On Our 10th Anniversary

I am a completely different person than I was 10 years ago. 

My 20s have been for me, as they are for most people, an extremely transformative time of life.

 A time when I've decided what type of life I'd like to lead, 

what I want to do, 

who I want to be.

 Looking back it seems to be a bit of reckless folly to choose a life partner 

before you are able to compare notes on this type of highly relevant information. 

But that's what we did, and I've never regretted it for a second. 

I want him to know that I chose him then, 

I choose him now, 

and I'll choose him forever. 

Not because things are always perfect, or we always agree, 

but because he is the rarest type of soul. 

So very true and honest. 

Childlike in the Peter Pan sort of way where he really believes that big things can happen. 

He hurts for things that are going on in the world. 

He fully believes in the goodness of me, and I spend every day trying to be the person he thinks I already am.

We have the type of relationship where we tend to roll our eyes at ideas like the existence of "soulmates." 

But here's my secret. 

I can't imagine that there is anyone else in this world who could have stood in that man's place. 

In my mind, our silly, haphazard, improbable relationship is an epic romance. 

And I want the whole world to know it.

Another, Older, Thought

This was just a thought jotted down on Facebook when

Imme was a month old, but I've come back to it in my mind several times since

so I want to preserve it here.

Sometimes I feel so tired and a bit frustrated, 

and there's nothing to do but

 pick her up 

and breathe her in 

and think ' I am so lucky to have you...'

Thought for the Little One

Six months ago today I first laid my eyes

upon Imogen Pearl.

Time is like a funhouse mirror:

shifty and wonderful and funny and cruel.

Love Letter

You are my home.

Did you know that?

At the end of it all:

After all the planning,

and the loving 

and the life

there'll just be us-

your spotted, too-light hand over mine

and the warmth of two people who've

spent their whole lives combining,

entangling,

and have found in each other

a place to rest.

To My Forever Friend Who Sings My Heart's Song

I don't know

why

it's been so hard for me

to give you all of

myself.

But I love you as much now

as I did when we were girls

and we played for hours and days

because we could think of nothing we'd 

rather be doing.

These are the moments:

listening to Rendezvous

on endless repeat while

semi-napping

a lazy summer day away,

or watching over and over

the braid of Herbal Essences-scented hair:

Dark then light.

Dark then light.

Or breezing our way through an entire afternoon

in the barn loft.

Opening a trunk to find little toys and play-dough

and somehow our first true inkling

that childhood was

a thing in our past.

These are the times

when I learned how to be.

And you are there.

Always you -

so very much a part of me.

Even if you cannot write a song for me,

I'll write this song for us.

Fly.

Fly into the world.

This time, when you return,

you'll find my heart open.

And inside you'll know that you are home.

On Parenthood

How is it possible

that we live with our

Hearts

living, breathing, walking

outside our bodies?

And why do so many people

volunteer 

to do it?

Don't worry.

Nothing terrible has happened.

I just need to stop watching Intervention.

Gather 'Round

While I tell you the story

of the greatest day

of my life.

{Yes, this is a story about birth.  

No, you won't see anything you'll regret.

(most likely)}

She was late.

According to my schedule anyway.

Mostly I was hot.  And sick of people asking 

"Are you still pregnant?"

As I look down at my giant bulbous belly

and think obscenities at them that I'd never say out loud

but

that I hoped would somehow worm into their subconscious telepathically.

Every night: contractions.
Every night: no baby.

I am beyond ready.

Thus is was on the evening of June 7th,

41 weeks, 6 days

11:30 pm.

Josh and I are watching Battlestar Gallactica.

Season 2, Episode 9.

Flight of the Pheonix.

{Not the show's best story arc}

I am bouncing on a giant ball which is supposed to encourage labor.

I had been bouncing on said ball for three weeks, however, so I can't recommend it as the most effective method of induction.

This is normally the point in the evening where I would give up and go to bed.

But on this night I think, maybe we can watch one more episode.

Maybe we can keep the contractions going a little longer.

I lose interest in the show.

I pace.

I sing to her.

I know this rose will open.

I know this fear will fall away.

I know this soul will unfurl her wings!

I know this rose will open.

I cry for the wanting of her.  For the wanting of labor.

{and very likely for the massive amounts of hormones flooding my system}

Because

even though I don't yet know it

this is my birthing night.

I chatter at Josh excitedly.

I vacuum the floors.

I pace past the clock.

It's 2:30 am!

They've only lasted this late once before.

Could it be tonight?  I call my doula and my midwife.

