From the Archives

I wrote this in November of 2009...I remember the day like it was yesterday.  I bet the mom, whose birth I missed by minutes, remembers that day, too.

I am a student midwife apprenticing with a midwife in my community. Recently, she asked me to begin documenting the births I attend in whatever way seemed most appropriate. A few days after she made this request, she called in the middle of the night to let me know one of our moms was in labor.  I knew intuitively that I would miss the birth. My mind wondered why I shouldn’t go back to bed, save the gas, and the energy. But my intuition told me to go forward. In the end, I might have missed the birth, but I think I found the lesson.

How Birth Is Like A Country Road

It occurred to me today that there are a life's lessons in the travel to a birth. We are often misguided in the notion that the birth is the event we are attending to. We fail to realize it's actually the moment that will be our teacher. 

So country roads, damn country roads. Never fails. There they are. They look so different in the dark, dark night.  Even if you've traveled them numerous times in the daylight, their night life is like a long lost identical twin -- the exact same, but totally different. 

I think childbirth classes are like the general driving directions: cross streets, landmarks, things you'll pass along the way, the signs that will point your direction.  Your mother's story, your best friend's birth, the story of the mother of the brother of the sister of your co-worker's neighbor are just the same: merely guideposts along the way.  When you see the stop sign, stop; the yield sign, yield.  Markers, posts, landmarks. 

But here's the thing: in the cold, dark night on a country road, you can't necessarily see the things that people have pointed out to you to guide your way. Your field of vision is limited to the spray of light shed by your car's headlights. Even when they are turned to bright, it's not necessarily any more illuminating. There's more glare and perhaps more peripheral vision, but not really any more sense of what lies further beyond. 

No, on a country road in the dark, at some point you realize that the only information to see you through is the few feet in front of your car as you travel forward.  In a somewhat meditative process, the music that seemed to be your friend on the journey is quieted so you can focus more on the road ahead, the next contraction. Just as much as you need to know, need to see is available -- a gentle hand, a warming word, silence.  That's what we get and that's what we give -- just enough for the now. 

The potholes always catch you by surprise, even when you're ready for them. There is something about the way the light plays on the landscape that makes us incapable of perceiving every pitfall in our path. It's only as we survey our trip in retrospect that we think, "And then I hit that hole right near the sycamore.  Remember it's there on the way back through next time."

Along the road, somewhat lost, not able to rely on our usual senses we find that our sight and hearing have been supplanted by that internal sense of direction.  We may continue to reach out the way we know how -- phone, knock on a door ("Can you help me? I'm looking for a certain house."), perhaps even a co-pilot. Invariably, there is only one person able to put foot on gas pedal, hands on steering wheel, eyes on road. Only one person who will birth that baby. Invariably, the cell phone connection will be lost; the kind neighbor will give inadequate directions; the co-pilot will remain 16 inches away in her own seat. It's a singular journey.

At some point, when all else is exhausted, there comes a time when the only way down the road is...well, down the road. A surrender is made.  "I feel really lost. I'm not sure this is the way. I've done the best I know how. I can only keep going. What other choice do I have? Stop and wait for daylight? A rescue?" 

And in that minute there is no more noise, no more second-guessing, no more wondering if you took a wrong turn. There is only intent mindfulness on the next indicated action, movement, lurch forward. Commitment. What falls away is the belief that there is only one way down the road, to the house. What becomes apparent and entire is that right there -- in that moment, at that time, hands on wheel, foot on pedal, eyes closed -- is that we're moving toward something.  We are going somewhere. 

I believe there is a second time when along the road we submit to the minute. We say to ourselves, "I'll do whatever it takes to keep going forward." We say it to ourselves in a way that doesn't even sound like speaking. It is an intense, full-bodied knowing and display that we will go, we will do, we will be whatever and wherever we need to make progress. Squatting, walking, rocking, crying, silent, rhythmic.

That last effort or instinct on our part, in my experience, is most often met by the surprise find of the exact house you were looking for. It's like in a split second you see the house, think to yourself, "There's a house," then wonder what in the heck a house it doing way out here, and then remember that that's where you were headed in the first place -- exactly like the first time a mother touches her baby's head as it is emerging. That connection is complete.

Opening the door, walking the walkway and crossing the threshold -- you're finally there. You have arrived. In that minute, you have arrived at the destination. The pieces are finally in place and the jigsaw that was the reality of just a minute prior now fuses to make a perfect picture. Baby on belly. 

But here's the thing I love the most about the drive and about the road. The birth will take time, the labor, the welcoming, the checking, the mothering, the cleaning -- and then you'll get back in your car. It will be light; hours will have passed. 

You'll back your car down the road and start for home, but what you'll see is that the entire landscape has changed. Your vision is no longer limited to the destination. Your eyes will no longer be riveted on the few feet in front of the car. What will happen is you'll raise up your head and witness the trees, their colors and their leaves in the wind.  You'll realize you are nestled in a valley or on a hilltop, not just at the end of the road. There will be endless heavens above and fields around, the animals and plants will be coming alive with the heat of the sun. And there is it is: life all around, inside, outside, throughout you and everything, everyone. Motherhood everywhere. 

And that's what happens. You arrive at the place you think is the destination, and once there, you finally see that there is so much more to behold on the journey. 

Bridges

I am a total fan of the Universe.  If her team had a jersey, I'd be one of those schmucks wearing one on her game days.  Or even every day, just to show my allegiance.  


