“The most highly cultured mother gives birth sweating and dislocated and cursing like a sailor. That’s the place we inhabit as artists and innovators. It’s the place we must become comfortable with.” ― Steven Pressfield, Do the Work
We share birth stories like peanut m&ms, in casual conversation over coffee or before book club. But the truth is that childbirth and motherhood envelops a deep place, something holy curled in the bellies of women everywhere. And sometime that place is tender, bruised or broken, hopes never blossomed, or experiences too sharp to relive without fear and pain.
Despite my panic, and tearful protestations that I certainly cannot do this, Isaiah arrived: new and velvety and and slimy and perfect. My body stretched and tensed and finally surrendered to nature and design. Months of waiting and hurting and hoping culminated in three big pushes and the perfect bliss of finally clasping my son to my chest.
We know immediately, of course, just how perfectly he fit into the space our family has unknowingly held for him. How he stares into our eyes and we discover that we were made for this moment, this messy and painful perfection.
Isaiah's birth reminds us that sometimes miracles don't come in the form of miraculous healing or broken hearts made whole. Sometimes, they run more ordinary. New life brought forth as grace and light, reminding us that joy always comes with the morning.
*Amazing pictures from my amazing friend Meg, without whom I'm not sure we could have made it through.