ElementalMom

Over the last extremely stressful year, I’ve been exploring my personal spirituality a lot. There are no atheists in foxholes, the saying goes, and I kinda roll with that. Frankly, I almost have to believe that, because of some of the things that I’ve seen happen to other moms, and that have happened to me.

Almost a year ago, the marvelous Dana gave me a mala bracelet made of bodhi seeds. It’s fabulous and I love how it feels in my hands, but it’s too big to wear and the elastic gave up pretty rapidly. So Dana bought me another bracelet, and brought it to me right before Aurora’s birth. At first I thought it was just a nice pattern on the beads, but on closer reflection, discovered that the carvings are tiny Madonnas.

As I’ve posted before, I’m not a Catholic. Not even close. I resent the idea that an institution thinks they can come between me and my personal relationship with the Divine. So la.

My aunt Marla, before she died, surrounded herself with latin images of the Madonna. I miss Marla hugely; I think we might have had a lot to talk about once we were both mothers. Sadly, she did not live to see my children. But I think of her all the time; when I see the film Dune, when I hear David Bowie, when I see Madonnas.

I refer to Mary a lot in my birth advocacy work. If you point out that Christ was born unassisted in a horse barn, suddenly modern home birthing looks pretty slick. And also classical. I’ve seen a lot of devout Christians do a 180 on their ideas about homebirth once this fact is mentioned. Mary is therefore my own personal patron of why homebirth works. When I see her, I think of women’s power in birthing.

To some degree, all mothers touch the Divine. You can’t be this much a part of the dance of birth, death, and everything in between and not be in touch with something bigger than yourself. Sometimes, it’s just because it’s all so overwhelming you have to have someone to hand it over to; the responsibility for it all is just too crushing otherwise. In that way, all mothers are to some degree the Madonna. I do recognize that some women reject that role entirely. But I also see women all around me who step up to the plate and embrace the sort of growth that motherhood can bestow upon you if you let it.

So on days where it’s too big, it’s too crazy, it’s too amazing, it’s too humbling, I wear my Mama Mala, I thumb through the beads, and I think of all the Madonnas I know.

I don’t even know where to begin.

How about Gratitude? I’ll start there.

Thanks to God(s). I spent so much time, and still am, handing stuff uphill because it’s too big for me to carry by myself. I questioned God a lot in my youth; who knew that’s because I’d get older, and really need to know who I was dealing with? I would never have guessed, back then, that I would become such a theist, but there you go.

Thanks to Jason. Never was woman so blessed. He held it all together, and never once implied I was imposing. Thanks to Rowan for asking when I was coming home every time I talked to him. Thanks to Kestrel, for adapting so beautifully. And thanks to Marc, for enabling so smoothly.

Thanks to my redoubtable little Honda, who despite hating altitude, managed 0-60 in front of insane truckers. Thanks to the Nevada Highway Patrol, who pulled up, saw me crying, and didn’t pull me over despite the fact that I was breaking the hell out of the speed limit in their Silver State. Thanks to the jacks and cottontails, for being an interlude of cuteness in the desert. Thanks to the Harrier, who reminded me that death swoops in when it pleases, no matter how cute we may be.

Thanks to the people and books, over the years, who taught me to breathe. And to attend to my posture, because posture controls your attitude. Thanks to the people who’ve encouraged me to keep up with Yoga, so that I could do asana in hospital waiting rooms everywhere, and keep my calm from being damaged. Thanks to those who’ve taught me Compassion. Because when you have waited and paced and breathed and stood up straight and done Warrior II until your legs shake and you can’t do anything else, you can hold the space, and fill it with compassion. Compassion is a verb.

Thanks to Mom, for being the living epitome of Grace Under Fire.

Thanks to Bear, for giving me the opportunity, yet again, to expose all my fine ideals to the abrasion of the real world, so as to polish them up a bit.