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. It has been usurped as "Artificial Reproductive Technologies."

Birth is a transformation—what is 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.

A Menopausal Story

She had been going through the Change. Her body, always a well-known friend, now sometimes left her disappointed. First, more frequent periods left her anemic, her cells slowly dying for lack of oxygen. Then regular cycles became a thing of the past, so she always had to arm herself with tampons. Eventually cycles slowed to rare events, finally never to return.

Meanwhile her skin loosened, her hair grayed and thinned and her middle expanded. She’d never had to worry about weight before but now her size had grown just when she most wanted to hide away, like a shy adolescent.

Her daughter gave her encouragement. “Mom, why don’t you explore your new body, your new options? Who are you now? A butterfly, might be confused because she isn’t a caterpillar anymore. Test your new ways to move in the world, your new ways to nourish yourself. Now you can drink nectar from flowers instead of eating leaves.”

And so she did.
--by Terra Rafael

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.

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

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

My adventures with plants- Cronewort

Green eyes. When did my eyes turn green? Maybe after I bonded with the plants, entering into their slow and generous world.

That day in Ann Drucker's herb class was the taproot. We spent the day on the plains, in the WishGarden Herbs garden. It was an unusually misty, wet day for Colorado. On my way there I'd wondered if I'd end up going home early -- I hate cold wetness to my bone. Yet as we entered into the plant world by singing and opening our awareness, the water and cloudy coolness became nurturing respite from the usual burning Colorado sun.

The plant species each had their own personality. At first I chose Motherwort, wanting some mother wisdom about my children. I sat down next to her. Burying next to her a bit of herb from my garden as an offering. Asking her if I might receive a teaching from her.

As I listened inwardly, she squawked at me like a tired mother, bothered yet again by a thoughtless child. "You don't belong with me. Go to Cronewort with your questions. Leave me alone."

Taken aback, she was true to her prickley seed pods, setting her limits with a bit of a poke. "OK, I hear you. Sorry I bothered you."

I crawled a few yards through the muddy paths around the plants until I found Cronewort. Some know her as Mugwort. She was truly regal. Almost as tall as I was when I stand on my feet. But I kneeled in front of her, offering my herb and my song.
"Sacred Cronewort, hear my song. Make my way sacred, fill me with wisdom.
Sacred Cronewort, hear my song. Make my way sacred, fill me with beauty.
Fill me with wisdom, that I may bring others wisdom.
Fill me with beauty, that I may bring others beauty."
I asked to partake of her leaves and her wisdom. She nodded her head in the moist wind. I beheld her physical form, jagged leaves shadowed with silvery green, watching for the leaves that were offering themselves to me. When I saw them, I gently removed them from her branch and clutched them to my heart in thanks. Then I took them into my mouth, chewing slowly, tasting her leaf juices mingled with my juices. I sat still in the misty rain.

As I sat the rain would change her song, falling with a deeper tone with larger drops, then more staccato, then leaving a misty space of quiet rest between.

The essence of cronewort juice rose to my head. I felt that regal sense agian, now inside of me, and knew yet another name for her-- Crownwort. I felt she had crowned me with the beginning of my cronehood, the sensation of a royal crown on my head. I felt my shushumna, the energetic spine, fill and glow and my crown chakra awaken by her powers, just as I had felt it happen before by chanting sacred words or being in the presence of saints. I sat still in the misty rain.

The honor and peace of Cronewort's initiation of me smoothed my way into my menopausal years.

Time - an excerpt from Giving Birth to Ourselves

TIME

Within a week two women gave birth . One was having her first child - it took almost 30 hours. The other was having her fifth baby - it took her three hours. Her four previous births were only an hour long. And so, to both women , their labors were long.

Life experience does not necessarily fit into linear, logical measures. Births are a gift to us in reminding us of that.

The time it takes for us to realize our goals, whether inner or outer is just as relative, and requires just the kind of willingness to persevere as birthing does.

Contemplations--

· Do I choose realistic time frames for getting where I want to go?
· Do I accept that I am not always in control of what happens on the way?
· Am I willing to allow time to be elastic in reality and bounce on it like a trampoline rather than smothering in it like a rubber mask?

Activities--

Do a visualization back into the womb to re experience womb time.

Being in labor or at a labor or with a child or in love are all experiences that can produce an altered sense of time. Talking about it with each other may help us reclaim the time without clocks which is usually disallowed in this culture, even to children.

Meditations to alter time: Sit still, moving just your arm as slowly as possible. Walk as slowly as possible. Go for a walk to explore outside with a 2-year old. Sit next to a loudly rushing stream. Put your watch aside and enjoy it.



Giving Birth to Ourselves - Contemplations for midwives & other birth companions is available at www.lulu.com

Riggidy jig

Crone the Destroyer
Wise Goddess
Creatrix
Heal me of illness
Transform all my defects.
Make me moist ground for the Mother to till,
Growing & fruitful for doing Our Will.
Then I be Maid again
Fresh & anew
Flowering sweetly with bees & the dew.
Then to fall & be fruited,
To rot and be seed,
Born again, born again,
Riggidy jig.