My baby, like his brother and sister, was born at home in the dining room. We had many people in the house on the afternoon of his birth – grandmothers, friends, midwives, etc. – but everyone spoke in hushed tones. Mom said it was like being in a library.
A few hours after the birth, my new son and I went upstairs to my bedroom where we stayed there in bed for a whole week. For the first several days, there wasn’t a clock in the room. I spent my time staring into the round face of this new person who made eye contact with me often and smiled. I watched the rectangles of sunlight moving across the floor and the bed. At night, when I was often awake, the moonlight spilled over us, and I lay staring up at the stars. I looked out at the tops of the maples that line the western edge of the property and watched them lose their leaves over the course of that week. The power of the land and the movements of light and wind were like a new womb that held and comforted both me and my son.
Each time after I have given birth, I have felt almost like a baby myself. The world is a foreign, daunting place that has to be re-explored. Written language or logical conversation doesn’t make sense to me. I live in some special kind of warm light. This was a difficult situation during my first two births because I felt I had to act competent and strong as soon as I possibly could, and so I was constantly fighting with myself. After this birth, my husband and mother in law doted on me, bringing me water and food and speaking quietly. The children visited reverently. In this quiet place, I didn’t have to pretend to be experiencing anything except what I was, and I was able to open fully to the Light.
After that first week, I ventured downstairs a little bit but mostly stayed cocooned upstairs with the baby. When I could read again, I kept the Fedco tree catalogue by my bed and spent hours re-reading several descriptions of rose bushes. Reading about those roses was one of my baby steps as I eased gently into family life again, bursting into tears when I pushed too fast.
Now almost a month and a half has passed, and I feel strong again, but I am carrying that sensation of lying in my bed with my baby with the wind and the sun moving past the windows. Remembering it fills me again with Light and stills my thoughts. I am reminded of the steadfastness of God. I try to slip into that place when I pray silently, and I try to pray often.
After staying at home for five and a half months because of a difficult pregnancy and then this birth, I am starting to go out into the world again. Someone at Meeting said last week that I must be so relieved to be done with bed rest. This small talk kind of floored me, and she repeated herself as I sat there with a blank look on my face. Finally, I answered awkwardly that it was OK. In truth, I am not relieved or disappointed to be done with this time of stillness. It's impossible to have an opinion about it because I am still living under a sense of awe. Something within me shifted during this time, but I don’t understand yet what it is.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
As of 9/30
Our new son was born at home on 9/30. He was a big baby (9 pounds and 10 ounces) and as of Thursday, 10/6, he weighed 10 pounds 8 ounces. He's a pretty peaceful guy. We've been enjoying him.
Monday, September 26, 2011
roots
When I lived in Minneapolis, they were cutting down many elms along the boulevard because of Dutch Elm disease. I started praying for the elm trees I passed. I put my hands on them, waited until my mind was clear, and then prayed that they should stay healthy and strong.
We passed the same two elm trees every day when I walked my daughter to her kindergarten bus stop, and so I put my hands on them every school day and prayed for them briefly. My two-year-old son, who observed this from his stroller every day, accepted this as a normal part of his day and would occasionally walk up to other trees and quietly put both hands on them. (He has since stopped doing that!)
Over time, I grew very attached to these two trees, which were almost a block from my house. I experienced very different emotions when I prayed for each of them. When my hands were on one, I felt both a gorgeous sense of lightness and a grief that sometimes made me cry. The other felt much less effusive. I felt guarded and angry when my hands were on that tree.
More elms were marked and cut down in our neighborhood every week, so I made some calls, asking if I could get "my" trees vaccinated against the disease. I found out it could cost more than $2000 to protect those trees, because we'd also need to vaccinate the elm across the street. I also found out that it would probably be a waste of money because the vaccination couldn't protect them from becoming infected under ground through their root system, especially if other elms had once been growing nearby. I was sure that another elm once grew next to these two trees, but had been cut down within the last few years.
