The alarm buzzed twice and I hurriedly grabbed the phone. 6:00 am had come too quickly and the blackened sky confirmed that not even the sun was ready for the day. The house was still except for the percolating of the coffee maker and the soft, rhythmic breathing of my nephew upstairs.
The comforting aroma of a fresh brew began to waft through the living room enticing me to get moving. As objects before me came into focus I could hear my sister shuffling through the kitchen. This was THE morning. The one we had been waiting for, the one we came here for and, honestly, the one I was somewhat dreading.
Sis and I exchanged our good mornings in hushed voices so as not to wake the others. Then we poured our java and tip-toed to the front door. We headed out onto the large, wooden porch over looking the ocean. The moon was hidden and the sun was still asleep making it hard to tell where the ocean ended and sky began. As far as I could tell the sea and sky were one.
The air was refreshingly cool and the birds and insects had commenced their morning symphony. We sat slurping our coffee and listening to the hypnotic lull of the tide. It was a beautiful morning. It was perfect really.
We had all decided to caravan down to St. George island, a used-to-be-annual summer destination for my parents and one we had frequented as a family. Over the years they had rented several houses on the island and the one my dad chose for this summer event was one they had stayed in before. It's blue wooden siding had faded from years of sun exposure and the nails in the deck were rusty from relentless ocean spray and the taunting of tropical storms and hurricanes. "It's exactly the same," Dad stated matter-of-factly and with a trace of relief as he turned the key and led us into the main living room.
The mauve and perriwinkle floral couches would make their 1980's decorator proud. As would the oversized bamboo dining table with glass tabletop. It would be perfect for gregarious family meals, late night card games and a few Gallianos with my dad. I loved that everything was the same as when my mom had stayed here, except for a few updates of course. Now a DVD player graced the entertainment system and the house was equipped with wi-fi, ubiquitous and necessary for a successful rental today.
My dad showed us exactly where my niece had learned how to crawl. His finger pointed to a spot on the carpet just a few feet away from the sofa. It was hard to believe she was now 7 and an accomplished gymnist. In a way, this place was the start of her motor mania and so we all breathed in the air of nostalgia, memories and the reality that even though some things were exactly the same many things were so very different.
My mom loved the beach. She relished the languor that filled her days of sun-soaking, bathing in salty pools, consuming her latest novel and gazing at her family. She enjoyed moving slowly and I often thought that the turtle could be her sister soul, a fitting choice since the sea turtle is famous for laying eggs on this very stretch of beach. Furthermore, after a bit of research by my sis, we discovered that sea turtles are symbols of mother earth. Their shells represent heaven and their under shell the earth. These beings are nurturers, protectors, patient and steady. All of these descriptors scream Michele. She loved to be in her shell, comfortable, safe and familiar. That is also the world she created and perfected for her family.
So perhaps it is because this beach is the home to a symbol of the primal mother, fertility, wisdom and
strength. Perhaps it is because my mother loved spending time here. And perhaps, most importantly, it is because she specifically stated this was to be the place where we spread her ashes. This indeed seemed like a most fitting and perfect place to bring her one last time and forever.
So we swigged the last of the morning cuppas and I headed in to wake my dad. My dad was not spreading his ashes but he wanted to be with us when we set ours free. We gathered her cremains along with our courage and we shuffled out onto the boardwalk, down the rickety steps and out onto the beach.
I had a few things I wanted to say to mom in private and so I wandered down the beach a bit to have my chat. I won't recount what I said except for a quote I read to her. It is part of a letter written by a 19th century poet, Rainier Marie Rilke. A friend turned me on to his writing in college and these words have always rang with poignancy in my ears.
It is as follows:
Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart
and try to love the questions themselves...
Do not now seek the answers,
which cannot be given to you because you will not be able to live them.
And the point is, to live everything.
Live the questions now.
Perhaps you will then gradually,
without noticing it,
live along some distant day into the answer.
I vowed to live my questions as best as I could and I hoped that she was finally getting some of her answers.
I walked back over to my sister and dad and we slowly opened our urns. The sun was higher now and the sky was flooded with a gorgeous palette of pastel chalks. It was windy and the surf was frothy beneath our feet. The ashes were in a small bag which opened easily. We sprinkled them over the ebb and flow of the tide and the wind took them briskly in her arms and carried them further than we could imagine.
