She was my competition. But I didn’t dislike her. She was a little snobby. But I didn’t judge her. And, still, she HATED me.
We were in a small elite show choir and we were auditioning for the touring beauty shop quartet. The director of the music department is standing behind us with his head bent forward between us, being forced to listen to minute harmonies and see how we can make our voices meld. She is good; probably better than me. But I have this funny musical gift. I can make my voice sound exactly like someone else; and when you are talking about singing “Birdland” and “Zombie Jamboree” in eight part harmony with eight voices. It has to be that tight. It makes all of the difference. I got the part. And she HATED me.
She already disliked me because we had a contest in music composition that I won because of my auctioneer mouth. We had to memorize ‘the circle of fifths’ a chord chart we would need for our daily homework. We HAD to say it in less than 30 seconds to pass the pop quiz. I said it in less than eight seconds. I think I still hold the record. *laugh* It was a parlor trick that semester, while we were killing time between rehearsals someone would say, “Hey... Do it.” And I would rattle it off. That’s where the 220 mile an hour part came from I am sure.
I was lamenting about in his office one day. He is my boss, my choral director, my private vocal coach, my father and my friend. His family adopted me while I was so far from home. He was one of the most amazing men I have ever met. He had this voice that was so low it vibrated your chest. When he laughed, your soul giggled, whether or not you did. His eyes twinkled. He cried while he directed the more powerful pieces of music; we would all tease him because it made us cry and then we sounded like crap. *laugh* He appreciated me for who I was. We had long conversations in his office while we worked side by side grading papers and filing music. There was a piece of God in him and I loved him.
I had driven three hours for my audition with him a year ago. When I was done he said to me, “What kind of scholarship do you need for me to get you here, Jessica?” He would tease me about how valuable I was to him. I had this ability to hear music in layers and I could usually sing whatever part he asked me to except the bass. I was never really assigned a part, I sang them all and he would tell me what he wanted me singing the night of the concert. He appreciated the fact that we could talk without really talking and that I knew how to help without really being asked. I had keys to his office and I would come into work with yellow post-it notes on my desk “We called them ‘stello yickums’ instead of ‘yellow stickums’ by accident one day and it stuck. His post-it note would have a list of things to do and he would make a funny joke then write “love you, thank you, Dr L” I still have his best notes tucked in a memory box. He changed my life because he loved me.
He watched me grow up, away from home for the first time. And he knew my personal challenges. I have this personality that people either really love or REALLY hate. It took me a lot of years to be okay with that. Well, a lot of years and a kind, loving, thoughtful lecture from him one day.
“She hates me… and I didn’t do anything to her. Can I just quit and you put her in the group? I don’t need the class really, I don’t want her to haaate me.” I snap up angrily and add “This is why all of my friends are guys!” I am sobbing in my office chair. He stands up then and closes his office door. He sits in his chair and leans forward and takes my shaky hands in his enormous ones and says to me:
“Jess, you are an apricot. Not everyone likes apricots. But here is the deal. If you TRY to be a peach, then the people who like peaches won’t like you because you would make a lousy peach. But if you get okay with the fact that you are an amazing apricot, those that love apricots will recognize you and the folks that like peaches, well they will just have to get over the fact that you are a better apricot. You are a ‘two-hundred-and-twenty-mile-an-hour’ apricot. And I am glad you are in my life. I appreciate apricots, but only when they are the best.” I start laughing through my tears. This would become the joke of my life when I would get smacked in the face with someone who had an unknown distain for me. I used this story in church talks, in motivational speeches to youth and in private moments with friends. It became one of my private mantras as I have struggled in my life with insecurities.
I am an Apricot. And I am okay like that. I eventually won her over. She got a really big solo and was able to rub it in my face in her own mind. It made it okay for her somehow. I had informed the director that if he offered it to me I would quit. We laughed and he said under his breath… ”Apricot. Ha!”
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
I was 28 years old the first year I taught High School
What does it for you?
There are so many discussions online about “What does it for you”. Sometimes there is a simple answer for that question (“I love a woman with big boobs” Big boobs do it for me! Or “Oh, a man with great calves” mmm THAT does it for me) and sometimes there is absolutely no answer at all to that question. There are some days and situations that I don’t know what “does it for me”. And then there are days where I know EXACTLY what I want. And still some days, that I get to discover in one moment, what REALLY “does it for me”; and it is often totally unexpected.
I was 28 years old the first year I taught High School. I quickly became friends with the 20 or so other members of the facility at the small High School. There was a new football coach that year. He was 23; fresh out of college. The perfect jock. And he was, at first glance, the most arrogant man I had ever met. Adonis. His name wasn’t really Adonis, but it may as well have been. They were as giddy as mosquitoes around him. It nauseated me some days.
The High School-aged girls always swooned behind his back. Giggling about how cute his ass was and how well his jeans fit. He was aware of it and handled it very professionally. I appreciated him for that.
There are outdoor stairs in the High School, and the art room where my morning classes are is at the bottom of them. As I begin the hike up the two flights of stairs, two of my female colleagues walked up next to me. Their names are Diane and Chris. We are close, the three of us. And we share a small chuckle as we walk up the stairs behind “Mr. Adonis”.
So, see it, there is a single 23 year old male teacher walking up two flights of stairs, and a bunch of horny 16 and 17 year olds, and three middle-aged woman behind him. Two of the teenagers share an obvious joke about his ass and giggle. I say to my friends in a conspiring whisper, “I don’t GET it. He is SO not that cute! What do they SEE in him?” Diane, a recently divorced woman said quietly “I see it… DAMN look at that tight ass!” Chris and I chuckled with her but I piped back in with, “Nope, doesn’t do it for me… the ASS doesn’t do it.”
A few weeks later, we were invited by Mr. Adonis to his classroom at lunch. He was also the geography teacher and they were having lunch pot luck with dishes from all over Central America. I begrudgingly trudge down the stairs with Chris. I open the door to Mr. Adonis’ classroom and… in mid sentence, she gasps. He is standing there, stirring a crock pot, in Friday casual jeans, a polo shirt and… a decidedly feminine apron. Her arousal is almost tangible. I stop and look first at him, then at her and say incredulously, “THE APRON??!! The APRON did it for you??” She nodded as she chuckled at herself and went over to compliment him on his collaborative effort for the children, and to check out his ass.
As we left his room I teased her “You are as bad as the kids! Swooning over him like that.” She laughed. “Nothing sexier to me than a man that can cook.” She uttered something that sounded like an exhale of a cigarette after good sex. We laughed.
Life went on. I still looked at Adonis with respect, he was a good teacher. But I simply couldn’t SEE what the big freaking deal was. He really wasn’t all that!
At the end of the first semester, we approached student teacher conferences. We decided that since the school was so spread out, in order to save the parents’ time, we would all congregate in the cafeteria. Each teacher had a table. The parents had their children’s schedules and visited with each teacher as time permitted. Chris was on one side of me, and Adonis was on the other. We worked through two days of conferences, exhausted from complaining parents and longer hours.
The last day of conferences was when it happened. I looked up from my grade book to see Justin’s mom coming. Justin was a student that Adonis and I shared. He was struggling in Adonis’ class, and he was failing mine. He couldn’t graduate without passing my class, so we were concerned. His parents had recently gotten divorced and it was obvious that his mother was barely holding it all together. He was a rough kid, probably used drugs and certainly was wayward. We all loved him, but were terrified we wouldn’t be able to save him. (We didn’t save him actually; Justin committed suicide a year after he graduated. It devastated all of us.)
As she approached my table with her dirty faced toddler on her hip, Adonis stood up. He held his arms out to the tired cranky child and quietly said to the mother. “You need to talk to her, let me take your little one for you. I will stay right here. We will play.” The mother gratefully handed her cautious little one to the strong arms of the man who, in that VERY moment became one of the sexiest beings on the PLANET to me. The mother dropped her purse and said in a voice thinly veiled with exhaustion “Can I go to the bathroom first?” I said of course I could wait as long as she needed. As she walked off I quickly slid my chair back toward Chris.
“HEY!!! I see it.” She looked at me with confusion and said “See what?!” I said in a hurried whisper voice “ADONIS!!! Look at him!!” She looked over my shoulder to the picture of a big broad shouldered 2O something pouring bottled water on his handkerchief and washing the little ones face with it. Then he dropped to the floor and they began to play some kind of imaginary keep away, both smiling and laughing with sparkly eyes.
Chris looked at me then. Her face was scrunched up and she was trying to see what I was seeing.
“THE BABY?? The BABY did it for you? “I nodded, my gaze dreamily fixed on the unlikely pair in front of me. I was unable to take my eyes off of the small magical moment I was witnessing. I felt my eyes begin to swim with tears over a kind gracious man as I whispered to her “The baby did it for me. Now I can see it. He is sexy as hell.”
In an instant, he had changed to me. His compassion made him beautiful and his quiet caring nature made him as beautiful as any man I had ever seen. Really… screw the good looks. He had a beautiful heart.
I guess I am sharing this story is to make the point that no two of us are going to be “done” by the same thing. What does it for me doesn’t have to be what does it for you. (Say that four times fast!)
And, I am also saying that trying to know what “always” does it for you is silly. I can meet a man that is nothing close to my “type” and be so profoundly drawn to him that lose my breath.
Screw “the type”. What does it for me these days? When those magical moments happen and all of the “should” and “oughta’s” and “I don’t wanna’s” melt away and there is only… the amazingly sexy man with the dirty handkerchief and chocolate smudges on his collar. Or the man that touches you and your entire soul breathes… Or the person that makes you melt because they cooked you dinner.
Screw the tight ass. THAT is what does it for me.
There are so many discussions online about “What does it for you”. Sometimes there is a simple answer for that question (“I love a woman with big boobs” Big boobs do it for me! Or “Oh, a man with great calves” mmm THAT does it for me) and sometimes there is absolutely no answer at all to that question. There are some days and situations that I don’t know what “does it for me”. And then there are days where I know EXACTLY what I want. And still some days, that I get to discover in one moment, what REALLY “does it for me”; and it is often totally unexpected.