My life is a series of near misses and just-barely hits.  But for the seconds it took to get the shoe on, the car backed out of the driveway, that extra-long red light.  Sometimes it all seems like mistakes.  And then I happen upon THE bit I WAS NOT supposed to miss, and I realize the Universe is universally sound in her timing and set rearrangement.  


This morning, the coughing boy who needed a ride to school was just a ploy.  My friend, Missy, and her boy's wrecked bike brakes, and his sudden need for a ride to school?  Well, that was just a ploy, too.  We were supposed to happen upon the same spot at the same time. I needed to hear what she had to say, because, like so many times with her, she was speaking my very thoughts and feelings. 


I really have few people in my life who seem like they are just other parts of me flying free out in the world.  She's one.  Our lives are constantly intermingled.  Being in her presence is really like being alone, but with audible validation of my existence, thoughts, feelings, and ideas. I think she might feel the same.  I'm thankful to have found her.  The again and again and again times that we have found each other. 


I've been waking up at 3:46 every morning.  I can't seem to sleep any longer than this.  I wake up to the same recurring thoughts, mind chatter, feelings.  This morning when I woke up, there was the usual tape playing in the background of my mind, but then a new idea happened in.  I felt it, experienced it more than thought it.  I'd like to think I'm embodying it more than examining it.  


Over the course of my lifetime, I've always had something to hold on to, retreat into, rely on.  Until now.  In the last several months, those people, places, and things that have been my life have slowly and/or suddenly been disappeared.  I've been in a constant state of rearrangement, re-centering, renewing my ideas of self, the world, and her people.  It's been a challenge.  And in this time, I've been aware, more and more, that the process is internal.  There isn't a person, a place, a thing that can or will do it for me.  It's an internal reconnection and resurrection that's taking place.  


This morning I saw it like this:


A bridge.  With missing bits.  Connecting me to myself.  And the same bridge.  With missing bits.  Connecting me to the Universe, God, Creative Spirit (whatever you call it, whatever floats your boat).  And there is NOTHING else.  This journey I'm on is the coming back to Source or the open awareness of Source or the claiming of Source that is in its essence me or It...I'm never quite sure which.  I'm not sure it matters.  

This morning Missy said it this way:  I'm being stripped down.  I am not my marriage.  I am not motherhood.  I am not the success of my career.  I am not my spiritual community.  I'm being stripped down to my essence.  It's a dance with just me and me, a dance with just me and God.  That's it.  


I totally get it.  It's excruciatingly painful to be stripped down in this way.  It's unsettling and frightening to look around and see the unfamiliar landscape of a new (unintended) life.  It's tiring to stay afloat in the shifting current.


And at the end of the day, what else is there to do?


Of course, there are crutches if I'd want them.  There are distractions to be had.  There's drama to create if I'm into that.  I'm aware, however, that doesn't really do anything except delay the inevitable process underway here.  It could serve as a temporary relief or harbor in my storm, but it's not the answer or the way.  I'm clear on that.  


And so today, again, I'm willing to let the Universe guide me in my day, to those places I didn't plan on going, into the person I hadn't really anticipated being.  I'm certain that I will continue to run into just the right people at just the right time.  And I'm certain I'm going to be finding some pennies along the way. 

Country Roads

Part II. Early morning to text to one of my dearest friends:


"Oh, and the notions of 'blindness' and 'guidance' have come up several times today as well. Just food for thought.


"And in the middle of the night, #4 (my youngest son) said, in his sleep, "Now THAT was tasty." I'm not sure what it means, but I think it might be the secret of the universe."


And then I went running.


I have a few favorite runs, but my favorite of all is a meandering country road, a loop near my house. I run it as often as I can. Today, when it came time to turn off the usual way, I kept running. As I passed the road, I thought, "I guess I'm running it backwards today." Sometimes, I have to let my feet do the deciding. Sometimes they know best.


Here was the lesson...


On this route, I always run with the flow of traffic. It breeds a certain kind of faith, running in the direction of traffic, back to oncoming cars, on a country road. It's a kind of blind faith. It's a trusting that the cars traveling at 60 miles per hour aren't going to veer slightly into the bike lane and hit me. I've needed to grow this kind of faith. I've needed to trust in that which cannot be seen. I've needed to cultivate the sure belief, through compounded experiences, that I will be taken care of.


But there's a flip side to this kind of faith...it's kind of passive. Not in a zen way either. It takes the responsibility I can shoulder and puts it in the hands of someone else. It has value, this kind of faith. BUT it also has its limits.


So today, I was facing traffic head-on. If a car was going to hit me, I was going to see it happen. It was frightening. Seeing the dangers coming toward me. Feeling the powerlessness of other people's actions. Being open to witnessing, continuing on, and following through. And it was a different kind of faith I felt being born today, a guiding faith -- a faith that I can accept my life, I can accept those challenges, I can accept those separate passing beings without necessarily altering my course. I can assess those seconds as they pass, make worthwhile decisions, and take responsibility for myself and my actions, my reactions and alter my course as needed, if needed.


I have run this loop for years. I couldn't count the number of times my feet have been on that road. We are old friends. I have come to rely on her for the certainty I know she provides. She gives me space and security to be. But today, she challenged my very notion of self. Today she showed me a new part of me. Today she gave me a glimpse of the woman I am -- new to taking responsibility for herself in a lot of ways; new to feeling confident and capable; new to having certain faith and newfound trust in the world around me. Today it was like meeting a new friend, with new perspectives and new offerings.


And this is the way it works for me...some ideas, emotions, feelings, words are circling in my brain or in my heart, and as I pass the miles, they reveal their meaning. 


So 'blindness' and 'guidance' have shown themselves. Now I'm just waiting for 'tasty.'