GET OUT! ALL CAPS MEANS BUSINESS!

15 Jan

My best friend in the world is having a baby any day now.  Needless to say, I am over the moon.  But I’m here, on her behalf, just incase that stubborn little fetus has some kind of smart phone up in thrr to say before all-y’all on the interwebs (and possibly said stubborn fetus) that IT’S TIME – GET OUT!  YOU’RE GETTING DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO LOSING YOUR DEPOSIT!  Ladies who’ve gestated can attest to the fact that at the very end you become FUCKING DONE.  Not “done.”  “Done” is a state you semi-peacefully enter a week before FUCKING DONE.  “Done” is uncomfortable.  FUCKING DONE is sharpening knives and making visual aids to assist you in your plan to peel your own skin off.  “Done” is hopeful if a little exasperated.  FUCKING DONE is a wellspring of despairing tears generated by the realization that you’re going to spend the rest of your life with a douchebag of a baby lazing the days away on your bladder.  “Done” is a state of curiosity:  “I wonder when tiny love will be born?  Gosh, I sure hope it’s soonish.”  FUCKING DONE is inserting a twix like a tampon, crazy eyes ablaze, in the hope that your bundle of jerk will clamp his awful jaws down and that you’ll be able to just kind-of pull him out.

Did I ruin fishing for you?  At the very least I think I probably put us all off twix bars for a while.  Rest assured, my pal hasn’t attempted any of these things (and won’t because, you know, she’s not sick in the head like certain best friends of hers…).  But the fact remains, the tail end of the homestretch of pregnancy is a bitch.  Now, as you may recall, I absolutely loved giving birth.  Loved it.  It remains my absolute favorite day(s) of my life.  And let me be clear, my favorite part was NOT the baby-in-my-arms-at-the-end part – that part was pretty good too – but it was the labor itself.  I loved labor and really hope I have the opportunity to do it again.  I say this so that you’ll know that I’m not one of those “everything sucks about having children/your life is over/awful thing about hotdog-hallway” types.  But let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?  It’s no fun waiting for a totally unknown experience after months and months of waiting for a totally unknown experience.  The fact that our culture presents labor as something overwhelmingly negative doesn’t help, but funnily enough, the part that no one is talking about that actually does suck your gross uncle’s balls is the waiting at the very end.

Do you enjoy a quick transition?  Good.  Me too.  So here’s this thing I wrote for my BFF’s blessingway (click on that to confirm that yes, it’s exactly as mystical/naked-in-the-woods/drinking (menstrual) blood as it sounds).  I hope you think it’s pretty.  More than anything, I hope that little (sure-to-be-adorable) asshole has the good sense to get hisself born-d.  Because it’s no fun to be FUCKING DONE.

I Think You Might Be The Lion

What is there to say other than what we said the other day?  That it’s an absolute mystery until you are waist deep in it – always with the water.  In tides.  Ebbing and flowing.

That the only difference is the input.

And you and I know all about that.

All of a sudden I remember you.  I am standing by that piece-of-shit stereo.  It’s playing some track – that Sufjan album, or Regina Spektor or Animal Collective.  I’m watching.  Not facing you, but looking at the mirror.

You stepped up onto Rachel’s back, impossible, but onto the back of her neck and I knew for sure that you were going to be okay.  Because even though it was dangerous and didn’t make sense – it shouldn’t have worked – it was so so beautiful and charged with the third thing.  The essential real movement.  And Jamie was an asshole like always.  He reached for your hand, but you were already gone.  Up.  Up.  Up.

That should have been such a mess.  I saw you, perfect – strong without trying – in being.  Balanced.

And so I know that you are smart enough.  Not in the way of knowing how to, or working, or any of that – you’re those things too – but this is to say smart in the deep way of falling with a welcome spirit for the ground – a deep trust that you already have what you need.

In freedom.  In radical subversive tenacity.  Not with gritted teeth, but screaming out an open window in March.  Still snow on the ground,but on the first warmish day.  Flying down Broomfield, Meridian, Isabella.

In not even stepping up onto her neck, but finding yourself there and making – deep inside –  the shift to say yes.  “Yes, and.”  Responding to whatever part pulled you up there in the first place.  Knowing that it’s Rachel underneath you.

And of course, this is the leap – that birth is the best improvisation.  You will never have to reach for the third thing because it will be the current you’re in.  Instead of snatches – seconds long miracles of presence – your attention will be perfectly wrapped – knit into the intensity that becomes a total reprieve from everything else.   Physical, immediate, intuitive.  You have prepared so long.  Before you knew your body like now.  Getting ready even back when your hair blew like a lion’s mane in the parking lot – sweaty and cold.  The new magic is brave from the outside but impossibly clear and free from choices inside – so that after this long I am anxious and glad for you to know perfect work in birth, because I know that it will mean so much to you.

And that small fierce punch of color that wells up inside of you, and defies anyone to ask if you could love something that’s so hard and withholding, will gush out again – carrying you up, up, up, just like I remember.

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