I was 28 years old the first year I taught High School. I quickly became friends with the 20 or so other members of the facility at the small High School. There was a new football coach that year. He was 23; fresh out of college. The perfect jock. And he was, at first glance, the most arrogant man I had ever met. Adonis. His name wasn’t really Adonis, but it may as well have been. They were as giddy as mosquitoes around him. It nauseated me some days.
The High School-aged girls always swooned behind his back. Giggling about how cute his ass was and how well his jeans fit. He was aware of it and handled it very professionally. I appreciated him for that.
There are outdoor stairs in the High School, and the art room where my morning classes are is at the bottom of them. As I begin the hike up the two flights of stairs, two of my female colleagues walked up next to me. Their names are Diane and Chris. We are close, the three of us. And we share a small chuckle as we walk up the stairs behind “Mr. Adonis”.
So, see it, there is a single 23 year old male teacher walking up two flights of stairs, and a bunch of horny 16 and 17 year olds, and three middle-aged woman behind him. Two of the teenagers share an obvious joke about his ass and giggle. I say to my friends in a conspiring whisper, “I don’t GET it. He is SO not that cute! What do they SEE in him?” Diane, a recently divorced woman said quietly “I see it… DAMN look at that tight ass!” Chris and I chuckled with her but I piped back in with, “Nope, doesn’t do it for me… the ASS doesn’t do it.”
A few weeks later, we were invited by Mr. Adonis to his classroom at lunch. He was also the geography teacher and they were having lunch pot luck with dishes from all over Central America. I begrudgingly trudge down the stairs with Chris. I open the door to Mr. Adonis’ classroom and… in mid sentence, she gasps. He is standing there, stirring a crock pot, in Friday casual jeans, a polo shirt and… a decidedly feminine apron. Her arousal is almost tangible. I stop and look first at him, then at her and say incredulously, “THE APRON??!! The APRON did it for you??” She nodded as she chuckled at herself and went over to compliment him on his collaborative effort for the children, and to check out his ass.
As we left his room I teased her “You are as bad as the kids! Swooning over him like that.” She laughed. “Nothing sexier to me than a man that can cook.” She uttered something that sounded like an exhale of a cigarette after good sex. We laughed.
Life went on. I still looked at Adonis with respect, he was a good teacher. But I simply couldn’t SEE what the big freaking deal was. He really wasn’t all that!
At the end of the first semester, we approached student teacher conferences. We decided that since the school was so spread out, in order to save the parents’ time, we would all congregate in the cafeteria. Each teacher had a table. The parents had their children’s schedules and visited with each teacher as time permitted. Chris was on one side of me, and Adonis was on the other. We worked through two days of conferences, exhausted from complaining parents and longer hours.
The last day of conferences was when it happened. I looked up from my grade book to see Justin’s mom coming. Justin was a student that Adonis and I shared. He was struggling in Adonis’ class, and he was failing mine. He couldn’t graduate without passing my class, so we were concerned. His parents had recently gotten divorced and it was obvious that his mother was barely holding it all together. He was a rough kid, probably used drugs and certainly was wayward. We all loved him, but were terrified we wouldn’t be able to save him. (We didn’t save him actually; Justin committed suicide a year after he graduated. It devastated all of us.)
As she approached my table with her dirty faced toddler on her hip, Adonis stood up. He held his arms out to the tired cranky child and quietly said to the mother. “You need to talk to her, let me take your little one for you. I will stay right here. We will play.” The mother gratefully handed her cautious little one to the strong arms of the man who, in that VERY moment became one of the sexiest beings on the PLANET to me. The mother dropped her purse and said in a voice thinly veiled with exhaustion “Can I go to the bathroom first?” I said of course I could wait as long as she needed. As she walked off I quickly slid my chair back toward Chris.
“HEY!!! I see it.” She looked at me with confusion and said “See what?!” I said in a hurried whisper voice “ADONIS!!! Look at him!!” She looked over my shoulder to the picture of a big broad shouldered 2O something pouring bottled water on his handkerchief and washing the little ones face with it. Then he dropped to the floor and they began to play some kind of imaginary keep away, both smiling and laughing with sparkly eyes.
Chris looked at me then. Her face was scrunched up and she was trying to see what I was seeing.
“THE BABY?? The BABY did it for you? “I nodded, my gaze dreamily fixed on the unlikely pair in front of me. I was unable to take my eyes off of the small magical moment I was witnessing. I felt my eyes begin to swim with tears over a kind gracious man as I whispered to her “The baby did it for me. Now I can see it. He is sexy as hell.”
In an instant, he had changed to me. His compassion made him beautiful and his quiet caring nature made him as beautiful as any man I had ever seen. Really… screw the good looks. He had a beautiful heart.
I guess I am sharing this story is to make the point that no two of us are going to be “done” by the same thing. What does it for me doesn’t have to be what does it for you. (Say that four times fast!)
And, I am also saying that trying to know what “always” does it for you is silly. I can meet a man that is nothing close to my “type” and be so profoundly drawn to him that lose my breath.
Screw “the type”. What does it for me these days? When those magical moments happen and all of the “should” and “oughta’s” and “I don’t wanna’s” melt away and there is only… the amazingly sexy man with the dirty handkerchief and chocolate smudges on his collar. Or the man that touches you and your entire soul breathes… Or the person that makes you melt because they cooked you dinner.
Screw the tight ass. THAT is what does it for me.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Art Moves Me
“Art can never exist without naked beauty displayed" ~William Blake
"The essence of sculpture is for me the perception of space, the continuum of our existence." - Isamu Noguchi
“The attractions of ceramics lie partly in its contradictions. It is both difficult and easy, with an element beyond our control. It is both extremely fragile and durable. Like 'Sumi' ink painting, it does not lend itself to erasures and indecision. The best is that which is most spontaneous or seemingly so.” - Isamu Noguchi
http://www.noguchi.org/
It was the third morning that I awoke in Manhattan. I still couldn’t get used to the sirens all of the time. I was thankful for earplugs. I got up and showered first. I am an early riser, he was not. I got out of the shower and proceeded to begin my morning routine; deodorant, lotion, teeth brushing… and then I began to dust my face with makeup. A few minutes into this process, he came in to pee. He looked at me, still sleepy from another night of random lovemaking and talking in the dark. His face reflected in the mirror I was using to apply makeup. He looked down, finished what he was doing and sighed. As he flushed the toilet he spoke for the first time that morning. It was a low, very matter of fact, almost annoyed voice that quietly yet sternly said… “Wash your face.” He clunked the lid of the toilet down and sat on it. I turned around and said… “I am just putting a little make-up on, aren’t we going out all day?” He stood up, a full nine inches taller than me and quietly said: “Yes, we are going out, and no you will not be wearing make-up.” He kissed me and walked out of the bathroom.
So… I laughed at him and myself, and washed my face. I stepped into the bedroom and grabbed a red sarong and threw it around my body, tying it between my boobs. I shook out the water from my hair and left it down to dry.
As I walked down the hall toward the kitchen He came into my line of sight. He stopped; glass of orange juice in hand, poised on the way to his mouth. His eyes caught mine and he said quietly “Drop the sarong.” I looked up at him incredulously and started to object. “We are sitting down to breakfast and I don’t want to eat nak…” I didn’t get the rest of my sentence out. His eyes locked on mine with an undeniable look of “don’t push me” and he quietly and deliberately said: “Drop. The. Sarong.” He tipped the orange juice to his lips without breaking eye contact. There is suddenly no question who will win here. Without taking my eyes from his, and while blushing to the roots of my hair, I untied it and threw it onto the couch. As soon as it hit the cushion, he nodded and murmured a quiet “thank you” and turned around to get breakfast.
I stood for a moment, alone in the living room… then took a frustrated breath and walked into the kitchen. Naked. Bare faced. Wet hair. Black circles under my eyes and I am pretty sure I had a zit on my eyebrow or something. And I was kind of pissed. I put my hands on my bare hips and said; “SERIOUSLY? YOU have pants on. We are cooking breakfast… we are leaving for the entire day AFTER breakfast…. I can’t wear makeup OR have clothes on… REALLY?
He quietly finished slicing mushrooms, put down the knife, washed his hands… all while I was standing there practically tapping my foot in annoyance.
He reached for the towel on the oven door and began drying his hands. Without looking up at me he said to me. “I am an artist Jess. I close my eyes and see you. You have these amazing freckles and blonde tipped eyelashes and these fantastic curves I have craved my whole life. You are standing in my kitchen, I am cooking you breakfast; we have made love until neither of us could move… I have kissed every inch of you, and NOW? Now, you need to be modest in front of me?” He looked up at me finally, and looked straight into my soul. “Please let me see you… just you. With all of the beautiful imperfections that make you so amazing. If you want me naked, I will get naked. But you don’t have a choice. If we are inside, you are naked, face and body. Period.“
So here I am… standing in the kitchen, still naked; with tears slipping down my cheeks. And no make-up to smear. Looking at a man who is looking at me, and seeing things I had NO idea were beautiful.
It was a quiet breakfast. We laughed about things from the day before and planned the day together. We were going on an outing of some kind. That’s all I knew. I had learned a few days ago that I was not supposed to ASK where we were going. My part was just to BE there when we got there. We threw on jeans and shirts and coats and tennis shoes and headed out the door. We drove through New York City, across bridges, through Burroughs, He showed me his world. Where he had grown up, his school, where his parents taught school, where he rode his bike as a child. We ended up in a VERY industrial area. We were near the water and we were NOT in Manhattan. I could see the city across the river. Hmmmmm. I wasn’t really paying attention to how we got there; there were too many other things to see.
He parked the car between two buildings that looked like warehouses and next to a building under construction. We proceeded to walk around the building that at first glance was an old building under renovation. Half way around the building I said: “Where ARE we?” “Near Queens” was the only answer he wanted to give. I started to ask what we were doing here and got a quiet look of … “please wait”. So I did.
We walked up a wooden construction ramp and into one of the most beautiful museums I have ever been in. It was the Noguchi Museum.
Art moves me. Deeply. Sculpture especially so. There is something magical to me about someone taking a seemingly ordinary and sometimes ugly hunk of something and making it… beautiful.
