We turned 30 weeks yesterday. The same day we closed on the land that will eventually cradle our new home.
And so I trekked out to our land and sat on a boulder among the dry arroyo. And the breeze carried respite and hope and the sweet smell of the changing seasons. (It also carried an awful smell of something your brother made in his pants, but that’s another story). And I envisioned you, exploring these ancient desert lands with me. I saw you picking up rocks and picking bits of the Brittlebush and Mormon Tea plant. I saw us wandering down the road to the house that sells fresh eggs, passing the horses, and then baking up some muffins in our new kitchen. You are a part of all of this and a part of all of us. And so, I took these photos to remember the beauty of this day. Photos to act as a reminder that birth happens every single day in so many ways. And we birth ourselves, catch ourselves in our own weathered hands, and lift our damp heads to the sky and sing our very first praises.
30 weeks makes me lose my breath for a moment; how the last few moons will appear so quickly before me. How the mystical seasons of death and rebirth and celebration are cushioning your arrival here. How this womb will have done its work, for the final time, as it contracts your body into this world of gravity and falling stars. The journey of fertility and birthing has been the most introspective and incredible time of my life. To say goodbye to it is incomprehensible and yet I know and trust it will unfold perfectly. I trust the divine timing. And I feel deep within that my next “fertility and birth” journey – thought the end result won’t be a baby – will be mysterious and perfect. Life holds so much richness in the depths of fertile ground.
You are my own full moon now, the roundest, ripest piece of fruit. And still you will grow and expand me. Your movements occur throughout the night to the point where I awaken thinking you are bustin’ a move right out of my womb. And some anxiety builds in me and my dreams reflect this and I don’t sleep so well those first few hours of your dance party. But finally you give in to first glimmers of morning sunlight and you rest. And then, so do I.
All your movement means you constantly switch positions: breech to vertex, posterior to anterior, transverse, and everything in between. And I simply laugh, remembering how my babies find their own way.
This body of mine has an extra 30 lbs. upon its frame and I notice it in the sway of my hips and the rub of my thighs. I feel like Gaia, earth mother, keeper of history and herstory and secrets and rituals. I feel my feet leave an audible pound upon the earth and that is a powerful lesson in being Heard. And I know this body builds its home around you in the way it needs to; layers of skin and muscle and almighty fat to cushion you; an increase in blood volume and ever-increasing expansion of my uterus. I find comfort in the curves because I know that, when you are born, you will find comfort in them too. This is the way of the mama; a soft place to rest, a pillow where there is none, skin warmed by another’s skin. I take up Space and am happy to hold this legacy for all women.
Our fourth child. Four kids. A hand for each of your mama and daddy’s hands to hold. And how bad can life ever really get when you know that your hands will never be void of the tender grip of another’s?
Cheers to 30!
I love you to bits.