I was surprised by how thin the ashes appeared and how little of them there seemed to be. Another reminder of how the largeness of a life is not captured in the physical but in the spiritual.
We hugged, we cried, we stood strong and proud and then we began our day.
I love that part of her is in the ocean flowing into other waters and onto other lands. It's not symbolism or figurative language. She literally is Mother. My mother and now mother earth.
Me and Mom
Me and Mom.
Sunday, 21 August 2011
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
An August Labor of Love
From one mother to another, from a daughter to a mother, from grandson to grandmother. I have been wanting to capture this experience in my own way for some time now and my mother's recent birth was the impetus to do so. Thanks mom for the inspiration.
July 31st, 2009
And so our tale begins......
My good friend arrived back from her summer holiday and she looked stunning. Fresh little haircut, fun (little) dress, sexy not-so-little heels and a suitcase full of little stories. She looked radiant and light and....little. I realize my obsession with the littleness of things, but at the time it was understandable. Everything in my life at the moment was big, REALLY big and nothing felt like an exception, especially my belly.
We talked and dined over some homemade "Pasta Putanesca". I have to chuckle over our perfectly fitting menu choice. "Whore's style spaghetti!" It foreshadowed the BIGNESS that was ensuing by reminding us of the actions that started the whole BIGNESS in the first place.
We were off to a symphony concert and the whole time my belly sang. Only it wasn't good singing. It stammered, croaked, groaned, and groveled. It added an entire embarrassing, uncomfortable libretto where none was intended. All I could think about was how I knew that damned "Whore's Pasta" would come back and haunt me. Consider me haunted.
August 1, 2009
The next day I still felt funny. It was only now that I considered the pasta wasn't to blame and that perhaps......perhaps?......
I put a call into my marathon trainer (known in other circles as my doula). She suggested going about my day and just observing. It could be race day or it could indeed be "Whore's Pasta" revenge.
And so we went about our day....
Breakfast? Check.
Phone calls? Check.
30 minute swim? Half a check. I couldn't finish and I was mad. A wave of anger washed over me and the self-talk commenced. "Come on! Ten more minutes! What will you do in the race? Finish line. Finish line." But no cheer leading was going to help push this body across the chlorinated depths of the Anchorvale Community pool. I was done. Of course, if I had future vision I would have known that conserving all the energy possible was the most appropriate race strategy at this time. But no one has future vision. No one.
So onward we marched through the day's parade.
Foot reflexology? Check.
Starbucks coffee? Check. Decaf. Calm down already.
By late afternoon the pressure in my belly was more intense but still not to any alarming proportions.
We decided to take in a movie at the cinema and after a few types of the keys our tickets were purchased and we were on our way.
On our way. Yes we were. As we pulled out into traffic the sensations in my belly intensified further, but what to do? If it was the real deal it would continue with popcorn and Hollywood hotties just as easily. But once we arrived at the cinema it was clear that Hollywood would have to wait. No, I didn't have a baby in the Ang Mo Kio Hub cinemas.
We had purchased our tickets for the wrong date.
Call it fate, a subconscious intervention or a life ring thrown from the waters of the universe. Whatever it was it was a good thing. We had a real feeling now that this could be the day. Race day. The birth day.
We foraged through the grocery store for provisions anticipating what could be a long night ahead. My husband plucked fruits, grabbed snacks and filled the cart while I braced myself against confectionery displays and freezers of processed foods. These were full on surges..............right? I was pumped and confused and surprised that labor hadn't begun with the clarity and circumstance of a siren. More like a party horn that keeps getting stuck between toots.
My husband put another call into our trainer. "Go into the shower and see if things slow down a bit. It could still be a false alarm" she advised. But then she heard me through the phone starting the primal, guttural birthing sounds that begged confirmation. Yes. The toot has become a siren.
So I was running my first marathon and I had probably crossed the start line hours ago.
I stayed in the shower for a bit letting the warm water soothe my taught and tired belly. I remember with each wave of pressure I would feel a surge through out my body. I would breathe in with the wave and as it crested these powerful, energized moans would direct the energy out and forward. We had practiced all of this in training. The breathing, meditations, affirmations, birthing sounds to keep loose, but this was training up about ten notches. It was fantastic.
I birthed in our bedroom. The room basked in soft light and was filled with soothing Feng Shui music. My husband lit a combination of mint oil (for nausea), lavender oil (for relaxation), and one other whose name eludes me at the moment, but it's purpose is to hasten labor (we needed alot more of that one).