As soon as I realized what kind of place we were at, I had the most sensual butterflies in my stomach. I was so excited. The docent took our coats and we proceeded to turn to our right and began the tour. Just as we were leaving the main hall, he called to me. “Here.” He was directing me with small come-hither gestures. I remember thinking in that moment that something about him looked somewhat like a kid in a candy store. I was looking at pieces of beautiful sculpture as we walked, trying to do what he had asked me but so deliciously distracted. He smiled at me, knowing my giddiness for art museums… and kissed me quietly. Then he turned me and wordlessly asked me to walk in front of him as we rounded the corner. He pushed me a few steps in front of him and guided me around a corner.
I turned and stepped into the room… and in a moment… I saw her. Nadia.
I stopped mid step and quietly took in a small breath. By the time I could exhale, there were tears sliding down my cheeks. He came to me then, standing behind me, quietly placing his large hand on the bare skin at the small of my back. No one spoke. We were alone in the room with her. He just stood there… watching me cry. His eyes were swimming during one of the moments I became briefly aware of his existence. I wiped my tears with an embarrassed sweep of my hand and took a step toward her.
Her hands are tangled above her head, in a soft decidedly feminine stretch. I step forward and look at the artistry in her. You can almost hear her breathe. In an instant the tears are back. I reach behind me for his hand and whisper through my tears. “Her toe! Look at her toe.” He looks down. Her big toe is flexed. It is a wildly erotic portrayal to me. And in that moment we can both almost hear her moan in quiet pleasure. I moved around behind her. Her hair is a curly mess, her hands are tangled in it and she is completely and utterly… feminine.
To continue to attempt to describe her is futile. To those that appreciate art, I won’t insult you by telling you what I saw. And to those that don’t appreciate art. If you are ever in her presence, breathe her. For me.
Nadia was for sale last year. She brought $4,226,500. It was a world auction record for Noguchi.
I stood with Nadia for about 10 minutes the first time. I returned to her three more times before we left the museum that morning. She is beautiful.
As we left the room to explore the remaining rooms in the exhibit, I whispered to him in a tone thick with conspiracy. “She was his lover.” He laughs and says “Huh?” I stop and turn and quietly say to him “Noguchi. Only a lover would notice her toe in that moment. Only a lover would have given her Just-been-screwed hair and THAT kind of stretch. Look at her. He had to love her. Look at how BEAUTIFUL he made her.” He smiled his amazingly beautiful smile at me. We were quiet then. Eye to eye for a moment, then quietly returning to our journey, walking and looking at the life’s work of a brilliant and passionate artist.
As we prepared to leave the museum, I begged to see her one more time. We stopped again, in the “Nadia Room”. This time, he stood behind me in the corner, we were no longer alone. There were other people looking at busts, around the walls. I hadn’t even noticed them. I should go back some day. I am pretty sure there were some famous faces in the group of plaster and bronze. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I was dancing with Nadia.
His arms were around me and his head was bent forward near my ear. “Are you ready?” I tilted my head slightly, and said, “Almost.” I walked around her, one more time, celebrating and memorizing the beauty that was captured in this creation. We quietly walked out of the museum hand in hand and wordlessly walked to the car.
As we neared the car he said to me “Have you ever read the story, about Michelangelo and the David.” I ponder for a moment. “Yeah, where he said that he could see David in the marble, and recognized that it was his job to allow that beauty to come into being.” He nodded. We walked the final steps to the car. He leaned his back against the passenger door and opened his coat for me to cuddle into. As I curled into him, he breathed my hair and quietly whispered. “Jess, I am certain that Nadia didn’t have make up on when he made her beautiful.”
And then, again, came the tears. I looked up at him then, and whispered “Thank you.” He said, “No sweet, thank YOU. I don’t know that I have ever seen anything as beautiful as your eyes when you saw her. I knew you would love her. I have been counting the days until I could bring you here.”
He then quietly explained to me that the most arousing thing for HIM that we had done together in the few days we had spent was when he pushed me into that room the first time. He shared with me how magical it was for HIM, to see my eyes light up. I had never considered that.
Later in the day, after an amazing lunch on the pier in the rain and an intense conversation about post 9-11 New York City, we were strolling through central park. He knows this park. It begins less than 40 yards from his front door. He has lived here for 25 of his 50 years. He photographs its beauty and the beauty of the people in it. We had been walking and talking, but suddenly something was strange. There was a hedge in front of us. He was guiding me to step onto a step to look over it. I gasp in delight as I step onto the ledge and lean over the bush in front of me. There is a bronze statue fountain in a little amphitheater depression in the park. They are women, dancing, playing flutes, spinning, touching. They are laughing and skipping and they are beautiful.
I step back this time; eyes wet with fresh tears and say “you did that ON PURPOSE!!!” He smiled innocently and said “Did what on purpose?” “Made me cry and showed them to me and…”
It slams into me like a freight train… in a moment… I see it.
My voice almost fails me as I whisper, “And you stood back and watched.” My demeanor changes instantly, the statues in the little secret garden are forgotten. I look at him again, forcefully studying his face. ”You did it again. Why? What is so amazing for you about making me cry like that?” He handed me a tissue from his pocket. I was embarrassed that I was crying again. It had been a supremely emotional day. It began with Nadia and moved to Ground Zero and then graduated to this quiet hidden garden in Central Park at dusk. I looked at him again, almost frustrated. “What does it do for you? Why do you like embarrassing me like that by making me cry?”
His face lit up and this tall ruggedly handsome thickly muscled man with the beautiful eyes locked onto mine, began to tear up. “I know, it is kind of a selfish indulgence at this point. There is just….. something so exquisitely beautiful about your face when it lights up like that from within. And I am a selfish bastard. I know I will only get to see that a few times in my life. So you need to get used to it. There is nothing more beautiful to me than seeing that.” “And Sweet,” he whispered as he kissed the top of my head, “putting make up on would dirty that for me. I would have missed too much of you had you tried to hide.” He reached between us. Took my hand, stepped away and said… “Now c’mon, there isn’t much daylight left, they sparkle at this time of day… let’s go see your bronze nymphs.”
I will end this blog as I began it. Possibly, the quote resonates a bit more deeply now.
“Art can never exist without naked beauty displayed" ~ William Blake
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Order Up
I was once asked “what I wanted” by a close friend and spiritual teacher during one of our sessions to work through one of the “I am stuck and don’t know what to do” moments we all experience. We were working on my feelings of not being able to ask for what I want, for feeling guilty for turning down “stale bread” in life.
Earlier that weekend she and I had gone to dinner together. My friend and I are both curvy blondes. Our waiter was a tall handsome 20-something black man, whom I imagine was pretty sure he was going to get a great tip when we were assigned his table. *grin* We were laughing and flirting… it was one of those fun girl moments. So, he finally asks what we will be having, and when it was my turn I very confidently, politely and without apology asked the waiter for what I would like for dinner, (complete with the dressing on the side, and no ice in my drink, thank you so much.) He made a joke about me liking medium-rare meat… and how he appreciated a woman who knew how to ask for what she really wants. And… I got exactly what I wanted for dinner, right?
As our cute waiter left, my friend teased me. “I love how you know what you want. It is always so good for me to go out with you.” She looked at me then, with the look of a sister, and quietly said: “I am so proud of you. I remember where you came from. And I see who you are becoming. And I am proud of you.” This woman has been one of my spiritual teachers, loudest cheerleaders and “most sacred secret” friend. She has stood by me through some of the darkest nights of my soul, and has celebrated with me many pure, sacred “ah-ha” moments. Her comment moved me to tears in a moment. We then had a moment to reflect with each other about the woman I was when she and I met almost eight years earlier. I had been living in a loveless marriage, practicing a religion I didn’t really believe in, and was an all around unhappy, fat woman.
She tells me again her part of the story of the day we met, and we have a moment of reflection together about so many of the thought processes I have learned to change in the last few years. Stopping suddenly, with a jog of memory, she asks about one of my best friends, who is also a former lover of mine. “He is well.” I answer quietly. She nods and said “Do you tell him often? The part he had in your development?” I quietly smile, and with tear-filled eyes say: “often.” She then reflects on conversations she and I have had regarding “Absolute Goddess” moments. (See a blog in a few weeks I hope!) I love this woman.
We finished our dinner without anything else relevant to this story other than the fact that the cute waiter was denied two phone numbers. *laugh* As we were walking out of the restaurant, she said slightly behind me… “DAMN…” I turned around and said “WHAT?” She said “you have an amazingly sexy butt!” I blushed to my hair line and she then teased me…” Do you remember when you used to look in the mirror and see… “Her”? I stopped and tearfully said “Yep”. She put her arm around me and said. “I like YOU much better.”
Later, during our session when I was trying again to work thru my own issues of inadequacy, she pointedly asked me: “What do you want? Just pretend I am your waiter; I am going to go drop your order in with the cosmic kitchen, order up… right? Tell me, what. You. Want.
I thought for a moment, then kind of blurted out something to the effect of “I live a big life. I have big dreams and a big family and … I want to be surrounded, not only by a man that has a big life of his own, but with other people who realize that one person isn’t what makes a big life, it is a bunch of powerful small people offering what they have and receiving what they need to be stronger.” We laughed. I was in a chemistry class at the time. I was creating covalent bonds I guess. But I have reflected on that many times… and, again today.
I have seen women do things that would KILL a man a hundred times over. I have DONE things as a strong woman that my male friends assure me would kill them in a moment.
Right around my 37th birthday, I got my first tattoo. It is, at the simplest of definitions, the symbol of The Goddess. It is on my left foot. I practice energy medicine. The left foot is our feminine side. I stamped myself a goddess. As I shared a sacred experience with my tattoo artist, I knew that I was committing to “step into” my life. And to “claim the mission I felt I had here”.
There are a lot of conversations on the “Fat Chick” lists (hey I can say that, fat is factual to me, not degrading) that center around women who “don’t know” how to feel sexy in their own bodies. What is so often renewed in me is the shock when I realize that “perfectly skinny” women are also unhappy about what they see. I want that to go away. Nothing is more infuriating to me to be standing next to a powerful woman who looks in the mirror and sees only her imperfections.
