Norah June, A Birth Story

On my flight home from NYC last October, I started writing a poem. My world was still shaky with Bri's death and my unexpected pregnancy, but I was desperate to find solid ground and to make peace with my body and my grief. So I wrote this poem, more out of awe that I could create life at a time when I felt so empty and depleted, but also out of longing to connect to a baby who I couldn't imagine as a part of my life, let alone my body.


Life created in the barren places
is green and fierce despite the howling wind,
harsh as it crawls begging through the canyons of my body.

You came to light in a desert place,
a landscape marked by uncertainty and distance.
And you brought with you
bones and stones and endless sky --
water enough to swell and stretch.

When the earth cries for relief from its sanctification,
will the skies answer
with a crash of light, a gathering darkness,
heat that writhes in red rising flood?

Flesh on flesh
skull to pelvis
When the pounding ceases
and the horizon clears,
will we be blossoming with life,
Or will we be drowned?

It's strange to read now, to share it now, knowing what happened in the weeks and months that followed. The clubfoot diagnosis. Sela's diabetes diagnosis. Feeling like my entire life had fallen apart and I was grasping at loose threads, desperately trying to hold my old, familiar life together, and left kneeling, empty-handed.

It's so difficult to write about the darkest period of my life, to fight the instinct to brush it aside, smile, and tell you how happy we are to have Norah here, how Sela is thriving, how everything is wonderful and perfect and pretty. I like to tell happy stories and share beautiful things. I like when things work out. I like my life to be neat and tidy and comfortable for everyone, or to at least seem that way when it's not. 

It's not easy or comfortable to tell you that I know what it's like to cry every day for an entire year, to feel grief, disappointment, and fear closing in at every turn, and to lay in bed every morning holding my breath and praying that Sela will wake up too. I know what it's like to wonder if I'll love and celebrate a child born with clubfeet, to face deformity without embarrassment, anger, or shame. I know what it's like to go to a therapist every week for months because I needed someone to sit with me while I cried for hours and allow me to empty the ugliness and smallness and pettiness from the darkest parts of myself.

Norah's birth story isn't an easy one to tell, even if the actual birth is a pretty straightforward, uncomplicated one. The experiences of the months, weeks, and even hours leading up to her birth are inseparable from this story, our shared story, and I can't explain the joy and awe without showing you the pain and heartache in equal measure.

a mama's heart

I read this amazing story almost two years ago and was touched by Kelle's raw, honest voice and the beautiful photographs of this life-changing moment. Her experience is all about grief and families and numbness and mostly love and facing a new, different kind of life than the one she imagined; it is a story of true human experience.  Kelle's story broke my heart in all the right ways, if that makes any sense. It opened my eyes and heart to the strength of women and mothers everywhere, and it showed me how truly beautiful people are made.

This morning I was happy to read her post about little Nella's second birthday and about the people they are today. I needed to be reminded that chaos, fear, uncertainty, and pain are only temporary, fleeting states of being, and that love, courage, families, and truth stay always, sustaining us while we learn to change and accept a bigger and more meaningful version of ourselves.

Kelle also shared this quote that made my heart catch in my throat:

"Awareness born of love is the only force that can bring healing and renewal. Out of our love for another person, we become more willing to let our old identities wither and fall away, and enter a dark night of the soul, so that we may stand naked once more in the presence of the great mystery that lies at the core of our being. This is how love ripens us -by warming us from within, inspiring us to break out of our shell, and lighting our way through the dark passage to new birth."

-John Welwood

Thank you for all of your kind comments and messages during the past few weeks. I can't express to you how important it is to feel connected and supported and heard while sorting out and moving forward with our "new normal". Thank you for allowing me to feel all of those things. XO

brooklyn, brooklyn take me in

So, I've spent my entire Thanksgiving weekend watching Woody Allen movies and thinking about NYC; both the city that Allen loves and makes an important character in nearly all his films, and my own experiences in October. I keep waiting for the right words to find me to accurately share what I felt and saw during my trip, but I'm afraid I'll forget all of the special moments (and meals!) while I'm waiting.