Apparently, when trees grow close together, their roots sometimes entwine, and after many years, they grow together. In these places where the roots are joined, they share sap under ground and become like one tree.
This past summer, while I stayed at home tenaciously avoiding anything exciting (or even entertaining), I could feel my roots growing. I felt them twining silently with my husband's roots and growing together under ground like the elm trees. After being in love with this person for 20 years, I am amazed by how much there is to learn and by the unexpected ways that love changes me.
We passed the same two elm trees every day when I walked my daughter to her kindergarten bus stop, and so I put my hands on them every school day and prayed for them briefly. My two-year-old son, who observed this from his stroller every day, accepted this as a normal part of his day and would occasionally walk up to other trees and quietly put both hands on them. (He has since stopped doing that!)
Over time, I grew very attached to these two trees, which were almost a block from my house. I experienced very different emotions when I prayed for each of them. When my hands were on one, I felt both a gorgeous sense of lightness and a grief that sometimes made me cry. The other felt much less effusive. I felt guarded and angry when my hands were on that tree.
More elms were marked and cut down in our neighborhood every week, so I made some calls, asking if I could get "my" trees vaccinated against the disease. I found out it could cost more than $2000 to protect those trees, because we'd also need to vaccinate the elm across the street. I also found out that it would probably be a waste of money because the vaccination couldn't protect them from becoming infected under ground through their root system, especially if other elms had once been growing nearby. I was sure that another elm once grew next to these two trees, but had been cut down within the last few years.
Apparently, when trees grow close together, their roots sometimes entwine, and after many years, they grow together. In these places where the roots are joined, they share sap under ground and become like one tree.
This past summer, while I stayed at home tenaciously avoiding anything exciting (or even entertaining), I could feel my roots growing. I felt them twining silently with my husband's roots and growing together under ground like the elm trees. After being in love with this person for 20 years, I am amazed by how much there is to learn and by the unexpected ways that love changes me.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Grateful
Sometimes I am ambushed by grace.
Last night, my husband played the song "Stand by Me" on You Tube because it had been going through his head, and I suddenly found myself weeping. The end of the movie "Stand by Me," which I watched as a kid, says that one of the main characters is killed while intervening in a robbery. Fifteen years ago last month, I intervened when a man was attacking his girlfriend. She was killed, and I lived.
Last night, a familiar voice rose up in my head, saying that I should have died on the day of the attack, too, and that there is no greater love than laying your life down for someone else. Over time, that message has grown so old and brittle that it sounded more like a crackly recording instead of the booming voice of condemnation. It couldn't make me cry, but I wept when I thought about all of the blessings I've been able to experience during the last fifteen years.
Soon after the murder, I became a Quaker and married the man that I love so dearly. Later, I helped bring the world a lovely, passionate daughter and a steady, compassionate son. I was heard a leading from God to move to the country, and so I live surrounded by trees and fields, like I had always dreamed I might. Now, I am experiencing the holy and illogical fullness of late pregnancy. These are the most important things I've known.
I am so grateful that I've been able to live this life, and I am aware that the lives of so many others are cut short. They are present in the quiet corners of my existence, but their presence isn't condemning. If anything, they remind me to live with integrity and gusto, for their sake if for nothing else.
I am reminded, too, that to whom much has been given, much will be required. I have been given so much that I will never be able to give back even a portion of it, but I know that if I keep pressing into God, then I will be led to do what needs to be done. Grace has led me through so far, and grace will lead me home.
Last night, my husband played the song "Stand by Me" on You Tube because it had been going through his head, and I suddenly found myself weeping. The end of the movie "Stand by Me," which I watched as a kid, says that one of the main characters is killed while intervening in a robbery. Fifteen years ago last month, I intervened when a man was attacking his girlfriend. She was killed, and I lived.