Now, before anyone thinks that I am preaching, I am not. I still feel totally insecure some days. I have mom boobs and stretch marks and freckles. Making peace with my fat doesn’t mean I wouldn’t turn down a tummy tuck and a boob lift if it was offered. I am not saying I am perfect. Or even that I feel perfect most days… I am just saying that I have been given the occasional gift of seeing myself through the eyes of someone ELSE who thinks I am beautiful. I am simply sharing part of the journey that has led me to being comfortable in my own skin. And I am hoping that other women can see the kinds of things that might make you happy enough to dare to refer to yourself as a “Goddess”.
Ok, deep breath, I really have other things I needed to be doing… but there is a gigantic “Foot of the Universe” on my back… and I guess I am about to decide if I can fly.
It doesn’t need to be clarified, but let it be known here, that I am one of the most heterosexual beings I know. My gay friends all say that too. *laugh* I just LOVE WOMEN. I am going to talk a lot about women and I am so grateful that I can blab here about this.
I have been thinking a lot about asking for what we really want... Cosmic Kitchen… Get out your friggin pad please…
“I want to be a motivational speaker. I think I am fun and I think that I am a decent writer. I have a lot of things to ‘say’ and am creating time to say them. My friends tell me I move them occasionally. *laugh* and I think I have learned a few small life lessons that might empower other people. That’s all. Thank you.” *deep breath… tears swimming… breathe*
Here is the conclusion I just came to. I REALLY like authentic people. People who are confident in self and who choose to live life big. If I fall flat on my face… I think there are a few people here that might do some aftercare. If I need a little up draft… I bet the people around me “flying” will blow me. *grin*
So… here is me, coming out of the closet. I want to be a motivational speaker and writer. I want to create a global network of like minded people who see the vision of creating confident happy women. I want to create a class about artistically celebrating our amazing bodies. I want to help people see the beauty in themselves that others see. I don’t know much else about how it will turn out… We will see what the kitchen brings, wont we.
Here is a beginning… we will see what it grows into.
Earlier that weekend she and I had gone to dinner together. My friend and I are both curvy blondes. Our waiter was a tall handsome 20-something black man, whom I imagine was pretty sure he was going to get a great tip when we were assigned his table. *grin* We were laughing and flirting… it was one of those fun girl moments. So, he finally asks what we will be having, and when it was my turn I very confidently, politely and without apology asked the waiter for what I would like for dinner, (complete with the dressing on the side, and no ice in my drink, thank you so much.) He made a joke about me liking medium-rare meat… and how he appreciated a woman who knew how to ask for what she really wants. And… I got exactly what I wanted for dinner, right?
As our cute waiter left, my friend teased me. “I love how you know what you want. It is always so good for me to go out with you.” She looked at me then, with the look of a sister, and quietly said: “I am so proud of you. I remember where you came from. And I see who you are becoming. And I am proud of you.” This woman has been one of my spiritual teachers, loudest cheerleaders and “most sacred secret” friend. She has stood by me through some of the darkest nights of my soul, and has celebrated with me many pure, sacred “ah-ha” moments. Her comment moved me to tears in a moment. We then had a moment to reflect with each other about the woman I was when she and I met almost eight years earlier. I had been living in a loveless marriage, practicing a religion I didn’t really believe in, and was an all around unhappy, fat woman.
She tells me again her part of the story of the day we met, and we have a moment of reflection together about so many of the thought processes I have learned to change in the last few years. Stopping suddenly, with a jog of memory, she asks about one of my best friends, who is also a former lover of mine. “He is well.” I answer quietly. She nods and said “Do you tell him often? The part he had in your development?” I quietly smile, and with tear-filled eyes say: “often.” She then reflects on conversations she and I have had regarding “Absolute Goddess” moments. (See a blog in a few weeks I hope!) I love this woman.
We finished our dinner without anything else relevant to this story other than the fact that the cute waiter was denied two phone numbers. *laugh* As we were walking out of the restaurant, she said slightly behind me… “DAMN…” I turned around and said “WHAT?” She said “you have an amazingly sexy butt!” I blushed to my hair line and she then teased me…” Do you remember when you used to look in the mirror and see… “Her”? I stopped and tearfully said “Yep”. She put her arm around me and said. “I like YOU much better.”
Later, during our session when I was trying again to work thru my own issues of inadequacy, she pointedly asked me: “What do you want? Just pretend I am your waiter; I am going to go drop your order in with the cosmic kitchen, order up… right? Tell me, what. You. Want.
I thought for a moment, then kind of blurted out something to the effect of “I live a big life. I have big dreams and a big family and … I want to be surrounded, not only by a man that has a big life of his own, but with other people who realize that one person isn’t what makes a big life, it is a bunch of powerful small people offering what they have and receiving what they need to be stronger.” We laughed. I was in a chemistry class at the time. I was creating covalent bonds I guess. But I have reflected on that many times… and, again today.
I have seen women do things that would KILL a man a hundred times over. I have DONE things as a strong woman that my male friends assure me would kill them in a moment.
Right around my 37th birthday, I got my first tattoo. It is, at the simplest of definitions, the symbol of The Goddess. It is on my left foot. I practice energy medicine. The left foot is our feminine side. I stamped myself a goddess. As I shared a sacred experience with my tattoo artist, I knew that I was committing to “step into” my life. And to “claim the mission I felt I had here”.
There are a lot of conversations on the “Fat Chick” lists (hey I can say that, fat is factual to me, not degrading) that center around women who “don’t know” how to feel sexy in their own bodies. What is so often renewed in me is the shock when I realize that “perfectly skinny” women are also unhappy about what they see. I want that to go away. Nothing is more infuriating to me to be standing next to a powerful woman who looks in the mirror and sees only her imperfections.
Now, before anyone thinks that I am preaching, I am not. I still feel totally insecure some days. I have mom boobs and stretch marks and freckles. Making peace with my fat doesn’t mean I wouldn’t turn down a tummy tuck and a boob lift if it was offered. I am not saying I am perfect. Or even that I feel perfect most days… I am just saying that I have been given the occasional gift of seeing myself through the eyes of someone ELSE who thinks I am beautiful. I am simply sharing part of the journey that has led me to being comfortable in my own skin. And I am hoping that other women can see the kinds of things that might make you happy enough to dare to refer to yourself as a “Goddess”.
Ok, deep breath, I really have other things I needed to be doing… but there is a gigantic “Foot of the Universe” on my back… and I guess I am about to decide if I can fly.
It doesn’t need to be clarified, but let it be known here, that I am one of the most heterosexual beings I know. My gay friends all say that too. *laugh* I just LOVE WOMEN. I am going to talk a lot about women and I am so grateful that I can blab here about this.
I have been thinking a lot about asking for what we really want... Cosmic Kitchen… Get out your friggin pad please…
“I want to be a motivational speaker. I think I am fun and I think that I am a decent writer. I have a lot of things to ‘say’ and am creating time to say them. My friends tell me I move them occasionally. *laugh* and I think I have learned a few small life lessons that might empower other people. That’s all. Thank you.” *deep breath… tears swimming… breathe*
Here is the conclusion I just came to. I REALLY like authentic people. People who are confident in self and who choose to live life big. If I fall flat on my face… I think there are a few people here that might do some aftercare. If I need a little up draft… I bet the people around me “flying” will blow me. *grin*
So… here is me, coming out of the closet. I want to be a motivational speaker and writer. I want to create a global network of like minded people who see the vision of creating confident happy women. I want to create a class about artistically celebrating our amazing bodies. I want to help people see the beauty in themselves that others see. I don’t know much else about how it will turn out… We will see what the kitchen brings, wont we.
Here is a beginning… we will see what it grows into.
Because I was Afraid
© Jessica Wild 12-10-10
“I am going to ask you a question.” She says to me. “And when I ask you, there will be one answer that pops into your head first. There will be more that want to come in after that… I only want to hear the first answer. And I want you to blurt it out as you think of it.” “Okay…” I think, “I can do this. Simple.” Breathe.
She is my marriage counselor. She is also the woman who trained me to be a hypnotherapist and gave me the gift of Reiki. She taught me how to quiet my mind and listen. I love her. It is near the end of my 12 year marriage. I am newly pregnant. My soon to be ex-husband and I are trying YET again (the fourth time) to see if we can or should continue trying to make a marriage work that wasn’t worth saving to begin with. He sees her one week, I see her the next, and then we see her together. It is my turn today. She has me close my eyes and reminds me again that I am to blurt my answer with no thought. I assure her I understand.
It is quiet then. She allows me time to clear my mind and find my own inner silent place… then she asks me simply “Jessica, why did you marry him?”
The answer that comes from my lips literally stops my heart for a moment. It speaks volumes as to where I was when I married him and where I still was 12 years later. My voice comes out laced heavily with the sob that immediately follows. “Because I was afraid no one else would ask.” And as it escapes my lips I am slammed to the core of my being with sorrow and shame.
How did I come to THIS PLACE? That I not only GOT married but STAYED married for 12 years… ONLY because…. “I was afraid no one else would ask.” When did I become the woman who lived my life with that much fear of the future? When did I become the woman that believed I had to take the first thing offered to me, even if it was stale bread? When did I decide to devalue myself so much that I married a man I didn’t love …BECAUSE I WAS AFRAID NO ONE ELSE WOULD ASK??
My counselor sits silently as I sob. I begin to voice all of the questions in my head. They are punctuated with snot and tears and long painful moments that I can’t breathe.
After a few long moments of silence and breathing I look up at her and say, “What do I do now? I don’t know what to do!” She looked at me with the loving eyes of a wise old grandmother and said “Yes you do. You are just so scared you can’t admit it.” She pauses for my mind to process then adds “Jessica. You have been parked on the side of the road in a mud bog for 12 years. It’s time to move now. It’s time to get on the road… your life is waiting. You have greatness in you. Stop hiding.” I look down and cover my face with a handful of tissues and say “I CAN’T DO THIS! I don’t know how, I am not that smart. Nothing I have to say means anything to anyone…” I gush all of my fears at her feet. I purged. I realize now, that I was in transition again. I was at a place in my life spiritually that I could no longer deny, that I was living a life completely devoid of authenticity. I was practicing a religion that hadn’t resonated with me in 10 years. I was living in a loveless marriage that was, on every outward appearance, perfect; and I knew that I had something to say, but I had NO IDEA what.
