mom here now

It's 5:13am on November 18, 2022. The body knows. It remembers, it wakes me up with a tightness in the chest. I search for my inhaler. It can only do so much. Over these past four months since Viggo died, I've experienced my grief as an ocean. My own private ocean. Sometimes it feels like a private ocean on a lonely planet where I am the only inhabitant.  Sometimes I can step into the river of grief, that great rushing river that connects my grief to the grief of all the bereaved throughout all of time. The river is overpowering, communal, ancestral, bottomless. I belong there, too. The river of grief gives me perspective because it brings me into contact with the grief and loss of others, it reminds me I am not alone, it pushes me along and does not let me stay stuck in one place. The river is a transcendence. Not a transcendence of my grief but a transcendence into all grief. But this post is about my ocean. When Viggo died, I felt myself suddenly dropped into the middle of a

  Cultures around the world and from the beginning of time have set apart the autumn season to honor death and dying. There is a deep sense that autumn is when the veil between worlds is at its thinnest. In the Northern Hemisphere right now, the symbols of death are all around us. The lengthening of night. The goodbye song of the geese as they fly in formation. The letting go dance of the leaves as they spin from Sky to Earth. The smell of bacteria and mycelia performing their alchemical duties of decomposition. Formerly brilliant flower heads turned black and gone to seed. In Traditional Chinese Medicine, fall is the season correlated with the metal element. The predominant emotion is Grief. Metal is a pure substance derived from the earth by a process of reduction. In the same way, in autumn the living world is reduced, returning back to its source in the Earth. The main organs of fall are the lungs, whose branches and alveoli mirror the branching of plant life both above and below t

This is Viggo's old nursery, now a prayer and meditation room. When we brought Viggo home, his room became a sacred space. Upon entering, more than a few guests commented on the feeling that they were on holy ground. Perhaps because Viggo was so generous, so accepting of all who wished to hold him in their arms. In return, he would you in his gaze--the most patient, accepting, loving gaze. The room held, and still holds, a palpably peaceful energy. Somehow, on the day after Viggo's memorial service, and with the help of my grandmother (who lost two sons in the span of a week, one of them my Dad) and my Aunt Mel (whose husband was the other son who died a week after my Dad), we dismantled his nursery and transformed it into a different kind of sacred space. I was worrying that morning about how the kids would react, about whether I could manage it, about what we were going to do with all the medical and baby supplies. And then a kind acquaintance showed up, unbidden, and offered

Welcome, traveler to the sacred place of transition Here the veil thins, and is lifted Now the peace of eternity enters On a soft breeze illusions of separation carried away Life begins with the inhalation the inspiration the incarnation Breathe in God comes to you Life ends with the exhalation The expiration . . .  Breathe out Go to God One is worship the other surrender both are prayer Welcome, traveler to the sacred space of your own breath

I longed for a third baby since my second child, Leo, was born at home in 2017. I tried to shake the desire and I tried to talk myself out of it, but it was always there, refusing to stay suppressed, refusing to disappear. First births are often traumatic, and mine was no exception. My first child, Rosa, was born in 2014 and came into this world kicking up a fuss after 36 hours of labor, a failed epidural at the 30-hour mark that resulted in a cerebrospinal fluid leak (aka "wet tap"; summary: worst headache ever), an epidural that worked, and two "blood patches" to stop the fluid leak. (That is four epidurals in total, if you're counting.) She was exactly 40 weeks gestation and weighed a healthy 7 lbs 13 oz. In those days , I was working as a legal aid attorney in D.C. and teaching yoga on the side. I was newly married, living in a rowhouse with my husband, cat, and two roommates, and my bike was my main form of transportation. My last day of work was June 20, a

Lately, I've been somewhat stunned by how well I've been functioning. Keeping the trains running on time, organizing big kid schedules, nursing and doctor visit schedules, sleeping and eating well-ish, pumping just enough milk. Staying positive and thoughtful. Laughing. Being mostly appropriate and inoffensive in social settings. Putting pen to paper. Engaging with the outside world, albeit from my safe little bubble via social media/blogging. I've also been reading The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, wondering if some of the traumas I've experienced in the past months have been fully digested/integrated already, or if I am just racking up a huge trauma debt that is going to take years to process, coming out sideways at all the wrong times. I don't want to relive the darkest hours of this experience in therapy; living them once was enough, thank you very much. When I am relatively calm in the face of some really heavy shit, over and over again, I wonde