Last night, a familiar voice rose up in my head, saying that I should have died on the day of the attack, too, and that there is no greater love than laying your life down for someone else. Over time, that message has grown so old and brittle that it sounded more like a crackly recording instead of the booming voice of condemnation. It couldn't make me cry, but I wept when I thought about all of the blessings I've been able to experience during the last fifteen years.
Soon after the murder, I became a Quaker and married the man that I love so dearly. Later, I helped bring the world a lovely, passionate daughter and a steady, compassionate son. I was heard a leading from God to move to the country, and so I live surrounded by trees and fields, like I had always dreamed I might. Now, I am experiencing the holy and illogical fullness of late pregnancy. These are the most important things I've known.
I am so grateful that I've been able to live this life, and I am aware that the lives of so many others are cut short. They are present in the quiet corners of my existence, but their presence isn't condemning. If anything, they remind me to live with integrity and gusto, for their sake if for nothing else.
I am reminded, too, that to whom much has been given, much will be required. I have been given so much that I will never be able to give back even a portion of it, but I know that if I keep pressing into God, then I will be led to do what needs to be done. Grace has led me through so far, and grace will lead me home.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Going to the mailbox
Today, for the first time in about three months, I walked to the mailbox. My progress was slow and meditative, and I was accompanied the whole way by three attentive cats. It felt like a ceremonial journey, complete with dignified attendants. After that trip, I strolled slowly to the west edge of our shelter belt, hoping to stand beside the maples look over the slopes of soybeans. This is one of my favorite places. A pile of rocks marks what must have been the old barn, and a few big old lilacs stand in memory of some older configuration of the farm. It’s a secluded place, and unless your view is blocked by tall corn, you can look out over an enormous, dipping green landscape.
I couldn’t see the landscape though. Weeds have grown too tall along the edge of the shelterbelt. I had expected everything would look the same as it did in early June, but of course a whole summer unfolded in this special place without my seeing it, and everything green has been growing taller. So the cats and I turned our procession toward the house.
It will be surprising to visit many places again, after the birth. I am not completely looking forward to it, especially as I remember how I felt after the births of my two children. I felt like a baby learning about the world all over again, and like a baby, I was ready to shout and burst into tears when overwhelmed. Trying to drive a car, I had to constantly remind myself which information was important and which was not. A stop sign was important. A squirrel running up a tree trunk was not. It was exhausting. I had a long distance to cover before I could act like a normal grownup again.
This time around, I might have a greater distance to travel because I’ve been away from so many things for a long time. For the last three months, I haven't driven a car, gone shopping, earned money or visited anyone else’s home. I’ve gone for weeks seeing only faces that I already know. We don’t have a TV, and I have watched only one movie all summer. Seeing the wind moving in waves over the soybeans was the most notable experience of some days.
The air is colder now, though, and this summer is almost gone. Like all of the trees and plants I have been watching so carefully, I will change soon.
I couldn’t see the landscape though. Weeds have grown too tall along the edge of the shelterbelt. I had expected everything would look the same as it did in early June, but of course a whole summer unfolded in this special place without my seeing it, and everything green has been growing taller. So the cats and I turned our procession toward the house.
It will be surprising to visit many places again, after the birth. I am not completely looking forward to it, especially as I remember how I felt after the births of my two children. I felt like a baby learning about the world all over again, and like a baby, I was ready to shout and burst into tears when overwhelmed. Trying to drive a car, I had to constantly remind myself which information was important and which was not. A stop sign was important. A squirrel running up a tree trunk was not. It was exhausting. I had a long distance to cover before I could act like a normal grownup again.
This time around, I might have a greater distance to travel because I’ve been away from so many things for a long time. For the last three months, I haven't driven a car, gone shopping, earned money or visited anyone else’s home. I’ve gone for weeks seeing only faces that I already know. We don’t have a TV, and I have watched only one movie all summer. Seeing the wind moving in waves over the soybeans was the most notable experience of some days.