I still don’t. Really… I have NO IDEA what I am doing! *laugh*
All I know is that I have lived an amazing, vivid, sad, beautiful, happy, terrifying, incredible, miraculous life. And I don’t think it is over, I think it is just beginning. While I hope and want to believe is that something I might say or present an analogy on might help someone learn a lesson or understand a concept or discover a way to find their OWN authenticity. Because while it SUCKS to grow into, in the moments you can really feel it… really connect with that divine within you… that Authentic Self. It is AMAZING. I have FELT that… that moment that you say… mostly to yourself…“SCREW it!!! This is who I am and I will not apologize. I am weird, I floss my teeth every day, I have total blonde moments and yet I am usually pretty smart. I am loud and bold and occasionally stupid. But you know what… I am better today than I was 15 years ago. And maybe, just maybe I have learned a few lessons. So bite me… I am me. And that is just fine. You can love me or hate me. I am okay with either.”
I always appreciate the way the universe hits me between the eyes with a 4x4. I try not to wait so long to learn the lesson… sometimes clue-by-4’s hurt. Especially between the eyes.
There is a woman named Elizabeth Potts Weinstein. She wrote a blog the other day that was the Universe’s way of bending me over and spanking my ass. I am pretty sure the 4x4 bashing has ended now. *laugh*
Please read.
*Begin post*
Living Your Truth by Elizabeth Potts Weinstein
This is for those of you who are still holding back.
Who haven’t launched the business. Who have not put up that video. Who are not writing the blog posts. Who are not being themselves on twitter. Who are not hosting the event. Who haven’t started the book or created the art. Who aren’t yet consulting or coaching or teaching or dancing or speaking.
For those of you who are still hiding.
Because you don’t think of yourself as amazing as the guru or the girl who graduated from school the same day as you. Because you still have research or practice or courses to take. Because you need to learn the technology or buy a new computer or wait for the kids to start school. Because you’re not finished getting ready.
Because you don’t find yourself perfect.
Let me confirm your greatest fears.
You are not perfect.
You will make mistakes.
You will fail.
Some of what you launch will not work.
Some people will be mean.
Some people will be disappointed.
Not everyone will like you.
Yes. It sucks.
But.
There are people out there who need you.
Who are waiting for the unique truth you have to speak, for the brilliance you are destined, you are called to bring to this world. People whom only you can help.
And yet you are hiding?
You refuse to share your gifts with the world, just because you are not perfect? Because you are human? Because you don’t have ever answer to every question even invented, because you have flaws, because you are still growing and learning yourself?
Stop wasting yourself on all that crap.
Stop thinking. Stop researching. Stop analyzing.
Stop waiting.
Reveal yourself to the world.
Share your truth, your brilliance, your message. Surrender yourself to the perhaps tiny yet unserved segment of people on earth who will passionately resonate with your every word.
Open yourself up.
And let them love you.
That is all
What are you waiting for? What’s holding you back from the thing you know you want to do, you are meant to do?
*end post*
I am not going to add many words of my own. They would only clutter this moment.
I will add this: in the moments of transition over the last few years, I have learned this about myself:
I will never do anything in my life again “Because I am afraid no one else will ask”.
I am here. The right people will ask.
I am not perfect. I will fail. I will be disappointed in myself and others and occasionally the journey, some people will be mean, some people will ignore me, not everyone will like me….. But I am here. And as Joan of Arc said… “I am not afraid...I was born to do this"
To those of you that care.
Namaste.
“I am going to ask you a question.” She says to me. “And when I ask you, there will be one answer that pops into your head first. There will be more that want to come in after that… I only want to hear the first answer. And I want you to blurt it out as you think of it.” “Okay…” I think, “I can do this. Simple.” Breathe.
She is my marriage counselor. She is also the woman who trained me to be a hypnotherapist and gave me the gift of Reiki. She taught me how to quiet my mind and listen. I love her. It is near the end of my 12 year marriage. I am newly pregnant. My soon to be ex-husband and I are trying YET again (the fourth time) to see if we can or should continue trying to make a marriage work that wasn’t worth saving to begin with. He sees her one week, I see her the next, and then we see her together. It is my turn today. She has me close my eyes and reminds me again that I am to blurt my answer with no thought. I assure her I understand.
It is quiet then. She allows me time to clear my mind and find my own inner silent place… then she asks me simply “Jessica, why did you marry him?”
The answer that comes from my lips literally stops my heart for a moment. It speaks volumes as to where I was when I married him and where I still was 12 years later. My voice comes out laced heavily with the sob that immediately follows. “Because I was afraid no one else would ask.” And as it escapes my lips I am slammed to the core of my being with sorrow and shame.
How did I come to THIS PLACE? That I not only GOT married but STAYED married for 12 years… ONLY because…. “I was afraid no one else would ask.” When did I become the woman who lived my life with that much fear of the future? When did I become the woman that believed I had to take the first thing offered to me, even if it was stale bread? When did I decide to devalue myself so much that I married a man I didn’t love …BECAUSE I WAS AFRAID NO ONE ELSE WOULD ASK??
My counselor sits silently as I sob. I begin to voice all of the questions in my head. They are punctuated with snot and tears and long painful moments that I can’t breathe.
After a few long moments of silence and breathing I look up at her and say, “What do I do now? I don’t know what to do!” She looked at me with the loving eyes of a wise old grandmother and said “Yes you do. You are just so scared you can’t admit it.” She pauses for my mind to process then adds “Jessica. You have been parked on the side of the road in a mud bog for 12 years. It’s time to move now. It’s time to get on the road… your life is waiting. You have greatness in you. Stop hiding.” I look down and cover my face with a handful of tissues and say “I CAN’T DO THIS! I don’t know how, I am not that smart. Nothing I have to say means anything to anyone…” I gush all of my fears at her feet. I purged. I realize now, that I was in transition again. I was at a place in my life spiritually that I could no longer deny, that I was living a life completely devoid of authenticity. I was practicing a religion that hadn’t resonated with me in 10 years. I was living in a loveless marriage that was, on every outward appearance, perfect; and I knew that I had something to say, but I had NO IDEA what.
I still don’t. Really… I have NO IDEA what I am doing! *laugh*
All I know is that I have lived an amazing, vivid, sad, beautiful, happy, terrifying, incredible, miraculous life. And I don’t think it is over, I think it is just beginning. While I hope and want to believe is that something I might say or present an analogy on might help someone learn a lesson or understand a concept or discover a way to find their OWN authenticity. Because while it SUCKS to grow into, in the moments you can really feel it… really connect with that divine within you… that Authentic Self. It is AMAZING. I have FELT that… that moment that you say… mostly to yourself…“SCREW it!!! This is who I am and I will not apologize. I am weird, I floss my teeth every day, I have total blonde moments and yet I am usually pretty smart. I am loud and bold and occasionally stupid. But you know what… I am better today than I was 15 years ago. And maybe, just maybe I have learned a few lessons. So bite me… I am me. And that is just fine. You can love me or hate me. I am okay with either.”
I always appreciate the way the universe hits me between the eyes with a 4x4. I try not to wait so long to learn the lesson… sometimes clue-by-4’s hurt. Especially between the eyes.
There is a woman named Elizabeth Potts Weinstein. She wrote a blog the other day that was the Universe’s way of bending me over and spanking my ass. I am pretty sure the 4x4 bashing has ended now. *laugh*
Please read.
*Begin post*
Living Your Truth by Elizabeth Potts Weinstein
This is for those of you who are still holding back.
Who haven’t launched the business. Who have not put up that video. Who are not writing the blog posts. Who are not being themselves on twitter. Who are not hosting the event. Who haven’t started the book or created the art. Who aren’t yet consulting or coaching or teaching or dancing or speaking.
For those of you who are still hiding.
Because you don’t think of yourself as amazing as the guru or the girl who graduated from school the same day as you. Because you still have research or practice or courses to take. Because you need to learn the technology or buy a new computer or wait for the kids to start school. Because you’re not finished getting ready.
Because you don’t find yourself perfect.
Let me confirm your greatest fears.
You are not perfect.
You will make mistakes.
You will fail.
Some of what you launch will not work.
Some people will be mean.
Some people will be disappointed.
Not everyone will like you.
Yes. It sucks.
But.
There are people out there who need you.
Who are waiting for the unique truth you have to speak, for the brilliance you are destined, you are called to bring to this world. People whom only you can help.
And yet you are hiding?
You refuse to share your gifts with the world, just because you are not perfect? Because you are human? Because you don’t have ever answer to every question even invented, because you have flaws, because you are still growing and learning yourself?
Stop wasting yourself on all that crap.
Stop thinking. Stop researching. Stop analyzing.
Stop waiting.
Reveal yourself to the world.
Share your truth, your brilliance, your message. Surrender yourself to the perhaps tiny yet unserved segment of people on earth who will passionately resonate with your every word.
Open yourself up.
And let them love you.
That is all
What are you waiting for? What’s holding you back from the thing you know you want to do, you are meant to do?
*end post*
I am not going to add many words of my own. They would only clutter this moment.
I will add this: in the moments of transition over the last few years, I have learned this about myself:
I will never do anything in my life again “Because I am afraid no one else will ask”.
I am here. The right people will ask.
I am not perfect. I will fail. I will be disappointed in myself and others and occasionally the journey, some people will be mean, some people will ignore me, not everyone will like me….. But I am here. And as Joan of Arc said… “I am not afraid...I was born to do this"
To those of you that care.
Namaste.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Forgetting Beauty
When I heard the quiet noise of the ring I had programmed specifically for them come from my cell phone, I cringed. I was SO TIRED. I could not DO THIS today. Please let her not be in labor. I answer the phone in an excited tone and say… “Are we having a baby today?” My fatigue would have to wait, there were other matters at hand.
The voice that comes to me is that of her husband, but he is not speaking to me. “Breathe; hold me, lean into me, there… it’s okay. I love you…” Then I hear her, softly moaning. She is in active labor. I stand up and pull on my clothes I had laid out just in case. There will be no more sleep tonight. The phone is still to my ear as he directs his attention to me and says calmly, “I think we need you.” “I am on my way. I will be there within a half hour. Do you need anything?” “No. Just you.” he says. They are dancing. I can hear a moan breathing out of her. “I have a minute” I think, “They are still dancing.”
