Leaning into what we need plants our seeds of kismet. Guzzling all of the juice offered for us during Earth school doesn’t always suit us. Just because one person swallows it one way isn’t gonna make things palatable for the rest. It might have been ravishing for me to rave in the ’90s. Yet, plow me currently with the same drugs and electronic dance music thumping through the wee hours without sleep until sunrise is a FastPass to me thinking you’re angling for a punching square in the face. I’ll presently drink my melodic beats with the tropical spice of poolside by beachside or VIP ritzy yachting. I prefer the pages of existence I can comfortably steep in with hot and cold running cabana crews. (Mind you, they could be chiseled humans or smiley sloths to monkey’s depending on my chosen view.) The cult of birthing is an endless terrain where we may choose to uplift our mood.
There’s this fortuity of life force when you recognize you can control the guise. It’s similar to what camouflage is to creatures in the wild. Whether you’re using these tools for an escape to survival, or merely to position a fresh topography, our attention to the gift of laboring a blessed delivery is vital solutioning. One of the biggest turning points for me was consecrating the understanding that I should rebirth many versions of old beliefs to foolish stories I’d painfully kept carrying. Likewise, this token of replacement therapy began to apply for circles of people in my livelihood. I saw how training my thoughts to relate securely with the business of my body’s wounds would refine my history. Emblematically we’re able to revision any annoyance to agony. You discover that inflictions may become characters you may rescript and recast to correct past injury.
Birth has never been a one-way street any more than its precursor conception will ever be. Babies are assembled and arrive via a variety of manners. That karmically synergistic summer I became pregnant is prime fodder for such investigation. To make certain you’re armed with the impact ~ this is a reference to the one and only time I ever got knocked up (writes the candidly perimenopausal babe minus a full menstrual cycle since January 2020). Which, while it’s written, I wish to state for the metaphoric record that it seems a suspiciously masculine-induced phrase that would be better explained as ‘knocked down’. There was a colossal arena of emotionality I waded through culminating in my abortion directive. For this someone who revered the idea of pregnancy as one of our most sacred feminine capabilities, my decision was far from casual. You are the origin-maker of your endings, but also your beginnings.
Will you start searching…
Will you start seeking for
I used to be a staunch stickler for the purity of natural childbirth. Although, as years and relationships with girlfriends, documentaries, tv shows, and movies have rallied with my synapses, I’ve worked to loosen my reigns. Further examination of my exit from the womb showered my senses with the scrutiny of trusting the trailing of my own transformation to note I was churning out pretty ok. Maybe birthing was exactly whatever you create of your circumstances, no matter the fallout you’re flailing behind. When I didn’t cradle that baby in my belly to full-term as I’d long hungered about, an entirely doubtless parallel path was birthed for me. Clutching the touching globally-dotted travel reach of my ‘family’ has provided me profuse grace for missing what I declined. From my nephew to my besties nuggets of joy, there’s quite a lump of kid love in my universe.
We juggle this way to that. We allow our dreams to be defaced. Instead, you may receive every minute as the genesis of a welcome chance. Anything you don’t enjoy is room for amendment. I blend incredibly well with copious eye candy and excellent menus. I’ll easily rough it for the sake of come-hither sizzling stars conceived for sorting sexual memory scars beneath. But, the real me wants you to eat me simply sans drama, with a slice of meaning it for an unhurried lifetime. I’m the kind of gal who will bathe in a soupy dirty mud puddle to assume the sensations of feeling Mother Earth’s every tiny incremental fleck caked a wee excessive gravely in each cranny from my hair follicles to the shores of my labia and each corner of a nailbed that only power tools could hope for thoroughly removing. I’ll lay a load of bills toward the luxury of amusingly abusing any level of soaking in a hotel suite tub built to house NBA royalty. To this precise date, I’ve fatefully given birth to thousands of momentously happy happenings.
You are the healer of hatching your stories you’ll keep.