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.
15 July 2008
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!
30 June 2008
Prose: Hiking near Jewel Cave
Today I went for a hike through the Black Hills, instead of descending into Jewel Cave with my husband Victor & first grader Evan. I like crystals—but something about being underground is aversive for me. Plus it’s cooler down there and I’m already chilled from sleeping out in a tent. We have been cold and damp for all the days we’ve been here. If it were the full on heat of summer I might find it more appealing.
I set off on the Canyon trail loop. It switch backed down to the canyon floor. I was the only human soul in sight. There were bluebells & harebell & and a white, six petal star-shaped flower with yellow fireworks launching from her middle. Strawberries and wild rose plants, not yet blooming, also lined the pathway. And the biggest, healthiest, lushest stand of shepherd’s purse I’ve ever seen grows right at the bottom of the switchbacks.
Here a service road becomes the path. Being solitary in the middle of nature washes over me here. My psychological defenses dissolve. I become more porous, absorbing the vitality of the natural landscape while diffusing my tightness and neurotic thinking-ness into the ocean of nature. On one side of the canyon the rocks are a kaleidoscope of orange hues. Wild plum trees sweeten the air and each breath sweetens me.
Now the canyon opens up in front of me into a wider canyon with a meadow bottom. This area had been burned in the forest fire 8 years ago. Blackened trees stand watch, while others tumbled together on the re-newing soil. As I follow the service road which has been my path, a moment of panic suddenly hits me. Am I safe alone? Are there predators or bears nearby? Why did I suddenly get adrenalized? I stop and breathe in the clean air. I ask if this is intuition of danger. “NO” is the answer. Maybe I’d responded to the opening up of the landscape. I feel more vulnerable outside of the forested blanketing, more visible from a distance. I notice I’m taking the stance of prey rather than predator. Or maybe I sense the vestiges of animal fear from the fire that swept through here. When I stop and breathe, the panic inside left and I dissolve again into nature.
Here there is stand after stand of wild irises regally opening their lavender crowns. Evening primrose plants enjoy the moist meadow too. A pair of blue butterflies outlined in white play together near a yellow blossom. I walk on and on, drinking in my solitude and aliveness. Only once a jogger comes upon me and says, ”Nice time for wild flowers!” She smiles as she passes.
As the pathway curved back and forth through the winding canyon, the wind finds me at different angles. I pull on my windbreaker, only to curve back into a warmer corner and end up tying it back around my waist. At one turn the walls of rock amaze . One side was white with some red, while the other is black with some red. I wished for a camera. I wanted to capture the color of my hand against each of the stone colors and textures. Words can’t.
Entering into a more wooded area again, wild violets were popping up along the path. I bent to pick one for a taste of the canyon spring. Mmmm, sweet biting flavor and coolness.
Continuing along I wonder why I haven’t gotten back to the Visitors Center yet. Victor’s watch on my wrist says it’s past the time I’d estimated to be there. A doe leaps across my pathway, just as I see that the service road doesn’t lead me back to Jewel Cave. It goes to the highway, where the gate is locked. Should I backtrack to find where I failed to turn? Or go to the highway? I look to the deer- and she decidedly points towards the highway. So I stretch the barbed wire to duck beneath it. My day pack is grazed by the unfriendly barbs. Now which way? Right seems the way. And yes, a conveniently placed road sign say, “Jewel Cave - 1 mile”. Another sign nearby says, “Hell Canyon Trailhead.” Was that where I’d been?
By now I’m sweating in the heat of my hiking, even though the wind still blows cool. My legs are tired and walking the side of the road isn’t as pleasing as the canyon bottom.
Campers and RV’s rush past me as I secretly wish one would rescue me. Another mile seems like forever at this point, plus it was past our rendezvous time. Even the small stands of lavender irises along the roadway have a hard time breaking through my embarrassment at my misdirection. “I’m not lost, just took a detour. I’m just behind schedule.”
Each speeding vehicle seems to taunt my plodding pedestrian pace. I have to switch sides of the road to have enough shoulder to stay safely out of the way of wandering RV’s. Thinking like prey again. This is the longest of the 4 or 5 miles I’ve ended up hiking.
The twisting mountain road finally reaches the Jewel Cave turnoff. When we’d arrived in our car I hadn’t noticed how far it was from the highway to the Visitors Center. Another mile it seems. At least it is all downhill and there are fewer more subdued vehicles.
Is Victor worried? Had they started searching for me? I’m 40 minutes late. No one rushes up to me, happy that I’ve gotten back safely, when I able into the parking area. No one is at the picnic table where we’d had our snack. No Victor & Evan in the Visitors Center. I go back outside, pondering where to look for them next, when Evan yells, “I found her.” Victor comes over to hug me. My little adventure becomes part of our conversation as they tell me about what was under the ground that I’d been wandering over.
I set off on the Canyon trail loop. It switch backed down to the canyon floor. I was the only human soul in sight. There were bluebells & harebell & and a white, six petal star-shaped flower with yellow fireworks launching from her middle. Strawberries and wild rose plants, not yet blooming, also lined the pathway. And the biggest, healthiest, lushest stand of shepherd’s purse I’ve ever seen grows right at the bottom of the switchbacks.
Here a service road becomes the path. Being solitary in the middle of nature washes over me here. My psychological defenses dissolve. I become more porous, absorbing the vitality of the natural landscape while diffusing my tightness and neurotic thinking-ness into the ocean of nature. On one side of the canyon the rocks are a kaleidoscope of orange hues. Wild plum trees sweeten the air and each breath sweetens me.
