The birth narrative--what can we learn from it?

Six weeks after my first son was born, I went to see an expat massage therapist in Cairo. I know my body needed some care and healing. When I arrived, she gave me a questionnaire to fill out. I had answered these type of questions before when in the States, but there was one question that surprised me. What is the story of your birth?

No one had ever asked me to recount the story of my birth. I could tell her the story of my son's birth, but that it not what she wanted to hear. She wanted to know what my body remembered.

I had never thought of my body as having a memory until then. I preceded to tell her that I think I was stuck in birth. I know my collarbone broke on the way out. I was a big baby. That is all I knew. I was sad I did not know more about my body's physical and emotional histories.

I went home that day and started to write the story of his birth so he would know something of what his body might remember. Maybe years from now someone might ask him. I want him to know.

In writing that narrative, it was clear to me that the story of my body was intricately linked to the story of his body in that moment. The magic of birth stems from all the work the body does to do what it naturally wants to do: to birth.

And then in writing that narrative, I realized that wrapped up in the story of his birth was the story of my emotions. This is crucial. If the body holds a memory like the massage therapist suggested, then certainly emotions hold a history. I could tell him two narratives of his birth. Hour by hour, I can chart what happened physically. I can tell him what the birth was like for me. I can share what I think it might have been like for him.

Then I might tell him the story of my emotions. I might use these words to give voice to this story: anxious and yet calm, scared and yet powerful, rhythmic like the ocean, afraid to let go. Afraid to let go.

I remember my midwife, who was a friend, said to me, "why are you holding back?" At the time, I didn't think much about it, but while I wanted to birth this baby, I was also scared of my loss of control. I want to be able to write the story, all stories, beginning from end. I want to know how everything will end. I want to plan and write my way to it. It was the same for his birth, but I knew that in the moments of his birth, I was loosing control. Tight lipped and holding on for as long as I could, I finally allowed my body to do what it needed to do. I finally let go, with a bit of kicking and screaming. I simply did not want to let go and thankfully, my body won.

If a body holds on to an experience like birth, and if a body holds on to all the emotions of that experience, then certainly my current relationship with my son, even ten years later, holds some of that experience, holds some of those themes, and holds some of that fear of letting go.

Letting go in birth is probably one of the most common ways women might begin to articulate what birth is and can be like. And with one's first born, I think there is a common tendency to hold on too tightly. Every stage we go through with our first born child is always new. We don't know what to expect or how it will end, but I now realize this: every birth has its own narrative or its own theme and somehow the way we tell the birth story reveals something about the way we might relate to that individual child. For instance, the phrase I might use for my first birth might be "Letting go." My second birth, "I caught you." My third birth, "Wow, my body really did that standing on my two feet." Each narrative can have the power to shape my relationship with my children. I might have not had power to coerce my body or my emotions during birth (I would never dream of doing that now), but I do have the power to heal old patterns.

Letting go more fully. Letting go of the whatever I hope the outcome might be. Letting go of even thinking that I need to focus on the outcome of any situation, yes, that is where I want to be. Letting go and allow my son to be who he is becoming. I have very little control over knowing or shaping the end of his story or mine for that matter, but in the act of letting go, I can focus on what really matters--filling our relationship with lots of love, understanding, and listening ears.

Birth is that powerful because it still teaches me so much.

Living in Season: Birth cycles--Christmas

In our house we celebrate the Winter Solstice and the rebirth of the Sun, Christmas and the birth of Jesus, and the birth of the coming New Year. We have slightly different rituals associated with each special day, but they all celebrate birth/rebirth.

Sometimes I wish my spiritual life was more simple and I would be drawn to celebrating just one of these holidays, but I can't, they each mean too much to me, too much to my spirit. I could not imagine this season without our walk up the hill to sing to the Sun (deep connection with nature and her cycles), or our preparation of our Christmas stable (how magical it is to live in a holy story), or bringing in the New Year with our hoping circle (the power in manifesting dreams). I will not let go of any of these, but I do wish for simplicity.

This year I am trying to be more simple, or at least have some clarity in my mind about why I celebrate these three days. To what part of my spirit do each of these three birth cycles speak?

Today I will look at the Christmas birth cycle. It is one of those great birth narratives that I like to live in each year. And because it is so close to my own experience of the birth of my first child, I can easily live in this story in this season. I like the idea that God comes to us in human form. It helps me to see that there is something special about humanity, that we carry the holy and the sacred, even in our less than perfect bodies. I also like to celebrate birth because it is so worth celebrating.

The waiting. First, there is Advent. The waiting time. Preparation. Getting the house in order. Nesting. Wondering when it will happen. What will it be like? What will the baby be like? Look like? Smell like? Will I be able to make it through the delivery? Advent reminds me of my own waiting and wondering and preparing. It is a time of year when waiting becomes a spiritual practice.

Birthing. Then, there is the birth. The pain, the excitement, the long hours, the joy, the new life, huge sigh....of relief... followed by elation. This stage holds the gift of surprise. Like opening a stocking stuffed by my child with things he thought I would really love (a small journal, a new pen, a moonstone, a shell found on the beach, a piece of my favorite chocolate), my surprise tells me (and assures me) that he knows me in a way that all of us want to be known. It is a time of surprises, recognition, honoring, and paying close attention to each other.

Time changes. Then there is the newborn stage. For the new family, there is lots of sleep, hibernating, and enjoying that prepared nest. Time changes. Sleepless nights turn to sleepy days. There is no rushing around, no desire to go out of the house/nest, the pace evenly slow. Throughout the Christmas season there are more days for reading books, napping, and playing in pajamas. Time for staying close to each other.

Welcoming. There are visits with family and friends who bring meals, share food, and offer gifts to the baby. Are these visitors the wisemen in our lives who travel far to bring gifts to the newborn baby? It is a time of celebrating with others our new life--that out of darkness shines a bright star. It is a star we learn again to welcome--a star we gaze upon, and yet a star we hold deep within.

Living in Season: Remembering birth

If I could start a new tradition on Christmas Day it would be to gather people to share birth stories. Real births. Spiritual births. Painful births. Easy births. Long births. Births in the water. Births at home. Birth, birth, birth.

For each time I hear a woman tell the story of the birth of her child, I hear her tell the story of the birth of her soul. All birth stories are holy stories. Although they each hold slightly different plots, they remain mysteriously universal.

There is no veil between heaven and earth, between this world and the spiritual one, when we remember birth.

I won't be surrounded by other women today, but I will be with my children, just the people I need to remember....

Peace,
Nicki