Author: mlfc15

How silly I am

I thought I was being so brave

So strong

I thought I was giving something

Maybe I did

Maybe I was

But then

In all my reaching and emptying

I have only received

I felt so big 

But now

Like nothing

Not even a grain of sand

Utterly impoverished 

I stand in awe

Of what you have given me

I taste the salt of home again

I don’t know anything 

Heart swells and empties

Flows and ebbs

I tremble

And fade Westward

I am 

The (im)possible

The (im)probable

The sky

The earth

A waterfall

A rabbit hole

I am the majesty of wild horses

The breathtaking glory of dusk

I am love incarnate

I am tenderness

Mother

I am 

A whisper

Barely heard

Impossible not to follow

I am

Desire embodied

Overflowing satiation 

Bliss spilling forth

Joy running strong 

Rain’s calming thrum

The ocean

A breaking wave

I am

Gravity 

An eagle

A child

A lover 

Of God

Dark.

It’s so dark down here.

I am held, cradled by it.

It’s warm.

Feels like home.

I stretch, yawn, rise,

What’s down here?

Lights sway softly in the distance,

Gently expanding outward.

I feel small.

My eyes grow in the light

I begin to see what I could not see

Before I descended into mystery

My soul beholds the grandeur of Truth

Takes in its form

Drinks in its light

Grows strong in branches of unknowing

Unquenchable delight seizes me

All I ever desired, all that ever I needed

Already here

Awaiting my Fiat

Just waiting

For me

To look

To listen

To sing

This part of me

This part that is me

Needs this

One thing

Mystery 

How? How can this be?

Over long years an assumption grew

I’m just different

Not like anyone else

Alone

Not in a sad way, just a “This is reality” way

The way in which I relate to almost every part of life

Left everyone looking at me cockeyed

“Too deep, not enough, too much, too other”

Is the message I received

But you see

I love being me

So I was fine

I didn’t know

Then one day you show up

Like magic, like an earthquake these things shattered

An awakening – I know you!

Your essence, your spirit, your smile, your eyes, your voice

And yet

You are a complete mystery to me

And more –

As time passed, I showed up, as I do

But instead of drawing away

You accepted me

You understand 

Even asked for more

More of the very part of me everyone else didn’t want

Unbidden you speak, sing

I reel

How? How?

Do I feel, see, touch, hear something

So intimately familiar it feels like me

Yet so inscrutably other I bow in respect 

It’s like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear these words

To laugh these laughs

To marvel at that face and the world within

Tears of gratitude wash over, through me

I am not the same 

How could I be?

I found my own heart in another

“I have come that they might have life, and have it to the full.” – Jesus

One of my favorite things I’ve learned from my Catholic faith is that everything in the natural world is inherently good and that all Satan (and evil people) can do is scribble on it. They can’t ruin it. Given that love is the great cleanser it doesn’t matter how much something is scribbled on; it can be restored to its original grandeur.

Case in point today: the concept of indulgence. It has a bad rap in a lot of circles and this article is my own little magic eraser.

Here’s what I perceive indulgence to mean in many modern circles: extra, luxury, unnecessary, a sign of laziness or even conceitedness. Now, my take.

Think for a moment of what you do when you indulge in something. You set aside time for it, perhaps forsaking work or other things that could be done during that time. Because you know you’re indulging you really allow yourself to feel the pleasure of the experience, to drop deeply into it, to let it encompass you. You allow yourself to receive something from the experience (which implies a vulnerability and inherent appreciation of what the activity has to offer, what goodness it contains).

How much would you love to indulge in quality time with someone you love? With time spent enjoying nature, a movie you love, a craft that fulfills you, an awesome book, traveling to a new place, or perhaps just spending way too long in the bathtub with a glass or two of wine? Can you see how each of these things honors 3 things – the beauty and goodness of the object (nature, literature, creation, warm water, culture, architecture), your own humanity and need to absorb the goodness of life, as well as the creators of those things? True indulgence is extremely life giving and quite necessary for human beings who are far far more complex than the machines we tend to model ourselves after.

Here’s a little trick too – we can reframe many things and make them an indulgent experience. Tired of the bedtime/nap time routine with your kids? Recall that this is one of a finite number of times you will have this opportunity, recall your true values and remember that you actually WANT this time with your kids. Time in traffic can be used to indulge in podcasts, yummy music or conversations. It certainly takes some internal strength and desire to make these reframes, but at the end of our lives that is what will make them either full of delight or full of frustration – choice and desire.