Integrating the surges was easier than I thought and I know it was because we all committed to a rigorous training schedule. I kneeled on the floor hugging the birthing ball, I kneeled over the bed, I hung on my husband, I was in the shower, in the tub, squatting, sitting on the birthing stool. We had strategies, for every mile we ran, for every hour that passed. Strategies.
I am most amazed at the animal woman I became. I felt possessed and overcome with primal instinct. As labor progressed, my surges naturally intensified. With each rush of energy my hair would swing wildly, my eyes rolled back into my head and all sorts of tigress groans and growls were released. I had become someone else during those surges and I liked her.
Then it was over and I was back, asking for water, smiling, laughing....like the tigress was never there....only to be brought back again a few minutes later.
My body was amazing me.
My husband and our doula ran a marathon too. They never stopped rubbing my back, putting pressure where I needed it, giving me support, offering me strategies when I was too focused to remember. They listened patiently and indulged my diva demands when coffee was prohibited due to it's nauseating aroma and lyrics were verboten due to their distracting nature.
We all had been running for hours. For sure we had passed the halfway mark and the doctor had come to confirm our progress.
3 cm..........what the????
Not to worry. I started this race knowing that I didn't care about my time. Crossing the finish line is all that mattered. So our feet hit the pavement....again.
August 2, 2009
The doctor had some racing strategies of his own. He broke the waters which were still intact, hoping to hasten our pace. The warm liquid came out less forcefullly then I had imagined. Not a gush but a gentle release.
It was noon the next day. I know this now but I didn't at the time. I had no sense of time. The world had stopped except for the little room on Seletar Terrace. I was progressing but still at a slow jog. Yep. I am a distance runner......never been a sprinter.
The doctor suggested that my bladder was full and blocking passage for the baby. I didn't feel like I had to urinate...........until he said that. Now it was all I could think about....how bad I had to pee. The doctor inserted a catheter and he manually stretched my cervix some more. He said to try pushing but I couldn't. We hadn't trained to push. We practiced "breathing the baby down." I felt surprised and unprepared. The verbage had me mentally stuck at mile 20.
Team White swooped in with the support. My husband held me, rubbed me, let me hang from his neck and as I squatted through the surges he lovingly offered his hands for me to squeeze into rubble.
Finally the tsunami of the surges began. I didn't know what to do with the energy. It would rise up from my pelvis with such strength and intensity I felt I was relinquishing all control. I think that was the point. There was no containment. I was just there for the ride. The waves would explode out of me from all directions. Squatting seemed to slow down the waves and lessen their intensity so I kneeled over the birthing ball or hung my arms around my husband's neck to keep the surges strong.
The baby's head was still not crowning. I couldn't believe it. The force of those surges would have sent a baby clear across the room for sure. The doula thought the baby was turned inefficiently so we labored in different positions, assisting him in turning. The doctor aided by pushing hard on my belly, manually moving the baby down. Only 2 more cm to go. Mile 24 was under foot.
The surges were stronger yet so I began standing. The baby's head would poke out and then get sucked back into the birth canal like he couldn't decide if he wanted to come out or not. Or maybe it was my body that couldn't let him go. Whichever it was, the indecision was beginning to frustrate me. We were so close. Finally a huge surge began from the depths of me, it felt like something heavy being pushed up through my bottom, my core. There was so much energy I thought my body was splitting into pieces, many glorious pieces. I looked down ready to see his head and shoulders hanging between me, but no.....it was only the head. There he was. Just a head hanging between my legs. It sounds so comical now.
At the same time the surge was bursting forth I heard an eruption of another kind. A deep, rumbling was rolling in from outside and I knew at once it was our friend's Harley. He had come to deliver dinner and I was wondering which beast would win the roaring war. Me or that hog.
I was nervous about the next surge as I heard that the shoulders were the most difficult to pass through.
As the energy began to well up there was nothing to do but ride the wave. This was it. The final mile.
I was splitting in two. Yes. I was sure that two halves of me would cross that finish line. But I didn't break. I became whole.
He was here and we named him August.
It was amazing to me how seconds after the most powerful waves surged through the room, now there was nothing but serene waters. I felt fantastic.....like I could run a marathon.
In 21 hours the three of us had crossed the finish line. Only this finish line was the start of a much longer journey.