Now the canyon opens up in front of me into a wider canyon with a meadow bottom. This area had been burned in the forest fire 8 years ago. Blackened trees stand watch, while others tumbled together on the re-newing soil. As I follow the service road which has been my path, a moment of panic suddenly hits me. Am I safe alone? Are there predators or bears nearby? Why did I suddenly get adrenalized? I stop and breathe in the clean air. I ask if this is intuition of danger. “NO” is the answer. Maybe I’d responded to the opening up of the landscape. I feel more vulnerable outside of the forested blanketing, more visible from a distance. I notice I’m taking the stance of prey rather than predator. Or maybe I sense the vestiges of animal fear from the fire that swept through here. When I stop and breathe, the panic inside left and I dissolve again into nature.
Here there is stand after stand of wild irises regally opening their lavender crowns. Evening primrose plants enjoy the moist meadow too. A pair of blue butterflies outlined in white play together near a yellow blossom. I walk on and on, drinking in my solitude and aliveness. Only once a jogger comes upon me and says, ”Nice time for wild flowers!” She smiles as she passes.
As the pathway curved back and forth through the winding canyon, the wind finds me at different angles. I pull on my windbreaker, only to curve back into a warmer corner and end up tying it back around my waist. At one turn the walls of rock amaze . One side was white with some red, while the other is black with some red. I wished for a camera. I wanted to capture the color of my hand against each of the stone colors and textures. Words can’t.
Entering into a more wooded area again, wild violets were popping up along the path. I bent to pick one for a taste of the canyon spring. Mmmm, sweet biting flavor and coolness.
Continuing along I wonder why I haven’t gotten back to the Visitors Center yet. Victor’s watch on my wrist says it’s past the time I’d estimated to be there. A doe leaps across my pathway, just as I see that the service road doesn’t lead me back to Jewel Cave. It goes to the highway, where the gate is locked. Should I backtrack to find where I failed to turn? Or go to the highway? I look to the deer- and she decidedly points towards the highway. So I stretch the barbed wire to duck beneath it. My day pack is grazed by the unfriendly barbs. Now which way? Right seems the way. And yes, a conveniently placed road sign say, “Jewel Cave - 1 mile”. Another sign nearby says, “Hell Canyon Trailhead.” Was that where I’d been?
By now I’m sweating in the heat of my hiking, even though the wind still blows cool. My legs are tired and walking the side of the road isn’t as pleasing as the canyon bottom.
Campers and RV’s rush past me as I secretly wish one would rescue me. Another mile seems like forever at this point, plus it was past our rendezvous time. Even the small stands of lavender irises along the roadway have a hard time breaking through my embarrassment at my misdirection. “I’m not lost, just took a detour. I’m just behind schedule.”
Each speeding vehicle seems to taunt my plodding pedestrian pace. I have to switch sides of the road to have enough shoulder to stay safely out of the way of wandering RV’s. Thinking like prey again. This is the longest of the 4 or 5 miles I’ve ended up hiking.
The twisting mountain road finally reaches the Jewel Cave turnoff. When we’d arrived in our car I hadn’t noticed how far it was from the highway to the Visitors Center. Another mile it seems. At least it is all downhill and there are fewer more subdued vehicles.
Is Victor worried? Had they started searching for me? I’m 40 minutes late. No one rushes up to me, happy that I’ve gotten back safely, when I able into the parking area. No one is at the picnic table where we’d had our snack. No Victor & Evan in the Visitors Center. I go back outside, pondering where to look for them next, when Evan yells, “I found her.” Victor comes over to hug me. My little adventure becomes part of our conversation as they tell me about what was under the ground that I’d been wandering over.
23 June 2008
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.
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.
16 June 2008
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
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
12 May 2008
I'm Curious About Datura
I’m curious about the Datura. This powerful plant seduces me. In the alley, next to Lucille’s Cajun restaurant, Datura has been growing for years. This viney stem has large leaves and gigantic white trumpet blossoms that open and close each day. She attracts me like a bee. She takes over the physical and energetic landscape. I hear her whispering, ”Come closer.” I feel her drawing me near. Whenever I approach her, be it in a friend’s Boulder garden or next to a wooden fence in a clearing of the Belizean rain forest, I am captivated. Does this happen to everyone?
Datura can be a medicine inhaled for asthma. World wide this plant has been used for spiritual seeking. I know Datura can be poisonous- eating a mouthful of the leaves can kill. Still I made a flower essence of the Belizean blossom. When I took the essence that night, I tranced an amazing tryst with the stars. But that’s another story.
Soon, I'm planting Datura in my new garden plot to see what more she has to share with me. The master gardener said to harden her off before I plant, to wait another week to avoid frost, "be sure her roots are planted well and stand back." I envision a tangled bed of Datura and squashes to feed my wildness in the middle of my safe suburban neighborhood. Maybe I need a little danger to feel at home.
Datura can be a medicine inhaled for asthma. World wide this plant has been used for spiritual seeking. I know Datura can be poisonous- eating a mouthful of the leaves can kill. Still I made a flower essence of the Belizean blossom. When I took the essence that night, I tranced an amazing tryst with the stars. But that’s another story.
Soon, I'm planting Datura in my new garden plot to see what more she has to share with me. The master gardener said to harden her off before I plant, to wait another week to avoid frost, "be sure her roots are planted well and stand back." I envision a tangled bed of Datura and squashes to feed my wildness in the middle of my safe suburban neighborhood. Maybe I need a little danger to feel at home.
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