There is an element of indulgence that is embodied gratitude. Isn’t that what good things are for? To be enjoyed? God made us for joy, for heaven, for fulfillment, and for nothing else. Allowing the goodness of experiences to seep into the very pores of your being is allowing Him to love you, is to allow the gift to be received.

So this is my invitation to you – indulge in something (as many somethings as you want) everyday for a week, and notice the ways this practice changes how you view your life, yourself, God, and the nature of reality. 

Indulge in half and half with coffee (a match made in heaven), a long walk/run in a beautiful place, time spent in the backyard enjoying your favorite parts of it, lovemaking, the feeling of satisfaction after finishing a task (literally pat yourself on the back if you’re brave enough), your favorite song, a nap (look at you you rebel), extra baby snuggles, a date (real, phone, FaceTime) with a friend you love spending time with, your favorite craft… you get the idea. And then come back and tell me about it! 

I recently had to get over the fact that I’m a white female. A little odd, I know. 

You see, I have spent years madly in love with all the things that make other ethnicities (especially other women) so uniquely beautiful and powerful.

The deepest dark of African skin color, wide faces and noses, round hips, hair that goes up instead of down, and this mystery and majesty that seems to embody Mother Earth; middle eastern and various European looks with such a varieties of skin color, lip shape, hair of more kinds than I knew existed, the most striking and unique kinds of beauty I have ever seen (The Atlas of Beauty, linked below, definitely opened my eyes to this even more than before, though I have always found the ethnic variety of the world utterly fascinating). Because I don’t have any idea how my love affair with cultural diversity would be received, I secretly admire it whenever I encounter it and hold in my bubbling joy when I find myself in parts of town that contain something more than white people.

And beyond the physical, the fact that each look represents a culture, a language, the idea of a real family heritage – rituals, foods, habits, skills, grit and strength passed down through the generations – this captivates my soul. These kind of things make me tremble at their wonder and greatness.

And then there’s me. The average white American female. There are no “strong bonds”, nor strong flavors of substance in this modern day melting pot. A little bit of everything is also a lot of nothing. Given my propensity for intensity this did not sit well. My brain’s take away of average white American women isn’t terribly complimentary – boring, bossy, bony, tired, overworked, nothing very cultured or interesting here. 

Oh, to speak Spanish every day! Seems like drinking melted chocolate every time someone speaks. Or French – like walking on clouds through a flower garden. If I lived in Europe I could do both in the same day. Oh, to have the dark hair and exotic skin color of Middle Eastern and Indian women that matched my associations with the belly dance that I so desperately want to perform! How do I reconcile who I am and what I desire on the inside with what presents on the outside?

I had a wonderfully enlightening conversation with a DNRS friend who recommended that I go through each aspect of myself (physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, etc) and take note of what I bring to the table as a white American woman instead of what I take. And what do I share with the ethnicities I so admire? Whoa. That puts this discussion in a whole notha universe! 

I share a body type that I see more often in African women – shorter, smaller chested, round hips and thighs. I share a fluidity of movement and confident femininity with the middle eastern women whose dance I take part in. I have the intuition of a Native American or Mexican woman. The emotional flair and bread baking skills of my Italian ancestors. The Christianity of my European ancestors. 

And yet there are more things I bring that are uniquely mine. 

I have a vision and perception of spiritual reality that is incredibly deep and cutting, and ability to it put that into words that many people connect to deeply.

I can take in one small experience and find all of life, or one mind blowing and life changing epiphany in it. 

An ability to appreciate and reflect the good in everyone and everything. Because of this I tend to be good at helping people feel good about themselves in a very authentic way.

I hear people’s hearts when they speak – I see who people truly are beneath and behind the masks they’ve constructed in ways that can change how they understand themselves if we discuss it. 

I can prepare healthy food in ways that makes people addicted to it (woot woot!). 

Thanks to my friend I now see that I can gather all these things, as well as every other aspect of myself, and bring them TO the label “white American woman”. AND I can still admire and learn from all of the various women of all the ethnicities, cultures, and languages of the world, respect our differences and dance together in our shared human experience. Sounds like a win-win to me!

https://theatlasofbeauty.com/#=

I’ve learned something recently. Something I think a lot of women want to know. 

I’ve learned how to harness the authentic power and purpose of sexuality.