August (n) is the eighth month of the Gregorian calendar and it means (adj) inspiring reverence or admiration; of supreme dignity or grandeur; majestic. (Syn) Magnificent, resplendent, impressive, honorable, monumental, venerable and brilliant.
That is what this birth was to me.
It was anything but proverbial. It was august and it was ours.
Happy Birthday August Kristopher White
July 31st, 2009
And so our tale begins......
My good friend arrived back from her summer holiday and she looked stunning. Fresh little haircut, fun (little) dress, sexy not-so-little heels and a suitcase full of little stories. She looked radiant and light and....little. I realize my obsession with the littleness of things, but at the time it was understandable. Everything in my life at the moment was big, REALLY big and nothing felt like an exception, especially my belly.
We talked and dined over some homemade "Pasta Putanesca". I have to chuckle over our perfectly fitting menu choice. "Whore's style spaghetti!" It foreshadowed the BIGNESS that was ensuing by reminding us of the actions that started the whole BIGNESS in the first place.
We were off to a symphony concert and the whole time my belly sang. Only it wasn't good singing. It stammered, croaked, groaned, and groveled. It added an entire embarrassing, uncomfortable libretto where none was intended. All I could think about was how I knew that damned "Whore's Pasta" would come back and haunt me. Consider me haunted.
August 1, 2009
The next day I still felt funny. It was only now that I considered the pasta wasn't to blame and that perhaps......perhaps?......
I put a call into my marathon trainer (known in other circles as my doula). She suggested going about my day and just observing. It could be race day or it could indeed be "Whore's Pasta" revenge.
And so we went about our day....
Breakfast? Check.
Phone calls? Check.
30 minute swim? Half a check. I couldn't finish and I was mad. A wave of anger washed over me and the self-talk commenced. "Come on! Ten more minutes! What will you do in the race? Finish line. Finish line." But no cheer leading was going to help push this body across the chlorinated depths of the Anchorvale Community pool. I was done. Of course, if I had future vision I would have known that conserving all the energy possible was the most appropriate race strategy at this time. But no one has future vision. No one.
So onward we marched through the day's parade.
Foot reflexology? Check.
Starbucks coffee? Check. Decaf. Calm down already.
By late afternoon the pressure in my belly was more intense but still not to any alarming proportions.
We decided to take in a movie at the cinema and after a few types of the keys our tickets were purchased and we were on our way.
On our way. Yes we were. As we pulled out into traffic the sensations in my belly intensified further, but what to do? If it was the real deal it would continue with popcorn and Hollywood hotties just as easily. But once we arrived at the cinema it was clear that Hollywood would have to wait. No, I didn't have a baby in the Ang Mo Kio Hub cinemas.
We had purchased our tickets for the wrong date.
Call it fate, a subconscious intervention or a life ring thrown from the waters of the universe. Whatever it was it was a good thing. We had a real feeling now that this could be the day. Race day. The birth day.
We foraged through the grocery store for provisions anticipating what could be a long night ahead. My husband plucked fruits, grabbed snacks and filled the cart while I braced myself against confectionery displays and freezers of processed foods. These were full on surges..............right? I was pumped and confused and surprised that labor hadn't begun with the clarity and circumstance of a siren. More like a party horn that keeps getting stuck between toots.
My husband put another call into our trainer. "Go into the shower and see if things slow down a bit. It could still be a false alarm" she advised. But then she heard me through the phone starting the primal, guttural birthing sounds that begged confirmation. Yes. The toot has become a siren.
So I was running my first marathon and I had probably crossed the start line hours ago.
I stayed in the shower for a bit letting the warm water soothe my taught and tired belly. I remember with each wave of pressure I would feel a surge through out my body. I would breathe in with the wave and as it crested these powerful, energized moans would direct the energy out and forward. We had practiced all of this in training. The breathing, meditations, affirmations, birthing sounds to keep loose, but this was training up about ten notches. It was fantastic.
I birthed in our bedroom. The room basked in soft light and was filled with soothing Feng Shui music. My husband lit a combination of mint oil (for nausea), lavender oil (for relaxation), and one other whose name eludes me at the moment, but it's purpose is to hasten labor (we needed alot more of that one).
Integrating the surges was easier than I thought and I know it was because we all committed to a rigorous training schedule. I kneeled on the floor hugging the birthing ball, I kneeled over the bed, I hung on my husband, I was in the shower, in the tub, squatting, sitting on the birthing stool. We had strategies, for every mile we ran, for every hour that passed. Strategies.
