Wild winds whip through me like ice.
But all I feel is the beating of two hearts in one body.
And I wonder what your face looks like. Will you be blue-eyed like your brother? Will your hair curl into unruly matts of dreaded blonde like his?
I feel slightly nauseous at the memory of those very early months with babe in arms. And yet… and yet…
“You are border-line anemic,” says my midwife softly. I feel a weight lifted. I can stop feeling so lazy. Fixable.
I feel so quiet. So silent. So introspective. No words have tumbled from my mouth in months. The incessant chattering and confusion of my mind has subsided and now I see the answer to all my questions.
My confusion in who I am. What I am here to do. What I need to say. How to take care of myself. How to express my love when I can barely keep my eyes open. How to find my footing in this bitterly cold New Zealand winter.
All these questions.
I can have the tendency to overcomplicate. I think things need to be grand and spectacular in order to be sacred. But oh. The opposite. The opposite is True.
White space. Soft breath. In… out… in… out…
When did I stop stepping into presence? When did I forget?
I feel a shift in my stomach and the nausea washes over me. I rush to the bathroom, answering my three year olds questions along the way, trying to cover my actions and not let him see his mother doubled over.
I step out of the bathroom just in time as words spill out of his mouth like water from Niagara Falls. “But Mama, why does Fireman Sam have a helmet? Why?”
And here on this chilly beach I sit. I speak to you. Softly. Who are you? Are you a girl? Are you a boy? Are you wild and untethered? Or are you soft with depths like the ocean?
All I know, my child, is to keep things simple. Keep the space open and wide. Clean and clear. Fresh and crisp.
Breathe deep, my child. I can teach you nothing more sacred than that.