I tell them not to come yet, but I think it might be for real this time.

The excitement!

I put on makeup and put a flower in my hair.

A ceremony that tickles Josh, but feels somehow ancient to me.

Deep.

I am ready.

4:00 am.

I feel it.  Just the tiniest bit of panic.

I am in this.  I can't get out.  It's going to happen.  It is happening.  I have no choice.

I ask Josh to call in the supports.

I lay down in my bed.  This intensifies the sensation of the contractions. But I stay and listen to my birthing CDs, familiar from months of preparation.  I lay there until I've taught my muscles to surrender.

Surrender.

That CD ends.

I emerge from my coverlet cocoon a new person.

A birthing butterfly.

I laugh and play with my love.

I pace and sing and rub my belly.

I smile with each contraction.

Tonight!

We meet our baby tonight!

My lovely doula Celeste arrives.

We all chat and have coffee.

She seems strong and beautiful to me.

I am buoyed by her spirit.

I tell her I'm prepared to hear Alice {the midwife} say

We're just getting started.

I tell her I would do this all over again tomorrow.

It's kind of fun, I say.

She laughs sideways.

Alice arrives.

My body is working perfectly.

The baby is doing beautifully.

I was made for this.

This ritual older than humanity itself.

I am ageless and timeless.

Alice investigates.

We're not just getting started.

We're almost finished.

Shock.

I laugh out loud.

Josh and Celeste come to see what's going on.

They laugh at the news.

Joy!

They rush to get the birth pool ready.

{I very much would like to ease this baby's transition into the world by birthing her into warm water.}

I lean into my fabulous support.

My sweet Husband.

Celeste, doula extraordenaire.

My own careful preparation.

The tub is ready.

Time to get serious and have a baby.

 OK, now it's time to get serious.

So there

in the candlelight

surrounded by my husband

my sweet Della Bella

{who we've just gotten out of bed to join us}

my women:

Sarah, Alice and Celeste

and the strength and spirit and well wishes of many others

I begin the

beautifully,

ecstatically,

intense work of bringing a human being

a brand new soul

out of my body and into the world.

I am in another space.

I am woman.

I am animal.

 I am goddess.

And then

from the corner of the room

I hear this perfectly self-assured little voice say:

This is strange.

And it is.

My wise little one.

It is somehow both the most

and least

strange part of existence.

And I laugh.

And Imogen Pearl Mize

is born into this world.

I swim her up through the water

catching my first glimpse of her dark hair

and rosebud lips.

Out of my womb and into my arms.

She is mine.

Bliss!

Indescribable, incalculable, insatiable
Bliss.

Welcome to the world, little one.

Welcome to our family.

I did it.

Not only that.

I did it with grace

 and joy

and gratitude for every moment.

This day belongs to me

and I am forever changed.

Imogen Pearl Mize

June 8th, 2011

6:48 am

8 lbs, 12 oz

21 inches long.

Morning Has Broken...

{To write the usual re-entry into the blog post or jump right in with substance...  

I'd hate to break my tradition.}

I was looking back over all of my posts expecting to find brief periods of semi-regular posting spaced between huge chunks of neglect.  What I found was actually more like
a year on, a year (or two) off. 

It's such a trite idea in my mind, 

this concept of cycling thorough periods of what I call 

surface living and 

thoughtful living.  

It's a song I've sung a hundred times before.  

During the surface periods, it's not as though I'm just really busy.  It's more like a fog that has settled down around me.  I live life, happily most of the time, but the idea of digging into thoughts or writing or introspection just seems like work. 

My job is big enough already.  

Then 

over a period of just a couple of days

the curtain is drawn, and the pool is deep and cool and ever so inviting.

In the past I've considered the surface time to be bad, and the thoughtful time to be good.  Much quiet internal work has been happening since my last rotation, though, and I'm beginning to wonder is these value judgements are unnecessary.  

I am happier when in this lucid place,
but I don't think I would be happier if I tried to force it when it wasn't natural.  

I do, after all, have a blog I love reading over.  That represents a great deal of my life and growth over these past few supremely transformative years.  

I have a body of poetry that makes me proud.  

Even in a clouded state I continue to live my values in many ways.

Even as I type this I'm discrediting it in my mind.  Whenever someone asks me what my life goals are at the top of the list is to be more present in my life.  

To live purposefully.  

And of course there's always the nagging wonder if the fog is something that I should be medicating away.
It's yet another question without an answer, I suppose.

  I'm here, now.  And grateful for this time.