I am most amazed at the animal woman I became. I felt possessed and overcome with primal instinct. As labor progressed, my surges naturally intensified. With each rush of energy my hair would swing wildly, my eyes rolled back into my head and all sorts of tigress groans and growls were released. I had become someone else during those surges and I liked her.
Then it was over and I was back, asking for water, smiling, laughing....like the tigress was never there....only to be brought back again a few minutes later.
My body was amazing me.
My husband and our doula ran a marathon too. They never stopped rubbing my back, putting pressure where I needed it, giving me support, offering me strategies when I was too focused to remember. They listened patiently and indulged my diva demands when coffee was prohibited due to it's nauseating aroma and lyrics were verboten due to their distracting nature.
We all had been running for hours. For sure we had passed the halfway mark and the doctor had come to confirm our progress.
3 cm..........what the????
Not to worry. I started this race knowing that I didn't care about my time. Crossing the finish line is all that mattered. So our feet hit the pavement....again.
August 2, 2009
The doctor had some racing strategies of his own. He broke the waters which were still intact, hoping to hasten our pace. The warm liquid came out less forcefullly then I had imagined. Not a gush but a gentle release.
It was noon the next day. I know this now but I didn't at the time. I had no sense of time. The world had stopped except for the little room on Seletar Terrace. I was progressing but still at a slow jog. Yep. I am a distance runner......never been a sprinter.
The doctor suggested that my bladder was full and blocking passage for the baby. I didn't feel like I had to urinate...........until he said that. Now it was all I could think about....how bad I had to pee. The doctor inserted a catheter and he manually stretched my cervix some more. He said to try pushing but I couldn't. We hadn't trained to push. We practiced "breathing the baby down." I felt surprised and unprepared. The verbage had me mentally stuck at mile 20.
Team White swooped in with the support. My husband held me, rubbed me, let me hang from his neck and as I squatted through the surges he lovingly offered his hands for me to squeeze into rubble.
Finally the tsunami of the surges began. I didn't know what to do with the energy. It would rise up from my pelvis with such strength and intensity I felt I was relinquishing all control. I think that was the point. There was no containment. I was just there for the ride. The waves would explode out of me from all directions. Squatting seemed to slow down the waves and lessen their intensity so I kneeled over the birthing ball or hung my arms around my husband's neck to keep the surges strong.
The baby's head was still not crowning. I couldn't believe it. The force of those surges would have sent a baby clear across the room for sure. The doula thought the baby was turned inefficiently so we labored in different positions, assisting him in turning. The doctor aided by pushing hard on my belly, manually moving the baby down. Only 2 more cm to go. Mile 24 was under foot.
The surges were stronger yet so I began standing. The baby's head would poke out and then get sucked back into the birth canal like he couldn't decide if he wanted to come out or not. Or maybe it was my body that couldn't let him go. Whichever it was, the indecision was beginning to frustrate me. We were so close. Finally a huge surge began from the depths of me, it felt like something heavy being pushed up through my bottom, my core. There was so much energy I thought my body was splitting into pieces, many glorious pieces. I looked down ready to see his head and shoulders hanging between me, but no.....it was only the head. There he was. Just a head hanging between my legs. It sounds so comical now.
At the same time the surge was bursting forth I heard an eruption of another kind. A deep, rumbling was rolling in from outside and I knew at once it was our friend's Harley. He had come to deliver dinner and I was wondering which beast would win the roaring war. Me or that hog.
I was nervous about the next surge as I heard that the shoulders were the most difficult to pass through.
As the energy began to well up there was nothing to do but ride the wave. This was it. The final mile.
I was splitting in two. Yes. I was sure that two halves of me would cross that finish line. But I didn't break. I became whole.
He was here and we named him August.
It was amazing to me how seconds after the most powerful waves surged through the room, now there was nothing but serene waters. I felt fantastic.....like I could run a marathon.
In 21 hours the three of us had crossed the finish line. Only this finish line was the start of a much longer journey.
August (n) is the eighth month of the Gregorian calendar and it means (adj) inspiring reverence or admiration; of supreme dignity or grandeur; majestic. (Syn) Magnificent, resplendent, impressive, honorable, monumental, venerable and brilliant.
That is what this birth was to me.
It was anything but proverbial. It was august and it was ours.
Happy Birthday August Kristopher White
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