The air is colder now, though, and this summer is almost gone. Like all of the trees and plants I have been watching so carefully, I will change soon.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Brooms and other dreams
Someone from Cannon Valley Friends Meeting came over to help my family with some housework a couple weeks ago, and she brought her own broom, mentioning that she had a hard time with ours, which was stiff and missing half of its bristles. The next time Ian went shopping, he returned with two new soft-bristled brooms, and I called my mother to tell her the good news. (She had also been dismayed by our broom for quite some time.)
Talking about my brooms reminded my mother of a dear aunt who farmed all her life in the northwestern part of the state. For a wedding gift, my great-aunt gave her daughter-in-law a broom. I thought to myself that this did not sound like a fun wedding present at all, but Mom went on to say that that when her aunt got married, she didn’t have a broom for some time. It weighed on her, and she must have given her daughter-in-law a broom as a way to try to protect her and give her a better life.
Her warm-hearted daughter-in-law recognized the gift for what it was and shared the story with great affection at my great aunt’s funeral.
Once again, I am reminded that I am living out the dreams of relatives that I barely knew, or that I never knew. The freedom from want that I have always known is a gift that they longed to give their children, their grandchildren, and all the babies that they never lived long enough to meet. They were so successful in their efforts that I am often ignorant about the value of what I have been given and about the lives of those who wanted more for me than what they had.
Still, those relatives map the landscape of my life, pointing me in the direction of what they believed was important and right. They are always with me, and I have noticed them especially when I am pregnant. Sometimes I notice them with every breath, as if they were the scent of the summer air.
As my pregnancy enters its very last stages, I am thinking about my dreams for my children and grandchildren, and the babies I will never meet. I am deeply worried about the state of the soil and the climate, and I fear that they may know want that I have never known, brought on by a damaged environment.
Of course I dream of ease for the babies that are yet to come, but I also dream of a durable relationship with the land, perhaps more like the relationship that my relatives once had. I dream that the next generations will be able to see the face of God in the natural things around them, in a way that much of our generation apparently cannot. I dream that they can structure their lives to honor what is holy. I wish for them a love so deep that not even death can hinder it.
(P.S. – I’m 37 weeks pregnant today! No more worries about an early baby, but am still supposed to be taking it very easy. I am so happy and relieved.)
Talking about my brooms reminded my mother of a dear aunt who farmed all her life in the northwestern part of the state. For a wedding gift, my great-aunt gave her daughter-in-law a broom. I thought to myself that this did not sound like a fun wedding present at all, but Mom went on to say that that when her aunt got married, she didn’t have a broom for some time. It weighed on her, and she must have given her daughter-in-law a broom as a way to try to protect her and give her a better life.
Her warm-hearted daughter-in-law recognized the gift for what it was and shared the story with great affection at my great aunt’s funeral.
Once again, I am reminded that I am living out the dreams of relatives that I barely knew, or that I never knew. The freedom from want that I have always known is a gift that they longed to give their children, their grandchildren, and all the babies that they never lived long enough to meet. They were so successful in their efforts that I am often ignorant about the value of what I have been given and about the lives of those who wanted more for me than what they had.
Still, those relatives map the landscape of my life, pointing me in the direction of what they believed was important and right. They are always with me, and I have noticed them especially when I am pregnant. Sometimes I notice them with every breath, as if they were the scent of the summer air.
As my pregnancy enters its very last stages, I am thinking about my dreams for my children and grandchildren, and the babies I will never meet. I am deeply worried about the state of the soil and the climate, and I fear that they may know want that I have never known, brought on by a damaged environment.
Of course I dream of ease for the babies that are yet to come, but I also dream of a durable relationship with the land, perhaps more like the relationship that my relatives once had. I dream that the next generations will be able to see the face of God in the natural things around them, in a way that much of our generation apparently cannot. I dream that they can structure their lives to honor what is holy. I wish for them a love so deep that not even death can hinder it.
(P.S. – I’m 37 weeks pregnant today! No more worries about an early baby, but am still supposed to be taking it very easy. I am so happy and relieved.)