Things are never what they seem when it comes to humans. We are this marvelous intertwining of spirit and flesh. The thing is, our brains are designed to keep us alive (as individuals and as a species), and not for much else. They’re not inherently honed in the skill of seeing past the physical plane. We have to apply ourselves if we wish to see beyond the illusion of the physical to what lies beyond. Let me give you a different example that’s a little less loaded first.

I used to have an eating disorder that wasn’t life threatening and passed as “healthy eating”. Almost no one else knew that it controlled me completely day and night. I’ve known others who had eating disorders and were told they just needed to eat better and have more willpower. The thing is, eating disorders aren’t about food – or it wouldn’t be a disorder. When we skip meals and run 6 miles a day to stay a size 4, that’s meeting a very deep need to be seen as acceptable by the world, and for a sense of control over lives . When we drown our sorrows and stress in the comfort of late night binges we are using one of the easiest and most natural ways to trigger a relaxation response in the body, and to give ourselves a sense of having enough. These behaviors are obviously ways to meet needs that have nothing to do with food or health. Humans who are fully engaged in and satisfied by life tend to have a healthy relationship with food and body without much effort.

Back to sex. Our sexuality is tied to two of the most powerful aspects of being human – intimacy (all kinds) and creative power (all kinds). Let’s take this apart just a bit. How much pain do you think exists in the world because of a lack of these two things? Loneliness, emptiness, perceived powerlessness and the poisonous victim mindset that is born of it have left their imprint on countless lives. How much different do you think your life would be if you always felt intimately known, desired, and loved, and knew that you could literally create any experience or reality you wanted for yourself? Open your mind for a moment and let it chew on that.

As I’ve rewired my brain I discovered that the thing that makes us tick (and keep ticking till the battery runs out) is when we feel we have a purpose that is in some way creative. As the image bearers of the Creator we cannot be truly satisfied unless we are creating something of value. If you’re at all familiar with stories of older people who are still going strong late in life you will see that they are either still creating or still connected – or both. 

This is where the physical clearly only scratches the surface of an infinite power. Our physical bodies have the power to procreate children and experience a sense of intimacy and pleasure through the sexual act – but this is simply one expression of these things out of a literally limitless field of possibilities. The sense of playfulness, joy, desire, seductiveness, passion, pleasure, pursuit, ecstasy, and feeling wanted that we associate with sex, are a part of our innate sexuality. Which is a part of our eternal, spiritual, ever present experience of life itself. These are feelings we are meant to have in some way all the time, in everything we do, regardless of whether or not we ever engage in sex itself. This is what it means to say we are sexual beings, not the way I’ve heard it used most often- to explain people who perceive only the physical and pursue sex with as many people as possible in as many ways as possible in the attempt to quench a thirst that exists 24/7. Sound a bit similar to the eating disorder analogy?

Let’s scale this back to the strictly female side for a moment (I can only speak for my own perspective). So many of us females have bought into the belief that our beauty and sexuality are a ticket to exchange for something else we want. Attention. Pleasure. Provision. A sense of power over others – how many heads can I turn? How can I feel wanted, worthy and enough in this world? How can I feel desired and ravished, known and passionately pursued? Thank God, our beauty can do much more than affect men’s biology and subsequent course of action. More than earn us a status among other women and the world at large. We are indeed meant for and deserving of more.

So what if we turn all of that around and make it about pleasing ourselves? To dress beautifully because we’re women and we like feeling pretty? To really allow ourselves to relish in feeling beautiful, in feeling powerful, in feeling playful and seductive, just because it’s who we are? To receive and enjoy it as a gift from God with the open hands of a child? 

I’ve discovered a breathtaking innocence in sexuality; that one can own that power, and use it for good. For love. That it is possible and incredibly fulfilling to be feminine and ravishing in our day to day lives, and let our very enjoyment of our sexuality and creativity to be the purest seduction to every person we meet, an invitation to join in the great feast, the greatest play of all – LIFE.

There’s a shadow there, where that second line is supposed be. I can feel it almost more than I can see it. I’m pregnant.

My mind immediately flashes back to my last pregnancy, when shock faded into fear and resentment of the discomfort and unknowns of a second pregnancy so quickly following the first. A year after my second baby was born, when I finally managed to form a bond with her after a mildly traumatic birth and postpartum time ravaged by crippling anxiety, I vowed to myself that I would never resent a pregnancy again no matter what the circumstances. Resentment and anger are far too expensive.

