meet?
I live downtown so I walk in the clear, warm night to the Boulder Mall. There were some groups and individuals wandering around the Mall. Their strange and exotic costumes further build the sense of going into a new reality. I sashay my gypsy way up and down the Mall and then head to Naropa. I’m the first one to arrive at the dance and when I enter the empty gym I wonder a bit if I am dreaming. This evening is surreal.
People begin arriving, the music starts and I dance around the floor. I’m checking out everyone, to see where the “real father “ pull might be. I whisper to my soul baby, “Show me, so I know for sure.”
Then I see a group dancing together, a couple of women with three guys. The most assertive of the group is attractive to me immediately. But my heart warns me that with him it would be short lived and unfruitful. Then I see Charlie, dancing in the shadow of Mr. Personality. He’s tall and slender, with a T-shirt and mask decorated with stars and a moon. I begin flirting with him from afar. I vow to myself that he must come to me, making the first move. That would be the sign.
All too soon I hear one of his friends say that they’re leaving to go to the L. A. Diner. The man dressed in the night sky seems torn, and starts to leave with them. At this I go lean against the wall, a bit discouraged. But he quickly returns and comes directly over to me.
“Hi, I’m Charlie. Would you like to dance with me?”
I smiled. “Sure. My name’s Terra.”
“Oh and can you give me a ride later. My friends left me here so I could dance some more.”
“Yeah, of course.”
We dance for about half an hour and then leave to get my car and meet his friends at the Diner. He laughs as I start my rusty, orange Toyota by vigorously pumping and pumping the gas petal. I joke, “My car, Joe, always makes me jerk him off before he’ll take me where I want to go.”
At the Diner we run into his friends just before they leave. They invite me to dinner at their house tomorrow night. Charlie and I hang out longer, talking and talking. We’re surrounded by clowns, axe murderers, fairies, nuns, and uncountable other strange beings. The waiters and waitresses roll by on their roller skates, trays precariously balancing.
When I drive Charlie home and drop him off, he gives me a sweet friendly kiss and makes sure that I’m planning to come to the dinner party the next evening.
Charlie hadn’t mentioned that he already had another date for the party. It’s a bit awkward when she & I realized that we are both supposed to be his date. When I take him aside, he confesses that she’d been a blind date set up long before but he really wants to be with me.
That was the beginning of my relationship with Alana’s real father.
A week later we dance together after an intimate day of hiking and talking. We both want a child and soon. We dance to Tina Turner. I have a very transcendent feeling of oneness with Charlie and experience the spiritual conception of our daughter.
We are engaged that Christmas. Ever practical, Charlie gives me a car instead of an engagement ring. We celebrate our marriage April 20- Beltane, another pagan holy day. At our rustic wedding outside in a field, surrounded by flowers and friends, we have an ostrich egg on our altar to symbolize our child to come.
We immediately give up using birth control. Each month feels like I’m pregnant, and each month my period comes and it’s like having a miscarriage. Each birth I attend as a midwife I half-jokingly ask, “ Are you sure you want this baby – and if not, could I have it?
One fall night after teaching my midwifery class I feel exhausted. Yet this is that time of the month to try again. I am fertile. When we make love that night, something is different. I have a vision—first I see fireworks, then two dolphins, leaping out of the water together. Then I see a child’s face- morphing back and forth between a girl and boy.
I keep this in my heart—it was too unusual, too private. I feel pregnant again—yet the pain of past times makes me too anxious to look at the little pregnancy test stick to see what it says. I make Charlie look. It’s Positive! Our dream is coming true!
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