I grab my purse, coat and a pre-bottled coffee and call the hospital as I walk out the door. One of my favorite nurses is the charge nurse that night, what a blessing! I tell her as I drive that it looks like we will be in later and ask if anyone is using the spa room. She tells me no. I give her a brief history on this woman, third baby, intervention free. She says “ok, call me when you are on your way and I will fill the tub.” I thank her and call Dad. “I am on the freeway. See you in ten minutes. Are you upstairs?” “Yes” he says… “She really wants the water.”
Brief interjection here: I am six days removed from the hospital at this point; I have had somewhat of a life changing trauma (future blog. *laugh) that has left me weak and tired. I have intubation pneumonia and small bruises all over my body from tubes and tests during my time in the ICU. I feel like shit. I still can’t eat more than a few bites because I was sustained by IV fluids for almost a week. I haven’t eaten much in the last six days. I was still sipping water because my throat was so raw from almost a week of tubes.
My head was swimming and as I walked to my car in the dark of the morning, I thanked the Universe for coffee, offering a prayer of thanks for the support I knew I would be given from powers beyond my own.
That’s how it always happens. Because you see, I get to watch Goddesses be born.
There was a conversation on Facebook a few weeks ago. One of our local birth professionals asked Doulas and midwives what part of birth was the most moving for them. The answers were varied, heartfelt and beautiful, mostly focusing on the birth of the baby. The first breath, their cute blink as they meet the earth, their first cry, the tiny details of new life and new beginnings.
My answer was decidedly different. My answer was something to the effect of “The magical moment at a birth for me, is when Mom looks down, after all of the commotion has died down and she REALIZES in a wash of consciousness, what she has just DONE. I wait for it. It almost always comes. It is usually one of two responses. Either a fierce, almost primal transition of “I am woman, hear me roar” or sacred wash of realization of the power she has within her. It is especially delicious for me to see it on a fathers face. When he looks at her with awe, wonderment and respect, and usually deep abiding love. “
THAT moment… That is what does it for me. These are the moments that goddesses are born.
Back to the story. I walk in the front door, take off my shoes and walk upstairs with just my medical bag. I quietly push their bedroom door open while singing in a soft whisper voice “Hello!” They are still dancing. She is standing at the bathroom sink with her forearms flat on the surface. Her hips are swaying with him and he is singing with her. Low quiet moans. Perfectly matched tone, breathing together with the rhythm they have allowed and embraced. There really isn’t a lot of pain for her right now. I can see that. She is still just “uncomfortable”, they are just breathing sound together. They are singing her Labor Song. It is beautiful.
Her contraction ends and she stands up and smiles at me with tired eyes and acknowledges my presence for the first time. “Hi.” She steps toward me and melts in a puddle of tears into my chest. “I don’t want to do this Jess. I am fighting my instincts here. We have to go soon. I don’t want to be at the hospital very long, I know. I will just tell them no to all of the CRAP and get in the water. I need that tub. I neeeeed deep water.” A contraction washes over her with an intensity I hadn’t seen or heard. She is progressing. But her instincts are right. She is too tense. I whisper to her to drop her shoulders. “I will hold you… dance.”
It is the second time I have labored with this couple. It is always such a sacred honor to be chosen to be with people at these sacred moments. It is a bigger honor to be invited back. She is a dancer. They are a strikingly beautiful couple. Vibrant might be a more accurate word. He is handsome and she is unique and exotic. He is powerful and broad-chested, she is thin and athletic. The only changes to her body are that of a large belly bump and breasts that her husband delightedly reported were “seriously bigger”. They are a deeply spiritual couple. And they are in love. Big love. It is always so fun to be with them. They are that sickeningly mushy couple that you always watch because they radiate.
He comes up behind her as her contraction ends and she regains her bearing. She stands up from my arms and takes her own weight once more as he touches her shoulder and says “Babe, what are we going to do? Make a decision before the next one comes so I can help.” He is perfectly aware that his time to speak will be ending soon. During both of her previous labors, just as she hits transition he is not allowed to speak. It is the age old midwifery trick, when she yells at Dad, we all start getting ready. We laugh about it when we see each other. She exhales and leans her head on my chest as she utters a quiet, pleading, thoughtful prayer to God, to help her know what to do to and to give her strength to bring his child into the world. She exhales as her husband and I utter a quiet “Amen”. She turns to him and says. “I want the pool. We need to go.”
He loads the car. I say quietly to her. “Do you want me to help you get in, or do you want me to go ahead and call in for the tub?” “Go. I am good. They are slowing down. I can breathe again.” She stops and takes the two steps that are separating us. Her hand goes to my arm and she squeezes. “Thank you for coming. I love having you here.” There is such beauty and love in her face in that instant. We both weep quietly as she lowers herself into my arms for another contraction. I love this woman.
I grab my bag and head down the stairs, passing Dad in the living room. I say to him “I will go and call the hospital. I will be waiting at the door. I warned them a while ago that she might want the tub. I will ask if they will start filling it for her.” He kisses my cheek and says “Drive safe. See you in a bit”
I hit the door of my car and I am speaking to the nurse. We are on our way. At external reaction I would guess her at 4 or 5 centimeters. I have not checked her, no. This is her second baby, I remind her. She tells me she will fill the tub. I tell her we will see her in 15 minutes.
When we get to the hospital, there are usual intervention, paperwork and absurd demands on a woman who is contracting. She tolerates the briefest moments of this then says to the nurses buzzing around her: “I NEED THE WATER… can I go get in?” They finally let her go down the hall to the spa room.
It is a beautiful space. The walls and floor are tiled with a soothing white tile. There are subtle decorations that speak of “Japanese bath house”. It has all of the emergency medical stuff stored in a wooden cupboard at the side of the room. And… then… there is THE tub. It is a 4-foot square sunken labor tub. The water source for this particular room is in the ceiling. There is a stream of warm water flowing from above waiting to welcome her… and she slides into its depth and comfort.
Her husband finds a place out of the way against the wall in a chair. The nurses are still doing their “hospital policy” buzz and she just wants to be left alone. Her needs are finally recognized and suddenly, there are only three of us in the room.
We have turned the water off. The room is silent except for her slow rhythmic breathing. She moans, this has been her cue for the last hour that there is a contraction building. I squat down and whisper to her. She makes a panicked “hold both of my hands, I need you” gesture, opening her hands repeatedly, but is unable to utter her needs. I prostrate myself on the tile floor and answer her unspoken call. She has both of my hands clenched within her own. I whisper to her the song. I breathe it for her, loudly, to remind her to take long slow breaths. She breathes with me, and releases the completed contraction.
What we hadn’t realized until later is that during this time this woman has progressed from 4 cm (I was RIGHT. Lol) when we arrived at the hospital, to a complete 10 centimeters… in less than an hour and a half. To the women reading that have had unmediated labors, please allow yourself a moment to unclench. To the women who lovingly hate her in this moment because your birth experience wasn’t short… I say, an hour labor is INTENSE. My youngest baby had a very precipitous labor. I was only in labor for about four hours and I pushed for less than a minute (literally, medical records… we checked afterward because we were all shocked. Lol) Unmediated precipitous (under 3 hours) labors are HARD. They are exhausting and they are invigorating all at once. She was so amazing to watch.
It is silent in the room, she is between contractions. I am still flat on my belly head to head with her, half of my body hanging over the edge of the pool to be as close to her as she has expressed she needs me to be, without climbing in with her myself. She is breathing. We are waiting for the next contraction to come. I am reminding her to surrender and not fight the wave of pain.
Her husband breaks the silence. “Hey Mrs. Smith.” He calls to her quietly (not their real name) She mutters with her eyes still closed: “Yes Mr. Smith.” His voice is instantly thick with emotion and he whispers, “Thank you for having my babies.” Her eyes open and lock with his. “Thank you for letting me be their mother.” She replies. We are all weeping. It is sacred.
The color of this woman’s skin really doesn’t matter until this point in the story. As I stand up to get her water to drink I see her from a different perspective. (Remember, I have been lying on the floor with her, I am now standing above her.) Her head is on one of the steps of the pool supported by a towel we have rolled to be a pillow. Her beautiful body with her AMAZING belly bump is floating in the water. The tub is a stark white and she is a deep chocolate brown, the water is blurring her bodily features so all that can be seen is color and shape. It is visual magic. I gesture wildly yet silently to her husband to get a photo. As he stands, he is hit with the beauty of this moment as well. I am moved to tears by the image of her, floating in her pain, surrendering to this power beyond her control. She is a goddess now. And she is beautiful. I love this woman.
A few minutes later, at the peak of a particularly long contraction, she gives an obvious push. Her body is controlling her now, she is simply along for the ride.
I call the nurses. She is not allowed to deliver in the water… hospital policy, liability… blah, blah. We get out and walk back to the room, she is wrapped in blankets and she is lightly pushing with every contraction as we walk. They are dancing again, in the quiet of the hallway, dripping water. He takes her body and holds her weight with all of his strength. There is a part of me that wants to rescue him, to offer to take my turn holding her weight as she works through her contractions. But now, she wants only him. He is allowed to talk again. She needs only his touch. This is her pattern. As soon as she is pushing she needs him to pray. He stands over her in the hospital bed, trying to stay out of the way as the nurses break down the bed so she can push. We install a squat bar on the bed. She stands up on the bed as the next contraction hits, her hands on her thighs. I convince her to squat and use us as support. She is pushing in earnest now. And she is beautiful.
I don’t cry at births often anymore. I haven’t since about #25 if I think about it… I have seen close to 150. I watch parents cry, I watch siblings beam, and I watch couples lose themselves in emotion. But I don’t cry very often anymore at births. I am at work. It is my job to be stoic and strong so that the couple can surrender. I am the anchor here. Tears haven’t been allowed in this setting for me for a few years now.
It comes to her now; The Goddess Transformation. It happens in the moment between contractions; not when this baby is born. She finds her Goddess again in a quiet moment of fortitude. She is primal and powerful, but mostly she is flying. She is no longer in her right mind. She has left us. She is in “Labor Land” and she will stay there until she has expelled her son. I am humbled by her strength.
