I ovulated, and as I did, there was a great mourning. This body.. this beautiful egg release and in waiting, with all intentions of becoming more. I felt so sad for that little egg that has been with me since I was in my mother's womb. How it will never be anything more. I felt so sad for my womb, that was preparing to nourish life, all things hopeful and sweet... like a lie, because it never would, not this month anyway.
I felt a deep need to honour it all, giving away this egg into the ethers, never to have a chance again. I really ached with yearning this time, as I took an ovulation test to make sure I was reading my body signs right - and having to tell myself over and over again that my giddy excitement while waiting for a second line was not because this was a pregnancy test, and that I was not pregnant, and that there is no baby where there should be one.
***
I'm bleeding. The first quarter moon wrapped with a halo around her, my back and belly growing heavy with release. All that energy of hopeful creation now making swift exit.
and I wonder when, or if, the reliving of life escaping between my legs will ever stop, with each gush of blood as I sit here knitting, or turn over in bed, or stand up to go make the kids another snack. An uncontrollable river, I remember trying to clench in the hospital bed to hold it in, trying to be polite and not letting it all wash like rivers on the crisp white sheets. Being beckoned to stand up, and knowing that I couldn't stop this all from leaving, but trying all the same.
That feeling of having no control over my body. Of losing everything, and still trying to be a good patient while my tiny baby was dead and coming quickly. I feel that all between my legs as the day goes on, and into the night as I move and try to stay still, containing it all tightly between my thighs.
Will every period feel the same? As the body remembers, will it be replaced with the sensation of bringing life right on down instead of loss?
My daughter watches me wash out cloth pads in the sink 'you have blood? where's your baby?' she says, searching the blood that washes down the sink
'I don't have a baby right now, that's why I have blood'
I talk to her about the beauty of our bodies. About the blood of women and how she has little ovaries and eggs inside her body. How, when she's big like me she'll bleed too. I try to make sure it isn't scary blood, just part of the process, part of giving life to the world.
I take a good look at myself in the mirror, a mental picture of this time right now - no wrinkles around my eyes or mouth just yet. No grey hairs springing from my crown. I look deep in my eyes and see all the women I have been, recognizing right now, in these eyes, that I will always have been a mother at 27 that miscarried one of their siblings. Knowing that in years time, I will look at myself in the mirror to really see myself, and the startled reflection of someone who is older will look back at me, recognizing all the women she has been.
At the end of yoga practice every week, I thank myself for the practice. I hold this vision of my elder self, as she thanks me right now for doing this work.
This holy work..
I felt a deep need to honour it all, giving away this egg into the ethers, never to have a chance again. I really ached with yearning this time, as I took an ovulation test to make sure I was reading my body signs right - and having to tell myself over and over again that my giddy excitement while waiting for a second line was not because this was a pregnancy test, and that I was not pregnant, and that there is no baby where there should be one.
***
I'm bleeding. The first quarter moon wrapped with a halo around her, my back and belly growing heavy with release. All that energy of hopeful creation now making swift exit.
and I wonder when, or if, the reliving of life escaping between my legs will ever stop, with each gush of blood as I sit here knitting, or turn over in bed, or stand up to go make the kids another snack. An uncontrollable river, I remember trying to clench in the hospital bed to hold it in, trying to be polite and not letting it all wash like rivers on the crisp white sheets. Being beckoned to stand up, and knowing that I couldn't stop this all from leaving, but trying all the same.
That feeling of having no control over my body. Of losing everything, and still trying to be a good patient while my tiny baby was dead and coming quickly. I feel that all between my legs as the day goes on, and into the night as I move and try to stay still, containing it all tightly between my thighs.
Will every period feel the same? As the body remembers, will it be replaced with the sensation of bringing life right on down instead of loss?
My daughter watches me wash out cloth pads in the sink 'you have blood? where's your baby?' she says, searching the blood that washes down the sink
'I don't have a baby right now, that's why I have blood'
I talk to her about the beauty of our bodies. About the blood of women and how she has little ovaries and eggs inside her body. How, when she's big like me she'll bleed too. I try to make sure it isn't scary blood, just part of the process, part of giving life to the world.
I take a good look at myself in the mirror, a mental picture of this time right now - no wrinkles around my eyes or mouth just yet. No grey hairs springing from my crown. I look deep in my eyes and see all the women I have been, recognizing right now, in these eyes, that I will always have been a mother at 27 that miscarried one of their siblings. Knowing that in years time, I will look at myself in the mirror to really see myself, and the startled reflection of someone who is older will look back at me, recognizing all the women she has been.
At the end of yoga practice every week, I thank myself for the practice. I hold this vision of my elder self, as she thanks me right now for doing this work.
This holy work..