On Being Brave (& Being Born)
Here we are, sweet baby, teetering on the cusp—the cusp of Life on Earth (for you), the cusp of Life as a Mama of Two (for me).
We are ready for this, though we don’t feel ready at all. (Here’s a secret, baby: We never feel ready, for anything, until we suddenly are, because we must be. Remember this. It is a bit of wisdom that will serve you well.)
You are nestled comfortably in my body, right now, as you have been for the past 40-plus weeks. You show no sign of wanting to exit the confines of my womb. You have your reasons for this. I do not know what they are. But I do know that I, too, often show no sign of wanting to exit the confines of my room, my home, my safe and sacred spaces.
But I do, exit. I do, step outside. I do, shake off the inertia and (let’s be honest) the anxiety of Being a Sensitive Human on Earth. And I am never sorry.
Exiting the comfort zone is the bravest thing a human (especially a Sensitive Human) can do, in this world. Exiting the comzort zone—whether that zone be a physical, mental, or emotional place—is (I believe) why we are here.
We are here to emerge, again and again, into new facets of existence. We are here to enter, again and again, into relationship with each other and the world around us. We are here to surface, again and again, into the light of a new day, new idea, new moment, new miracle.
We are here to manifest the most beautiful parts of ourselves—the parts that, too often, lie dormant and docile in between the tender chambers of the heart. We are here to dance those parts alive. We are here to share those parts with the sky above, the Earth below, and whomever happens to be standing by our side, breathing.
This requires us to be very, very brave.
You, sweet baby, are already very, very brave.
The journey you have travelled, over the course of these 40-plus weeks, is the wildest and most treacherous journey you will ever travel. Never again will you beat the odds so completely. Never again will you transform from a single-celled organism into a moving, kicking, hiccuping human being. Never again will you grow a heart, a pair of lungs, a magnificent brain. Never again, in this particular incarnation, will you be teetering on the cusp of Life on Earth.
You are brave, baby. You are brave enough to be born.
You are also perfectly whole. In fact, you are perhaps the most whole you will ever be.
Humans (especially Sensitive Humans) have a terrible tendency of fragmenting themselves in order to 1) fit into cracks and crevices not quite made for them, and 2) sharpen their edges so as not to be hurt as deeply or as often by the simple act of living.
I pray you do not fragment yourself, as I did, for so long.
As your mama, I will teach you about your wholeness, your innate goodness, your complex and quintessential humanity. I will say, “you do not need to fit.” And I will say, “not fitting is fitting.” And I will say, “getting hurt by the simple act of living is ok because it means you are awake.”
But I will not just say these things. I will live these things. I will practice these things. I will model these things. I will become more human for you. More awake. More brave.
You, sweet baby, chose me to be your mama. You chose your papa to be your papa. You chose your brother to be your brother. There are reasons for this, embedded deep within your karmic soul, that you now know, and that you will soon forget, but that you will remember as you grow.
I hope that every lesson, every discovery, every revelation you make brings you closer to touching, feeling, and believing in the magic that infuses all life on Earth.
Life on Earth is magic, baby.
They will tell you it isn’t (but it is). They will tell you everything is visible (but it isn’t).
They will point you towards science and they will say, “here is the proof, here is the conclusion” but you will gaze deeply at the science and you will see the magic, even there.
They—the non-believers—will shake their head at you, they will wag their finger at you. But you will not falter. You will look into their dulled and tired eyes and wish them well. You will wish for them a magical encounter that reawakens their awareness of the enchanted. And, then, you will move along, unfragmented and shimmering still.
There is so much light here, baby. There is so much reason to shimmer.
There is a lot of darkness, too. The darkness can feel overwhelming, at times. It seems to be everywhere these days—feeding the media, feeding the mania.
But, in every dark moment, there is a speck light. There is a kernel of hope. There is a brave sparrow singing, somewhere.
Right now, I am looking at the giant oak tree in our backyard. This tree has become a dear friend to me, this past year. It has taught me, and continues to teach me, about how to be alive in the world. How to reach up, how to give, how to surrender, how to let go, how to rest, and how to begin again.
Soon (oh-so-soon) we will sit together, under this tree, and you will absorb all of these teachings, too. You will absorb them through your stardusted skin. Your teeny toes. Your bright, half-blind-but-all-seeing eyes.
This will be your introduction to Life on Earth. Your gentle transition from one realm to another. Your baptism-by-oak-tree.
It will be safe. It will be soft. And, yes, it will be magic. (I promise.)
Here we are, sweet baby, teetering on the cusp. My body is swollen from top to bottom. My pelvis aches when I walk. My muscles struggle to carry the extra 40 pounds I have gained. My heart hurts the best kind of hurt at the thought of you.
I am not ready, but I am ready.
You are not ready, but you are ready.
My prayer is simple, these days. It is one word: trust.
May we trust each other enough to take the next big leap, together. May we trust each other enough to utterly surrender to the most ordinary and extraordinary process of Life on Earth—birth. May we trust each other enough to say “yes” to the waves (when they come), to the wondrous (that is already here, that is always here), and to the new world (waiting to greet us).
I love you, sweet baby.
Kiss you soon.