Birth to Birth

Anna Nicole is dead. It's raining. River naps with giraffe, dangly leopard, and piglet. Grandmother's hands still hold me across these few days.

I lay on a massage table, two women stand on each side of me, their hands placed together over my heart. I am awake, I am fine, I have no desire to travel. Old hands move clockwise to each lower center; seconds later the other hands follow. Like this, in spiral fashion, they open the energetic body. At my forehead they pause, hands rest, they wait. With the chosen oil wafting over me, they extend one arm each and sweep gently across my body, angel wings clearing, one center at a time. The last thought I have: I'll just rest while they do that...

Suddenly, dolls. Faces of dolls line the walls and I have the awareness, I am a child. Walking through this room, I know I have been here before. It's cold. As soon as I feel the chill, I see a baby alone on a table. Surprised, I want to tell someone, hey, there's a baby! Chilled, I begin to shake, and from the inside I know: I am this baby. Tears flood my eyes. I am four pounds and three months early, and all I can do is shake. I ask one of the women, "Is there a blanket, I'm really cold."

Before she returns I tremble, waves and waves, and hear crying. It's not me, it's River, moments after they pull her from my gaping womb. Stretcher rolls down the hall, the ceiling ripples like waves at sea. I can't stop trembling. While nurses wrap me in blankets, saying, "It's the anesthesia, some women react," another nurse holds my newborn above me but I can't hold her.

Grandmother says, "Here, I found a blanket, and I brought you your shawl, I thought you'd want it." Tears slip into my ears and I am seeing River's eyes for the very first time. On my chest now, small lizard, fire in the center of her eyes, she extends an arm and pulls herself up. Covering the measure of lifetimes, she lifts new limbs with great intention, eyes on mama. Straight to my breast, milk, and our life on land begins.

Eyes flutter and in a blurry squint I see grandmother's eyes looking down on me. In my heart, in that instant, she is my grandmother. I am baby, woman, mother, daughter, granddaughter. Tears flood a desert basin inside and some deep chasm begins to fill with water. Restoration.

The instructor walks over and directs the women in sequence, working with hands in reverse, stitching up, putting back together, blessing broken open places with new thread. In unison they move. Two women I don't really know form themselves into a vessel for this medicine. Silent at my feet, they wait for my return.

And I do return. I cannot stop the tears when I sit up and open my eyes, but I am not crying. This is leftover from my birth...and from giving birth, one story, only becoming clearly connected for me now.

Thirty minutes later I am on the road. Not a sound in the car. I cannot take in anything extra, just the particular light over the hills at dusk. Just the movement from one place to another. Between one birth and another, just the longing for home.