So this time, as I settle into this new reality, I give thanks for an opportunity to do this right. To trust God with my countless questions and the daily challenges of pregnancy, the postpartum rollercoaster, and the whole new human entering our family. This is my second chance, I tell myself. 

And tell myself, I did. On the days where going up 6 stairs at once was too much to do without stopping midway, when mothering looked like lying on the concrete in the backyard while the toddlers played around me, and on the days when I would wake up 7 months pregnant to this huge belly, take a deep breathe, and accept it all over again. I began to appreciate the value of life on a deeper level. This little person’s life is worth every bit of the strength it takes to endure the moment by moment difficulty of pregnancy. Which means my life (and all lives) is worth any amount of growth and labor to revive. After a lifetime struggle with anxiety and depression, that was a lesson I needed to learn.

I took opportunities to affirm my unconditional love for the tiny mystery within. I distinctly remember greeting baby the first time I could feel a fullness growing in my lower abdomen while I stretched. Hands on my belly, I affirmed, 

“You are wanted, little one. I love you and I will always love you no matter what.”

Not many weeks later I found myself sitting on the couch reading the Bible, which wasn’t entirely characteristic of me. I stumbled upon the book of Tobit and read one of the most beautiful stories of my life about 2 people who were despairing to the point of asking God to take their lives. Hmm, this sounds more familiar than I care to admit.

And He sent them an angel named Raphael. Then followed a tale of the restoration of hope, joy, and life beyond these souls’ wildest dreams. Tears fell and time slipped away. “This is my child,” I thought to myself. “He is restoring me, giving me a chance to grow and to receive life with joy, to rebuild the relationship with God that my fears and pride had wrecked. This is my Raphael.” And indeed I felt a companionship, an angelic presence as I walked with this new life budding. I no longer felt alone.

At this point we didn’t know the gender. Fast forward 2 months and it was the big day. The midwife spent a rather extended time searching to find nothing, which she posited as girl. We’ll try again in a few weeks.

This time there was much more anticipation in James and I. James already felt outnumbered by the estrogen in the household. I had decided that if this child was not male I would never use the name Raphael. It was far too perfect a fit for this situation.

The first 5 minutes of the ultrasound felt like forever and this was turning into the previous inconclusive “probably a girl” “baby just won’t turn around” scenario. Something hit me and I sunk deep within and told baby, “Baby, we will love you just the same one way or the other. You are unconditionally loved and accepted. It is safe to show us who you are.”  Within 90 seconds there was whooping and squealing and prime photographic evidence that we indeed had a little boy. Raphael.

I carried my angel for another 4.5 months, allowing this grace to redeem every aspect of pregnancy possible. My absolute favorite part was around 35 weeks of pregnancy when I had previously hit the wall of “I’m done now” and become a rather impatient and ungrateful human being. I was walking along Bear creek with the mountains and fields for company and felt something very different come up almost immediately after the first inkling of “done”. 

“This time is a gift. In 5 short weeks this human will be known as who he is to all the world, once and for all, never to be unknown again in this way. For the next 5 weeks I have the honor of holding this kingly presence within and respecting the mystery of what I carry in the deepest, most intimate part of me and yet, do not know.”

I knew then and do now that this child would change the world. I felt utterly awed by his presence and yet more amazed that I be the one to bear him earth-side. The last weeks of pregnancy glowed with a peaceful acceptance unparalleled by any of my other pregnancies.

There are more occasions than I can count since then that I have experienced this distinct presence my son has that brings a peace and majesty to everything he does and every place he enters. Ever a lover of nature, birds, art, mountains, and stories, he has a peaceful, pure spirit that is entirely unique. This is Raphael, bearer of wholeness.

I distinctly remember going house hunting in the summer of 2013. Whatever place we found would also be the birthplace for my son that fall, and 6 months into pregnancy my mama instinct wanted to know what 4 walls would be around me on the big day. With a mere 9 days to find a place (in Denver, this is no small feat), we miraculously found a lovely town house along Bear Creek via the intercession of St. Joseph, on the 9th day of our search.

The 5th of November rolled around, a Tuesday. I’d had a few contractions the previous Saturday after a brisk 5 mile walk that I thought were the warm up to weeks of prodromal labor like the my first two births. I stood over the stove baking pumpkins and pie crust in our tiny town house, my own belly looking rather like a pumpkin in my orange t-shirt. A deep pulling sensation swept in and out, eventually dragging me away from the kitchen and onto the couch. I sat on the couch wondering why I felt so nauseous. When I succumbed to the discomfort and fatigue and laid down, I had the first contraction of the variety that announced true labor. Oops.