We sit down and whisper to her. She wants the room silent. The couple has requested that no one speak when their son is born. The father will bless him as he emerges. His voice will be the only one we hear other than his son’s cries for the next few minutes. We wait. And we hold space for her. She is bringing the baby Earthside. He is coming.
Her baby slips into the doctor’s hands as she exhales the breaths that have built in her soul while she couldn’t let them out completely. There are tears then. The parents gather around their son and they welcome him. Dad prays a powerful prayer to God, asking that their son be blessed with wisdom and strength and leadership skills, and ceremoniously pronouncing his name upon him. And then, his prayer changes. He remembers his wife. He stops praying to catch his breath. He is struggling with the tears that are spilling down his face. He has no shame for showing this emotion. His voice fails him for a moment as he then thanks God for this woman. His Woman. For her strength and her power. For her beauty and her Grace. For her presence in his life and for their growing family. All at once, the nurses and doctor and I are crying. It is sacred. And I am once again washed with honor. And tears.
She is born then. And so is he. The Goddess and her son, both birthed into being through her transcendent pain. The nurses take her baby to wash him and measure him. She closes her eyes and rests her head back on the white pillows. Even with her eyes closed, you can feel it. She is radiating. She is contemplating what she just did. And she is celebrating herself, as a woman. And it is powerful. Her husband finds me, remembering that I am there. He encircles me in his arms and holds me. I am sobbing now. He whispers to me, asking me if I am alright. He remembers then how tired I must be and pulls out of our hug to look into my eyes. This man is my friend. We have shared many confidences and he has stood by me though many moments of my life.
“Are you okay, Jess?” I nod, lips pursed, unable to trust my voice. I try to speak then, with eyes that are floating in emotion I look at him.
The voice that comes out of me surprises me. It doesn’t seem to be my own. I am, at once, embarrassed. I look into his eyes and whisper:
“When did I forget? When did I forget what beauty is?”
He does not have the answer to my question and we both know it. I look at him, and then at her and say. “Thank you for allowing me to be here. That was one of the most exquisite moments of beauty I have ever witnessed.” We look at her then, he and I. We are standing arm in arm. He whispers to me while staring at her. “She is…. Amazing.” I only nod, respecting the power of silence and his own personal realization.
The question I presented stayed with me for many days afterward. When DID I forget? When did I start telling myself that because I was shaped differently and thought differently and lived differently... that I was not beautiful? And how does that happen? I still had no answers.
When did WE, as a culture, forget that life begins with womanhood? When did being a woman stop being “special”? In my quiet repeated meditation, I am reminded of the song in “Fiddler on the Roof”… where “The Papa” sings about “The mama’s proper double chin.” He is singing about his woman being round and soft. And it is not only DESIRED… it is PREFERED. When did women with curves start believing that they are less than because of their “proper double chin”? When did I, as an individual, adopt the mentality that “thin is better than fat”? When did men stop believing that padding on his woman made her more feminine, more lush, more… More.
The recovery from my hospital stay involved many more moments like this; moments of remembering beauty. I am sure I will get around to writing a few of the moments some day.
The answer came to me a few months ago. There is a blog… it is worth reading. It is from a male perspective and it is about how men see women. It is called “Single Dad Laughing”… and for those of you that struggle with beauty issues… read ALL of it. There are a few that are ESPECIALLY poignant.
http://www.danoah.com/
He suggests that part of the problem has root in men. The way they look at women, and use women against their will. Men who feel the need to explain that fat women are “less than” because they are more than what they want. He proposes that culture, media, and the greed and competition of men is part of the cause. And he offers his opinion that women have allowed it to happen in an attitude of “It is all I will get, so I will take it.” His writing is powerful. And it is accurate. Please take the time to read some of it, ESPECIALLY the women that feel less than beautiful because they are more than thin.
I will give you the answer that I have come up with to my own rhetorical question as a close to this blog.
We, as women forget how beautiful we are when we forget about the power that we have, the women we can be and the Goddesses we become. We forget our own beauty when we compare ourselves to others, instead of the woman we were yesterday or the woman we see in our moments of complete self. We forget our beauty when we rely on others to remind us and forget to remind ourselves. We forget our beauty when we decide we are unworthy because of someone else’s beliefs, or our own. We forget our own beauty when we forget that we are women. And THAT is what makes us beautiful.
I remember, most days. And when I do somehow forget, I am allowed the miracle of witnessing it in another woman… that moment of a Goddess being born. And I am reminded.
The voice that comes to me is that of her husband, but he is not speaking to me. “Breathe; hold me, lean into me, there… it’s okay. I love you…” Then I hear her, softly moaning. She is in active labor. I stand up and pull on my clothes I had laid out just in case. There will be no more sleep tonight. The phone is still to my ear as he directs his attention to me and says calmly, “I think we need you.” “I am on my way. I will be there within a half hour. Do you need anything?” “No. Just you.” he says. They are dancing. I can hear a moan breathing out of her. “I have a minute” I think, “They are still dancing.”
I grab my purse, coat and a pre-bottled coffee and call the hospital as I walk out the door. One of my favorite nurses is the charge nurse that night, what a blessing! I tell her as I drive that it looks like we will be in later and ask if anyone is using the spa room. She tells me no. I give her a brief history on this woman, third baby, intervention free. She says “ok, call me when you are on your way and I will fill the tub.” I thank her and call Dad. “I am on the freeway. See you in ten minutes. Are you upstairs?” “Yes” he says… “She really wants the water.”
Brief interjection here: I am six days removed from the hospital at this point; I have had somewhat of a life changing trauma (future blog. *laugh) that has left me weak and tired. I have intubation pneumonia and small bruises all over my body from tubes and tests during my time in the ICU. I feel like shit. I still can’t eat more than a few bites because I was sustained by IV fluids for almost a week. I haven’t eaten much in the last six days. I was still sipping water because my throat was so raw from almost a week of tubes.
My head was swimming and as I walked to my car in the dark of the morning, I thanked the Universe for coffee, offering a prayer of thanks for the support I knew I would be given from powers beyond my own.
That’s how it always happens. Because you see, I get to watch Goddesses be born.
There was a conversation on Facebook a few weeks ago. One of our local birth professionals asked Doulas and midwives what part of birth was the most moving for them. The answers were varied, heartfelt and beautiful, mostly focusing on the birth of the baby. The first breath, their cute blink as they meet the earth, their first cry, the tiny details of new life and new beginnings.
My answer was decidedly different. My answer was something to the effect of “The magical moment at a birth for me, is when Mom looks down, after all of the commotion has died down and she REALIZES in a wash of consciousness, what she has just DONE. I wait for it. It almost always comes. It is usually one of two responses. Either a fierce, almost primal transition of “I am woman, hear me roar” or sacred wash of realization of the power she has within her. It is especially delicious for me to see it on a fathers face. When he looks at her with awe, wonderment and respect, and usually deep abiding love. “
THAT moment… That is what does it for me. These are the moments that goddesses are born.
Back to the story. I walk in the front door, take off my shoes and walk upstairs with just my medical bag. I quietly push their bedroom door open while singing in a soft whisper voice “Hello!” They are still dancing. She is standing at the bathroom sink with her forearms flat on the surface. Her hips are swaying with him and he is singing with her. Low quiet moans. Perfectly matched tone, breathing together with the rhythm they have allowed and embraced. There really isn’t a lot of pain for her right now. I can see that. She is still just “uncomfortable”, they are just breathing sound together. They are singing her Labor Song. It is beautiful.
Her contraction ends and she stands up and smiles at me with tired eyes and acknowledges my presence for the first time. “Hi.” She steps toward me and melts in a puddle of tears into my chest. “I don’t want to do this Jess. I am fighting my instincts here. We have to go soon. I don’t want to be at the hospital very long, I know. I will just tell them no to all of the CRAP and get in the water. I need that tub. I neeeeed deep water.” A contraction washes over her with an intensity I hadn’t seen or heard. She is progressing. But her instincts are right. She is too tense. I whisper to her to drop her shoulders. “I will hold you… dance.”
It is the second time I have labored with this couple. It is always such a sacred honor to be chosen to be with people at these sacred moments. It is a bigger honor to be invited back. She is a dancer. They are a strikingly beautiful couple. Vibrant might be a more accurate word. He is handsome and she is unique and exotic. He is powerful and broad-chested, she is thin and athletic. The only changes to her body are that of a large belly bump and breasts that her husband delightedly reported were “seriously bigger”. They are a deeply spiritual couple. And they are in love. Big love. It is always so fun to be with them. They are that sickeningly mushy couple that you always watch because they radiate.
He comes up behind her as her contraction ends and she regains her bearing. She stands up from my arms and takes her own weight once more as he touches her shoulder and says “Babe, what are we going to do? Make a decision before the next one comes so I can help.” He is perfectly aware that his time to speak will be ending soon. During both of her previous labors, just as she hits transition he is not allowed to speak. It is the age old midwifery trick, when she yells at Dad, we all start getting ready. We laugh about it when we see each other. She exhales and leans her head on my chest as she utters a quiet, pleading, thoughtful prayer to God, to help her know what to do to and to give her strength to bring his child into the world. She exhales as her husband and I utter a quiet “Amen”. She turns to him and says. “I want the pool. We need to go.”
He loads the car. I say quietly to her. “Do you want me to help you get in, or do you want me to go ahead and call in for the tub?” “Go. I am good. They are slowing down. I can breathe again.” She stops and takes the two steps that are separating us. Her hand goes to my arm and she squeezes. “Thank you for coming. I love having you here.” There is such beauty and love in her face in that instant. We both weep quietly as she lowers herself into my arms for another contraction. I love this woman.
I grab my bag and head down the stairs, passing Dad in the living room. I say to him “I will go and call the hospital. I will be waiting at the door. I warned them a while ago that she might want the tub. I will ask if they will start filling it for her.” He kisses my cheek and says “Drive safe. See you in a bit”
I hit the door of my car and I am speaking to the nurse. We are on our way. At external reaction I would guess her at 4 or 5 centimeters. I have not checked her, no. This is her second baby, I remind her. She tells me she will fill the tub. I tell her we will see her in 15 minutes.
