The pain starts at night and I see myself holding you, your father looking into your eyes and finding a part of himself he had been missing. By the bright morning and cruel red-winged blackbird song though, there is no pain; your crib remains filled only with blankets townspeople and your grandmothers have knitted for you.
In the warm pool in the backyard under the canopy of the aspen grove, I sit still for a long while, gazing up the bluff at the magpies and hummingbirds, the chipmunks and deer. Am I part of God’s creation or just an observer? Will this birth borne me into God’s kingdom? Two twin fawns were born in our backyard last Sunday. “She wanted to teach you how to do it,” offered a well-intentioned but insensitive neighbor. I saw one of the fawns hidden in the tall grass a few days ago, but the other is nowhere to be found and I assume unfeeling Nature has taken its course. What if you are not mine?
Two nights ago I woke with a fit of anxiety, but God gently told me that you are a child of God, simply entrusted to your father and me for love and nurturing as you go through this weird world. To get too possessive would be unwise and very painful. Then I was somehow filled with peace after my meditation led me to acceptance, and was even able to sleep soundly again — not a common ability for anyone 42 weeks pregnant.
But in the day when everything is tangible and man’s law is observed to a satirical level, I tend to forget the truth. I become selfish and neglect the soul and want you for my own. Oh my dear child! How did the Blessed Mother do it? How was she able to give up her son to the Lord? You are still so close to heaven and maybe even now wrapped up in her spiritual mantle, caressed by her hands — I cannot blame you for taking your time in time eternal. Bathe in God’s wisdom and love, and teach me when we meet. I am a poor creature with a weak spirit, and I can never love you as God does; yet the time has come for us both, to be born.
And what a birth it was, trusting in the Holy Spirit all along.
©2014, Amaya Engleking