This continued all day and I fed my two year old dinner from my lap over that contracting belly, measuring the waves all the while. 5 minutes apart – not too shabby! Maybe we’ll have a baby tonight!

The midwife and her assistant arrived from their hour long drive at 11 pm after approximately 12 hours of labor. After the longest cervical check in my child bearing history we received the thrilling news (ha!) that I was 90% effaced and not dilated one whit. Huh? Seeing as there was no point in her hanging around, they packed up, told me to get some rest and that we’d be checking in with each other in the morning. 

That night was was among the more strange and memorable in my life. I fell into a deep sleep, but about every 10-20 minutes felt like I was being hurdled through a portal from the dream world to my bed with a searing pain that left me clenching the sheets with a death grip. After 60 seconds it faded and I fell back asleep. This lasted about 6 hours when I decided I was done with it. I had never had contractions of this intensity before and no longer fancied being assaulted with them while I slept.

The morning of the 6th my mother in law was there to take the girls (3.5 and 2) out for the day. After breakfast my husband accompanied me for a long walk on the trail that ran near our house. Walking had really kicked things into gear for me with my first two labors but this time left me feeling spent, contractions petering. I began to struggle with feeling guilty for keeping everyone off work with this very, very long, strange labor that couldn’t seem to decide quite was it was doing. 

There was one thing that made this labor, in retrospect, really quite marvelous and exquisite – the freedom I had. No wires, no beeping machines, no nagging nurses, cervical checks with loaded news of my “progress” or lack there of, no poking and prodding and unnatural interference with this mysterious and inward process of labor. Given how much faith I have in my body and the natural process, I feel infinitely more comfortable being left alone during labor, and this wish was fulfilled to the highest degree possible. 

I spoke with my midwife at about 2 pm after attempting to rest, since this time laying down led to those lightening bolt intensity contractions versus the ghost version I got while walking. But still, no closer that 10 minutes apart at best. What on earth IS this labor?! She said, “It might not be real labor. Just forget it about and try to rest and we’ll talk later.” WHAT?! I couldn’t tell what I felt emotionally; anger, frustration and confusion all came out as tears. I knew this was the real deal, no way on earth contractions that intense could be anything else. 

At about 4 pm I gave up on having a baby, got dressed and ready to go downstairs and make dinner. The girls and my mother in law were coming home. Just as I moved toward the dresser to grab some pants I was hit with the most intense wave yet, grasping for support to stay standing. Huh, maybe I’m not making dinner right now. 

5 minutes later, again. And again. And again. Hmmmm. This seems suspiciously like active labor. I stayed in my room upstairs, listening to the faint din of my daughters playing downstairs and noticing that time had begun to fade away, and my tears had lulled into a deeply focused calm. After about an hour or two of this we called my midwife, who first said she would get ready, then thought twice (after that 2 hour drive for nothing the night before) and asked to listen to my contractions (also known as, how loud are you groaning? Yeah, not my cuppa tea). I explained that my contractions stop when I’m being watched like that but she insisted and of course, stop they did. “I’ve been a midwife for 15 years and you are not in active labor.” Anger and frustration bubbled up hot. I was about an hour and half out from birth and after 2 previous natural labors I knew that quite plainly. She just didn’t believe me.

I turned angrily to my husband and said “I can’t put up with this BS anymore.” He replied, “That’s okay, we can do this ourselves.” Oh yeah! I forgot! We had done a decent amount of research into unassisted birth a month prior when I got a gut instinct that I really didn’t trust my midwife but it was too late to switch. We had all the supplies, my mother in law had been a nurse for a decade, and the midwife would get there eventually. With a sigh of relief we got back to business, filling up the birth tub in our room and getting supplies out and ready. 

I climbed in the tub hoping for the same instant relief I’d experienced from water with my second labor. After one or two contractions in the tub I realized relief was an illusion at this point. I intuitively stopped thinking and just found a focal point to zone into as a freight train wracked my body for the next hour. My husband offered sips of water between contractions and don’t think I said more than 5 words during that time. Eventually I figured I’d better get out and empty my bladder to make sure it wasn’t getting in the way of labor continuing as the pressure was getting quite intense.