When we get to the hospital, there are usual intervention, paperwork and absurd demands on a woman who is contracting. She tolerates the briefest moments of this then says to the nurses buzzing around her: “I NEED THE WATER… can I go get in?” They finally let her go down the hall to the spa room.
It is a beautiful space. The walls and floor are tiled with a soothing white tile. There are subtle decorations that speak of “Japanese bath house”. It has all of the emergency medical stuff stored in a wooden cupboard at the side of the room. And… then… there is THE tub. It is a 4-foot square sunken labor tub. The water source for this particular room is in the ceiling. There is a stream of warm water flowing from above waiting to welcome her… and she slides into its depth and comfort.
Her husband finds a place out of the way against the wall in a chair. The nurses are still doing their “hospital policy” buzz and she just wants to be left alone. Her needs are finally recognized and suddenly, there are only three of us in the room.
We have turned the water off. The room is silent except for her slow rhythmic breathing. She moans, this has been her cue for the last hour that there is a contraction building. I squat down and whisper to her. She makes a panicked “hold both of my hands, I need you” gesture, opening her hands repeatedly, but is unable to utter her needs. I prostrate myself on the tile floor and answer her unspoken call. She has both of my hands clenched within her own. I whisper to her the song. I breathe it for her, loudly, to remind her to take long slow breaths. She breathes with me, and releases the completed contraction.
What we hadn’t realized until later is that during this time this woman has progressed from 4 cm (I was RIGHT. Lol) when we arrived at the hospital, to a complete 10 centimeters… in less than an hour and a half. To the women reading that have had unmediated labors, please allow yourself a moment to unclench. To the women who lovingly hate her in this moment because your birth experience wasn’t short… I say, an hour labor is INTENSE. My youngest baby had a very precipitous labor. I was only in labor for about four hours and I pushed for less than a minute (literally, medical records… we checked afterward because we were all shocked. Lol) Unmediated precipitous (under 3 hours) labors are HARD. They are exhausting and they are invigorating all at once. She was so amazing to watch.
It is silent in the room, she is between contractions. I am still flat on my belly head to head with her, half of my body hanging over the edge of the pool to be as close to her as she has expressed she needs me to be, without climbing in with her myself. She is breathing. We are waiting for the next contraction to come. I am reminding her to surrender and not fight the wave of pain.
Her husband breaks the silence. “Hey Mrs. Smith.” He calls to her quietly (not their real name) She mutters with her eyes still closed: “Yes Mr. Smith.” His voice is instantly thick with emotion and he whispers, “Thank you for having my babies.” Her eyes open and lock with his. “Thank you for letting me be their mother.” She replies. We are all weeping. It is sacred.
The color of this woman’s skin really doesn’t matter until this point in the story. As I stand up to get her water to drink I see her from a different perspective. (Remember, I have been lying on the floor with her, I am now standing above her.) Her head is on one of the steps of the pool supported by a towel we have rolled to be a pillow. Her beautiful body with her AMAZING belly bump is floating in the water. The tub is a stark white and she is a deep chocolate brown, the water is blurring her bodily features so all that can be seen is color and shape. It is visual magic. I gesture wildly yet silently to her husband to get a photo. As he stands, he is hit with the beauty of this moment as well. I am moved to tears by the image of her, floating in her pain, surrendering to this power beyond her control. She is a goddess now. And she is beautiful. I love this woman.
A few minutes later, at the peak of a particularly long contraction, she gives an obvious push. Her body is controlling her now, she is simply along for the ride.
I call the nurses. She is not allowed to deliver in the water… hospital policy, liability… blah, blah. We get out and walk back to the room, she is wrapped in blankets and she is lightly pushing with every contraction as we walk. They are dancing again, in the quiet of the hallway, dripping water. He takes her body and holds her weight with all of his strength. There is a part of me that wants to rescue him, to offer to take my turn holding her weight as she works through her contractions. But now, she wants only him. He is allowed to talk again. She needs only his touch. This is her pattern. As soon as she is pushing she needs him to pray. He stands over her in the hospital bed, trying to stay out of the way as the nurses break down the bed so she can push. We install a squat bar on the bed. She stands up on the bed as the next contraction hits, her hands on her thighs. I convince her to squat and use us as support. She is pushing in earnest now. And she is beautiful.
I don’t cry at births often anymore. I haven’t since about #25 if I think about it… I have seen close to 150. I watch parents cry, I watch siblings beam, and I watch couples lose themselves in emotion. But I don’t cry very often anymore at births. I am at work. It is my job to be stoic and strong so that the couple can surrender. I am the anchor here. Tears haven’t been allowed in this setting for me for a few years now.
It comes to her now; The Goddess Transformation. It happens in the moment between contractions; not when this baby is born. She finds her Goddess again in a quiet moment of fortitude. She is primal and powerful, but mostly she is flying. She is no longer in her right mind. She has left us. She is in “Labor Land” and she will stay there until she has expelled her son. I am humbled by her strength.
We sit down and whisper to her. She wants the room silent. The couple has requested that no one speak when their son is born. The father will bless him as he emerges. His voice will be the only one we hear other than his son’s cries for the next few minutes. We wait. And we hold space for her. She is bringing the baby Earthside. He is coming.
Her baby slips into the doctor’s hands as she exhales the breaths that have built in her soul while she couldn’t let them out completely. There are tears then. The parents gather around their son and they welcome him. Dad prays a powerful prayer to God, asking that their son be blessed with wisdom and strength and leadership skills, and ceremoniously pronouncing his name upon him. And then, his prayer changes. He remembers his wife. He stops praying to catch his breath. He is struggling with the tears that are spilling down his face. He has no shame for showing this emotion. His voice fails him for a moment as he then thanks God for this woman. His Woman. For her strength and her power. For her beauty and her Grace. For her presence in his life and for their growing family. All at once, the nurses and doctor and I are crying. It is sacred. And I am once again washed with honor. And tears.
She is born then. And so is he. The Goddess and her son, both birthed into being through her transcendent pain. The nurses take her baby to wash him and measure him. She closes her eyes and rests her head back on the white pillows. Even with her eyes closed, you can feel it. She is radiating. She is contemplating what she just did. And she is celebrating herself, as a woman. And it is powerful. Her husband finds me, remembering that I am there. He encircles me in his arms and holds me. I am sobbing now. He whispers to me, asking me if I am alright. He remembers then how tired I must be and pulls out of our hug to look into my eyes. This man is my friend. We have shared many confidences and he has stood by me though many moments of my life.
“Are you okay, Jess?” I nod, lips pursed, unable to trust my voice. I try to speak then, with eyes that are floating in emotion I look at him.
The voice that comes out of me surprises me. It doesn’t seem to be my own. I am, at once, embarrassed. I look into his eyes and whisper:
“When did I forget? When did I forget what beauty is?”
He does not have the answer to my question and we both know it. I look at him, and then at her and say. “Thank you for allowing me to be here. That was one of the most exquisite moments of beauty I have ever witnessed.” We look at her then, he and I. We are standing arm in arm. He whispers to me while staring at her. “She is…. Amazing.” I only nod, respecting the power of silence and his own personal realization.
The question I presented stayed with me for many days afterward. When DID I forget? When did I start telling myself that because I was shaped differently and thought differently and lived differently... that I was not beautiful? And how does that happen? I still had no answers.
When did WE, as a culture, forget that life begins with womanhood? When did being a woman stop being “special”? In my quiet repeated meditation, I am reminded of the song in “Fiddler on the Roof”… where “The Papa” sings about “The mama’s proper double chin.” He is singing about his woman being round and soft. And it is not only DESIRED… it is PREFERED. When did women with curves start believing that they are less than because of their “proper double chin”? When did I, as an individual, adopt the mentality that “thin is better than fat”? When did men stop believing that padding on his woman made her more feminine, more lush, more… More.
The recovery from my hospital stay involved many more moments like this; moments of remembering beauty. I am sure I will get around to writing a few of the moments some day.
The answer came to me a few months ago. There is a blog… it is worth reading. It is from a male perspective and it is about how men see women. It is called “Single Dad Laughing”… and for those of you that struggle with beauty issues… read ALL of it. There are a few that are ESPECIALLY poignant.
http://www.danoah.com/
He suggests that part of the problem has root in men. The way they look at women, and use women against their will. Men who feel the need to explain that fat women are “less than” because they are more than what they want. He proposes that culture, media, and the greed and competition of men is part of the cause. And he offers his opinion that women have allowed it to happen in an attitude of “It is all I will get, so I will take it.” His writing is powerful. And it is accurate. Please take the time to read some of it, ESPECIALLY the women that feel less than beautiful because they are more than thin.
I will give you the answer that I have come up with to my own rhetorical question as a close to this blog.
We, as women forget how beautiful we are when we forget about the power that we have, the women we can be and the Goddesses we become. We forget our own beauty when we compare ourselves to others, instead of the woman we were yesterday or the woman we see in our moments of complete self. We forget our beauty when we rely on others to remind us and forget to remind ourselves. We forget our beauty when we decide we are unworthy because of someone else’s beliefs, or our own. We forget our own beauty when we forget that we are women. And THAT is what makes us beautiful.
I remember, most days. And when I do somehow forget, I am allowed the miracle of witnessing it in another woman… that moment of a Goddess being born. And I am reminded.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Making Space to BECOME
In the measurement world, we set a goal and strive to achieve it.
In the universe of possibility, we set the context and let life unfold.
~B. Zander
A few years ago, one of my dear friends was coming into town to do a few days of energy work sessions. I had a good friend that needed a session but could not afford it, so I gifted her a session. She was skeptical and leery…but went in with an open mind.
“I feel like…. Now…. I have SPACE.”
I asked her what she meant and she told me that after doing this clearing work she felt as if there were FINALY room to grow and progress…the SPACE to move forward.
BUT -- what happens when all of the sudden, you are no longer receiving pennies…instead; there are QUARTERS coming in…or better yet, GOLD DOLLARS? Here comes all of these things you have been working toward, manifesting and attracting…but your bank is so full of pennies that there is no room to keep them.
(And don’t say you would just get another piggy bank…FEEL my analogy here! Grin)
We cannot hoard or save for a better day. We are asked to SPEND it…to let it go, to someone else that needs it.
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