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Jello
During this quiet time, I’ve been able to carefully consider many things. I’ve read two beautiful Quaker books, spent time in worship, and watched the treetops for hours. I’ve worked on a business plan for the farm and drawn up some better organizational plans for the house. But my mind keeps circling back to the troubling state of Quaker potlucks. They lack Jello salads.
Not many people seem bothered by this. Many of them are not even from Minnesota, and so they don’t feel the pull of local tradition. Others feel relieved as they free themselves from that pull. When I disparaged the selection of potluck offerings to a new friend from the Northfield meeting, she disagreed. Other churches offer junk food, she said, but we have a really healthful spread. For example, at the last big potluck, she enjoyed a vegan seaweed lasagna.
Here we get to the real irony of the situation. I probably wouldn’t eat Jello salad at a potluck. After feeling like I had a low-level stomach flu for two years, and seeing several doctors, I finally found a diet that allowed me to feel like a regular person again. The results of the diet were dramatic, and two years later, I’m still feeling good. But I don’t eat preservatives. Or sugar. Or grain. Or mysterious ingredients. Vividly colored Jello, by its very nature, has mysterious ingredients. And often the salads are graced with Cool Whip, another mysterious ingredient.
I can’t move past the idea that I’m failing my family and community by abandoning the traditional Jello salad. It was there at family gatherings, and the funerals of the older generation. When I eat it, I feel connected to good, practical relatives and to good, practical people who might as well be relatives. They strengthen me and feed me and make me laugh. I want them to join me, at least in spirit, at Quaker potlucks.
But what kind of person would bring a potluck dish to church that she won’t eat?
My daughter and I were thumbing through a reprint of a 1950 Betty Crocker cookbook, and I think we discovered a solution. There we found the grandmothers of gelatin salads, made with plain gelatin and fruit and real whipped cream, and juices and even egg whites.
Some day, when I can cook again, I’ll make one of those recipes and bring it to potluck. I’m sure some real traditionalists would dismiss the salad as “different,” but maybe the salads would have been familiar to the real old-timers. Most importantly, I’ll feel that I am doing my very best to remedy a serious situation.
Not many people seem bothered by this. Many of them are not even from Minnesota, and so they don’t feel the pull of local tradition. Others feel relieved as they free themselves from that pull. When I disparaged the selection of potluck offerings to a new friend from the Northfield meeting, she disagreed. Other churches offer junk food, she said, but we have a really healthful spread. For example, at the last big potluck, she enjoyed a vegan seaweed lasagna.
Here we get to the real irony of the situation. I probably wouldn’t eat Jello salad at a potluck. After feeling like I had a low-level stomach flu for two years, and seeing several doctors, I finally found a diet that allowed me to feel like a regular person again. The results of the diet were dramatic, and two years later, I’m still feeling good. But I don’t eat preservatives. Or sugar. Or grain. Or mysterious ingredients. Vividly colored Jello, by its very nature, has mysterious ingredients. And often the salads are graced with Cool Whip, another mysterious ingredient.
I can’t move past the idea that I’m failing my family and community by abandoning the traditional Jello salad. It was there at family gatherings, and the funerals of the older generation. When I eat it, I feel connected to good, practical relatives and to good, practical people who might as well be relatives. They strengthen me and feed me and make me laugh. I want them to join me, at least in spirit, at Quaker potlucks.
But what kind of person would bring a potluck dish to church that she won’t eat?
My daughter and I were thumbing through a reprint of a 1950 Betty Crocker cookbook, and I think we discovered a solution. There we found the grandmothers of gelatin salads, made with plain gelatin and fruit and real whipped cream, and juices and even egg whites.
Some day, when I can cook again, I’ll make one of those recipes and bring it to potluck. I’m sure some real traditionalists would dismiss the salad as “different,” but maybe the salads would have been familiar to the real old-timers. Most importantly, I’ll feel that I am doing my very best to remedy a serious situation.
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