Here are the moments I don't want to forget:

- Four hours of turbulence, a flight attendant who thought he was James Brown, and zero sleep is not worth the $40 I saved to take that damn red eye flight. Although, it may be worth the long overdue realization that I'm no longer 17 and I seriously need to start embracing my need for sleep and time (and age) appropriate air travel.

- My sweet Polish taxi driver pressed the tip money I gave him back into my hand and whispered, "For the memories!" as he left me on a dark, rainy corner in Brooklyn.

- I'll never forget walking down Em's block with my head and stomach swimming, feeling overwhelmed and exhausted as I dragged my suitcase behind me. I looked up to see her sleepy face smiling from her apartment doorway. It had been over 7 years since I'd seen her and yet I knew we'd be alright.

- Her apartment is beautiful, smells good, and she made me peppermint tea in a pretty little mug. We're going to be better than alright.

-When someone tells you to go to Hanco's for a Vietnamese sandwich, you do it. Even after you read the ingredient list and have a hard time wrapping your brain around pate and some sort of weird fried Vietnamese ham and pork topped with cilantro and shredded carrots - just get it. Make sure it's with medium spicy sauce and an almond bubble tea, find a crowded table, and proceed to repeatedly tell everyone around you how unbelievably delicious your sandwich is. Oh, and cry a little, because honestly? You just can't help yourself.

 
- I spent an entire afternoon in the Park Slope Community Bookstore with giant piles of M.F.K. Fisher, Samuel Beckett, and John Updike. Flipping through cookbooks, old childhood favorites, and poetry for hours in a quiet corner of this bookshop felt like a sweet gift, a welcome surprise.

- I found messages of peace tucked in windows, hidden gardens, and on the side of giant skyscrapers.

- Colson's Patisserie has fantastic pear almond tarts and tiny apricot rugelach.

- Prospect Park is beautiful in the rain. I spent a few hours walking around the ponds and riding trails, watching families have picnics and people out walking their dogs.

- When the rain kicked it up a notch, I ducked into a French coffee shop, Couleur Cafe, and spent a few hours eating soup and a croissant, humming along to Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline, and feeling lucky to be in my own life.

a part of me, apart from me

You come to me in the early morning hours. When darkness and quiet gather over my sleeping children and the only sound in this stilled house is the door as it clicks gently closed behind Brian on his way to work, you come. I sigh, stretching my sleep-warmed feet out from under my quilt into the new September air pouring  through the open window. The skies are dark. The neighbor's sprinklers start. I take a deep breath. I let you in.

You come to me in dreams, in music, in memories, but it is your smell that always comes first; a red currant candle in the winter and pine soap on your bathroom sink. Flashes of rosemary and mint as you distractedly twist your long, dark hair into a neat bun. Buttery pie crusts, apple cider, pastry cream with a splash of orange extract, and black flecks of vanilla bean stirred into soft-white peaks of whipping cream. Olive oil, as you spread your hands across my growing belly, searching for that tiny, quick heartbeat. Clean sheets, sweet smelling pillowcases, and Mrs. Meyers dish soap in your light filled kitchen.

