Pump Session: Gifts, Part II

Dear Haven,

Last night, we were all out for a walk together as a family as the moon was rising. It was big, golden, and so tangible, almost reachable there above the trees in the neighborhood. I love the moon – I love the silent witness it seems to bear to our nights, some of them dark, some of them bright. Last summer, at the contemplative retreat, the moon sat as a small sliver of light in the western sky just above the pine trees. This summer, at the retreat, the moon was full and bright. At night I would leave my window open for the fresh, cool pine air and each night I would check to see what streetlight was outside my window, only to find the moon instead, shining bright across the mill pond. As we walked together as a family, as the moon rose, I remembered that it was the four-week anniversary of your birth. That means that four weeks ago the moon would have been big and full, just on its way in or its way out, I can’t remember. Did you arrive at the beckoning of the moon? Did it have a pull on you that brought you here early? I don’t know. But maybe.

In Oregon, the full moon also illuminated the labyrinth, the dirt circle of prayer that lay next to the mill pond, amongst the trees and flowers and deer. I carried you on the labyrinth with me this year, we journeyed together in that sacred space. Before we walked the labyrinth, Nancy reminded us that the labyrinth was like god’s womb, that we were held in that space, in that journey, in that circle where we could not get lost, as if in god’s womb, in the center of god’s mercy. A space to be, a space where things did not need to be solved or figured out. And so we walked together that day in June, on the warm dirt, following the sliver stone guides as we made our way to the heart and back. I remember at one point facing east, letting the sun hit my face, raising my hands to the sky, shining you, my belly, to the trees to the blue sky, to the brilliant sun. I was warmed, immersed in that moment.

And so, four weeks ago, as the moon was big in the sky, you were busy making your way to the world and I was scared. This wasn’t what I was expecting for your arrival – I did not feel prepared and was unsure of what the day would bring, unsure of if you would be okay or not if you came this early, unsure of what all this meant. In a moment of rest I began a conversation with you and this conversation turned out to be such a gift to me, to your dad, and hopefully to you. I believe it is what brought you here, into this world, into our arms. I wrote about it in a letter to two very dear friends – it’s the best summary I have of my special moments with you:

When I went to bed last Monday night, I did not think that I'd wake up to my water breaking and that my Tuesday would mean the birth of my daughter - the week has been somewhat bewildering to say the least. My labor and delivery went well - Aaron was a wonderful companion and my doctor, the one I felt so grateful to have found this spring, was truly amazing during the delivery. There was a moment of calm in the early evening on Tuesday, when my epidural had kicked in after a very long few hours of contractions with very little to no break, where I rested and had a long conversation with Haven. I realized that we were both probably scared and weren't sure what was happening, weren't sure how this had become the birth day, and so in my conversation with her we walked over to the OE [Oregon Extension] labyrinth and I told her all about the labyrinth, how it was a space where we could journey, where we were held in all of our fears and joys and sorrows, where it was as safe and merciful as god's womb. And we walked the labyrinth together, carrying our fears with us, understanding that it was okay to have those fears, that we were safe and held. Sometimes we were alone on the labyrinth, sometimes we stopped to face the sun, sometimes we stopped on the little axes at the corners for strength and rest. Sometimes there were others on the labyrinth with us, and I named all of those people to Haven, told her what wonderful companions and fellow-journeyers they were to us.

The conversation began to wind down and Haven's heart rate began to drop and to become a little more erratic, which signaled to just about everyone in the room that she was deeply engaged in my pelvis and probably ready to make her way out. It was time to push. Aaron and I had a few moments to connect, to feel the weight of what was about to happen, and for me to share with him my conversation with Haven. The delivery was a little touch and go at times - I guess when they are this young they can't always handle the trauma of childbirth - but my doctor did some amazing work and I kept reminding Haven and myself that we were sitting in the center of the labyrinth, in the center of God's womb, and all would be well. Next thing I knew, I had a little baby on my belly and she looked at Aaron and I and began to wail, which everyone thought was tremendous that her lungs were working so well. :)

Dearest Haven, may the full moon always pull us into being, may the new moon grant us rest, and may we always remember that we are held so tenderly in the mercy of god’s womb.

(Thanks, Sarahs, for the onesie!)