My husband helped me into the bathroom and then walked off to find his dinner downstairs.
“Uh-oh.”
“What’s uh-oh?”
“There’s a baby in my butt.” (Ask any woman who’s had a natural birth – this is genuinely what it feels like.)
I sat down and attempted to empty my bladder and was met with nothing but intense pressure. Hmmm. I think I need to have a baby. Let’s check just to see where we’re at. Oh! Hey! That’s a head, and it’s pretty darn close to being in this room.

I yelled for my husband and turned to hold onto the bathtub.

“Do you want to go back to the birth tub?”
“No, I’m not moving.”
“Let me help you kneel down, I’m not catching a baby from that high.”
“No, I am not moving.” 
(There’s a reason laboring women are stubborn. I can assure you that movement is the last thing a woman wants when there’s a human head exiting her pelvis).
My husband was as stubborn as I was about not catching a baby from a standing position and almost as soon as he helped me kneel down my water broke. As I pushed I noticed a pattern from my first labor that the head kept receding upward between pushes and I thought hell no, I am not letting this labor last any longer than it already has. I gathered all of my resolve and got his head out on the next push. Immediately my vision cleared and I felt joyously euphoric and ridiculously confident. 
“His face is purple, push now!”
(With utmost carefree joy) “Nope, we’re fine! I’m waiting for the next contraction.”
After 2 seconds of glorious opening a cry filled our little bathroom and I turned around to my sweet pink baby, screaming and breathing and slippery wet and absolutely worth every moment of victorious struggle.

To be continued…

Hmmm. Birth. What does this bring to your mind? What kind of birth? What kind of images? What kind of stories?

I want to rewrite birth. I have given it, 5 times, in several different ways, and each time it changed me – even in the space of the 2 minutes between the cesarean birth of my twins, my soul was permanently shifted. Birth is…spiritual. Dark. Mysterious. Powerful. And it changes we who give it.

My first birth was blissful, innocent, otherworldly. Contractions built over weeks, culminating in absolute delight that real labor has actually commenced, my body fluidly laboring in the trust I had in its power. 18 hours of ebbs and flow. Gregorian chant, walk, pause, walk, dance, rest, rinse, repeat. Toward the end I was suspended in bliss, utterly connected to the Divine as He turned me into a river that would allow my baby to pass through. Jason Mraz’s music loosened me and energized me in the final corridor, when fatigue and uncertainty began to over take my exhausted body with uncontrollable shaking. 

Transition. Always the hardest part  of everything in life, when nothing holds still and the world seems to be coming apart at the seams, and we must rely only on the constant of our own unshakable spirit. The room blurred, time vanished and the serene face of my midwife paired with my husband’s crushed hand became my anchor through the pain of skull against tailbone, pushed together by the force of the strongest human muscle.

And then we were born. As she came into the light, the heavy veil lifted from my eyes and the euphoric cry, “My baby!” escaped me. I crossed into a starry eyed period of oceanic love so strong it felt reminiscent of romantic love, in a very grounded way. 

Birth changes us, deep in our psyche. The complex and beautiful hormonal cocktail of birth fundamentally shifts our brains into an altered state that peaks during birth and postpartum, and where they reside to some degree until weaning (this was at least, my experience). We literally lose ourselves and become found as mothers. 

And every birth changes us. We exist in time, us humans, and no matter how many times one does something it is a unique experience, but this is amplified in an enormous way in birth. Each birth strengthens us, sometimes by itself, sometimes by breaking us down further than we’ve ever been broken before so we can be remade from new, stronger, more real fabric. God Himself is the gold that fuses us back into one piece, scarred and stronger than ever.

Although rites of passage aren’t very present in my culture, birth, with its profound physical, spiritual and psychological imprint, is an undeniable rite of passage. As may be obvious at this point, I am a fan of natural birth. I love finding out just how powerful and badass I am again and again. No one event improved my body image or self respect quite like that birth above. There is no other experience that makes me feel as powerful, as capable, as wild, as embodied, as fierce and surrendered and independent, as birth. This is femininity; this is one very undeniable embodiment of feminine power. 

And THAT is how I want to see birth presented to the young women of our world. As an honor, a joy, a gloriously powerful gateway into motherhood, into a deeper and fuller womanhood. An opportunity to learn to trust themselves, to dig deeper than ever before and through a fierce surrender, to be the thin veil between heaven and earth as an utterly unrepeatable human being crosses the divide.