You come to me in the places we loved together. Saturday morning farmer's markets and the homes of new, proud mothers. Countless bakeries and small cafes and bookshops. Downtown Salt Lake City on summer nights. Your pretty little office with the Anthropologie drawer-pulls and glass jars filled with raspberry tea. You perched on that tiny stool and me with my legs tucked under my skirt talking late into the afternoon and early evening. I see you in Southern California for Tess' wedding. When I step out of the car your eyes narrow as you look at my swollen feet, "Pregnant feet. How much water did you drink, Rachel? No, tell me how many ounces, I need to know. Did you pack salty snacks like I told you to? How often did you stop to pee and walk around? How many times did you pee today, Rachel?"  And finally, your front yard, warm with a new spring, and you surrounded by the women and mothers who love you for honoring them and celebrating the important work that they and their bodies do. I kiss you on the cheek and hug you tight, my hands full of plates of food for Brian and the kids and Eloise books for Sela. I tell you I'll call you soon to plan our birthday lunch, "Only a few more weeks!" you remind me. Your dark eyes find mine again, so solemn this time. I hug you again, thanking you for the beautiful party and sweet gifts. I cross the street to my car, looking back to see you tenderly folding a new baby into your arms with laughter on your face. As I start the car, I glance across the street once more and say to my friend, "That felt so much like good-bye."

You come to me in hundreds of different ways during those quiet moments. So many memories waiting to be unpacked, unfolded, and carefully brought to the light. But a few mornings ago, one sweet memory came to me so clearly: It was wintertime and we are both curled up on your big blue sofa with a six-month-old baby Graham sleeping between us, his belly softly rising and falling with contented breath. As I watch you trace your finger over his fuzzy, round head, I ask, "Bri, what is your favorite part of your job?" You are quiet as you stoke Graham's cheek, and when your finger brushes close to his mouth and he starts to quietly suckle we both smile. "I think my favorite part is watching the journey and transformation of the woman," you carefully and thoughtfully answer, your fingers wrapping around Graham's chubby fist. "No matter how a woman feels at the beginning of her pregnancy, whether she is excited, overwhelmed, anxious, or devastated, if she is willing to surrender to the processes of pregnancy, labor, and birth, she will become the kind of mother her baby needs her to be and the kind of woman that she needs to be to feel confident and comfortable in her new role. Being able to watch that journey, that process unfold is the very best part of my job."

So here I am, Bri, a few months into my own difficult, unexpected journey. A journey that began with me throwing a positive pregnancy test against my bathroom wall and spending an entire day in my bed cursing God for the vulnerability of woman's body and the quiet, never-ending, ever-changing cycles of our bodies and our lives. "Is there ever a point where a woman's body is her own?" I screamed into my pillow until my throat was raw. I curled my knees into my chest and pulled the blanket over my head and for the very first time realized what losing you really, truly meant.

going west

I am a woman born of the West; a Robert Redford kind of girl, if that means anything to you. As a product of pioneers driven by visions, men who wandered deserts at dawn, and unlucky miners and the women who followed them, I understand the visceral language of red rock, mountain ranges, and coastal highways. I seek comfort in space and distance, healing in the wild places of the West.

-An excerpt from my notebook written as we drove across the vast Salt Flats.

Brian and I were able to slip away for a week at the beginning of June to celebrate our anniversary and to catch a bit of rest and healing. We decided on California's central coast: Carmel, Big Sur, and a day trip in San Fransisco.

Carmel is beautiful, walkable, and quiet. We spent days just wandering around the charming neighborhoods, holding hands and talking about what we hoped our future would hold (Brian: registering a personal Scottish coat of arms and an office/library space of his very own. Me: becoming a lady farmer midwife chef who writes about women and travels the world). We spent our evenings searching tide pools and people watching, and then would eventually end up at Dametra Cafe, tucked into a cozy, dark corner surrounded by Italian families and Brazilian women. The food was beautiful, and the owners are warm, generous people. There was a lot of kissing and general all-over touching at the end of each meal, which I loved and Brian tried to politely avoid. What can I say? That boy just doesn't appreciate a good rub down by strange dudes with long, curly hair. I, on the other hand love watching him squirm and always enjoy a good hug and smooch from gorgeous strangers.

We spent a lot of  time wandering in and out of shops and art galleries, gathering gifts for the children and admiring the unique architecture of this coastal town. We rode the trolley, enjoyed picnics in the park, and took afternoon naps. It was just so good to be together, to laugh and joke and love each other.

My favorite part of our trip was Big Sur. It has this crazy, dark energy that I've only ever felt in the sleepy fishing villages of Mexico. It is a place for visionaries and poets. It is a place of deep emotion and contradiction:

ancient redwoods. cacti. rivers. ferns. soft beaches. cliffs. hidden canyons. 

It is the perfect balance of dark and light, of beauty and brutality. It was here that I found healing.

sorrow and sweetness

The errand of angels is given to women;

And this is a gift that, as sisters, we claim;

To do whatsoever is gentle and human,

To cheer and to bless in humanity's name.

My dear friend and cherished midwife, Briana Blackwelder, died in a car accident on Saturday afternoon. My heart is broken as I reflect on a world without her generous, beautiful spirit. Her influence reaches almost every aspect of my day to day life; her blessed hands were the first to touch my children as we welcomed them into this world, she taught me how to breastfeed and how to make caramels, and as I sit in my living room this morning, I can see her laughing on my couch as we ate German pastries just a few short weeks ago.

Briana's passing has brought waves of grief and pain, but I've also felt  immeasurable joy and sweetness as I read and hear stories of how her life is woven into the most personal and sacred experiences of the lives of her friends, clients, and family. Her life and her life's work was dedicated to healing, supporting, and empowering women, and I truly believe that she will continue doing this beautiful work where she is now.

There will be a celebration service held in her honor on Wednesday at 7 pm at 951 East 100 South in Salt Lake City and on her birthday, May 6, in California.

The treasured photo is from Sela's birth, taken by my mom. Beautiful words from the hymn, As Sisters in Zion, written by Emily H. Woodmansee.

four

There is something about four that is a bit harder to welcome than three. Maybe it has to do with the fact that there isn't even a whisper of her small baby self left in her now tall, thin body. The dimples on the backs of her hands have vanished, as have the bathing suits with ruffles on the bum and afternoon naps. With four comes underwear with the days of the week printed on the back, dreams of finally turning FIVE and kindergarten next fall, worries that Graham will somehow figure out a way to be older than her someday ("He is pretty sneaky, mom." She tells me when I tuck her in almost every night), and questions about whether or not I'll still be her mom when she has babies of her own.

"Will you be really super old when you're a grandma?"

"Does everyone die someday? Even me? I'll be really old and you'll be really old, right?"

"Mom, why do some people have to sleep under benches?"

"Geez, I wish everything I touched turned into doughnuts!"

"Dad! Dad! Look how pretty I am!"

Oh, four. I sure hope you're gentle with this mama heart of mine. Your questions are already a little harder to answer, the days seem to be passing a little faster than before, and I'm worried that I'll blink and you'll have come and gone forever.

Can I tell you what I love most about my shiny new 4 year old? It also happens to be the thing that drives me absolutely crazy, too (that's always how it happens, right?).

There is now halfway with this girl. 

No neutral ground, ever.

It's either wrong or right.

Black or white.

She's either in, or she's out.

She's either happy, or she's not.

She either loves you, or she doesn't.

But if she loves you? Man, she loves you. She will paint pictures of your cats and mail them the very same day. She'll call you as soon as she wakes up to talk about your favorite color. She will learn to write your name and will always include you in her prayers. She will hug you tight and kiss you on the mouth as you walk out the door. And she will never ever hesitate to forgive you if you've failed her in some way.

She loves you all the way, in and around and through everything you are, no matter what, no questions asked.

She's a pretty remarkable, totally ordinary miracle. She's bossy, stubborn, and completely maddening at times, but she's changed my life and changed my heart, both for the better.  And you know what? Not a day passes that I don't think how lucky I am to know her, to love her.

Happy Birthday, Sela!

I love you to the moony moon moon.

how are you, friends? well, i hope. things around my house have been CRAZY for the past month, but i hope to be sharing more regularly soon. have a great day, okay? XOXO