Today, I am grateful.

My rabbity-most,

Today, I feel gratitude for Donald J. Trump, and for my country that overwhelmingly voted for his upcoming presidency.

Given the enormous shock, sadness, and ensuing grief that has enveloped us over the last 24 hours, this may seem like a strange feeling, but here’s why I do.

One of the reasons that we were so horrified as we watched the Trump campaign unfold was because he gave voice to a side of ourselves that we desperately do not want to acknowledge. Through his many months on the campaign trail scorching the earth with his racist, bigoted, sexist, homophobic, able-ist, xenophobic, and isolationist rhetoric, Donald revealed himself to be equal parts unfettered narcissist and deeply, deeply fearful and insecure all at once. He became the representative for a part of our society that feels victimized by the developments of the last eight years, developments that people like you and I feel have been radical advancements toward a more enlightened and just world. Because of the irreconcilable differences between our vision of progress and the vision of Donald’s supporters, I think it is altogether too easy to devolve into an us-versus-them interpretation of events, which is a comfortable scapegoat for the real dynamic at play.

What really scares us is the mirror that Donald and his supports hold to our inner life--to the part of us that fears change, that ceaselessly judges and attacks others, that is looking out only for our own interests and will do anything to protect what we believe is ours. We are all expert at denying, sublimating, and covering over this part of the self, for the most part—except for The Donald, who wore these qualities like a badge of pride, inviting others to join him in his raw, coverless ego. The danger of choosing a candidate who wears the trappings of grace, kindness, goodness and equality, however, is that this side of ourselves remains cleverly hidden and carefully protected; Trump’s ascendance allows us to exorcise this ego self and bring it to light. With his election, we now must acknowledge the allure of these qualities, not just in those who voted for him but in human nature as a whole, and in ourselves as individuals.  The exposure of this psychological cover-up feels so terrifying and sickening now, but once our eyes adjust to the light, we might be able to welcome this chapter of American life as an opportunity to examine our fear, hatred, and attractions to guilt and judgment so that they may be healed. I am grateful for the opportunity to examine this part of myself as it has manifested on the global stage, and to practice radical forgiveness of what I see there.

Like you and so many other mothers and fathers across the country, one of the first things I found myself thinking about when I heard the news was my daughter’s future. How will I explain this to her? What will she ask me when she learns about the things Trump said about women like her, minorities like her? How can I raise her in a world where a person who said those things--and very likely perpetrated repeated sexual assaults and aggressions against women for many years—can be elected President? How could we let this happen? I felt fearful to the point of nausea. Over the course of the day, though, the fog began to lift and the silver lining began to reveal itself.

Initially all I could do was fear what my daughter might lack in the future as a result of this election, when I could be focusing on what she might gain. What I see now is an opportunity to teach my daughter how to fix her eyes on the eternal, rather than to dwell on the impermanent. To train her mind on the things that never change rather than on those that inevitably do. There is nothing like a crushing societal blow to remind us that everything in this world is temporary—our leaders, our movements, our homes and careers, even our very bodies. Having a president in office that I have loved, respected, trusted, and generally believed was the best president any country has ever had created an environment in which I became invested in these temporary gains, and in the daily or weekly turns of events that would reflect that investment. I cheered with his accomplishments and became bitter and resentful when he was criticized or prevented from acting. In so doing I turned over much power to these shifting and changing winds of the world, imbuing the external with a force it doesn’t actually have: to decide for me how I feel, to take my attention away from my own growth, to be the bell-weather of my happiness and my salvation. This is not to say that I don’t or shouldn’t feel deeply connected to the movement that gave us eight amazing Obama years, or to the causes he bravely championed on behalf of all Americans—I will always be proud to have been part of that time and I will always become tearful when I hear him speak. But it does mean that I must now welcome the reckoning staved off by those eight years and become more fixed on what lies beyond the shifting, changing landscape of all endeavors, political and otherwise.

This is what I want for my daughter, too. Through my example, I pray that she will learn to turn to love as her guide—both the divine Love that goes by so many earthly names and the mundane loving expressions in everyday life through which it is reflected.  I pray that she will be strong and powerful, and to know that she is capable of anything so long as she knows who she is. I pray that she has a happy and comfortable earthly life, but not so comfortable that she lacks the motivation to seek for the deeper truth and peace that simply cannot be found in the world of the material. I pray that she engages fully with the world around her, making her decisions—including for whom she votes—thoughtfully, carefully, and with her mind turned toward the needs of those less fortunate than she, but that she also holds fast to the knowledge that no man, woman, child or president has the power to take away her peace or rob her of her mind. I pray that I will model these ideals for her, and that I don’t waver in my attention to what is absolutely real: Love, and knowledge.

So today I gladly exchange my attachment to my identity as a citizen of this country to my identity as a member of the timeless thread of consciousness. A being of light and love, capable of radical forgiveness, with my mind fixed on the formless, changeless reality that binds us all together. Rather than dwell on the ways in which I might think of myself as a victim, let me bind my heart more to those whose pain resulted in the outcome of this election. Let me have a servant’s heart, pursuing not what is in my selfish interest but what is good and loving for my husband, my daughter, my family and friends, my community. Let me use this opportunity to embrace the darkest, ugliest side of myself and my world, and emerge with greater compassion and a gentle smile. Let me not mourn the future I thought we would have, but embrace the gifts of the present moment, always. Let me be kind, and let me let love lead the way.

Always, always yours,

M.Wings

On....well, everything

My rabbity-rabbit of Love,

Perhaps it is an attempt to re-create a sense of togetherness that has been lost since we lived in huts and caves and had our babies together, in concert, in community. Perhaps it is a way of continually processing the shock and trauma of pregnancy, childbirth, and becoming a parent. Or maybe it is just the endless chatter of our own egos, always speaking first and almost always about ourselves. But no matter the purpose, it seems that the giving of unsolicited advice from parent to parent is a rite of passage, an unavoidable minefield of suggestions, tips, and pearls of wisdom--many of which are actually helpful. As a frequent GOUA (giver of unsolicited advice), I know that it is almost always done with the best of intentions, but sometimes received in a wholly different way. As a new parent, I am now familiar with the staple medium-smile and gracious head nod that goes with yet another piece of advice, usually given in declarative style such as "You'll never get that baby out of your bed," or "You're going to have to let her cry it out sometimes," and "Don't give her a pacifier. She'll never grow regular teeth." On at least three occasions I recall such statements being hurled at us from non-parents, people who have just heard bad stories about parenting from their friends and weren't sure what else to say to a new mother.

Of course, the vast majority of the time, unsolicited advice is helpful, because it comes from someone who has had a baby or two, and who genuinely wants to help. Shit, I am writing a blog and am about to lay down a few pearls of my own right this minute--that's what parents do to help each other. However, as a therapist I also work with clients who have difficulty communicating, sometimes because they lack the skills to do so in a clear, conscious, boundary-d way, which includes simple tactics such as using "I" statements and owning our experience without projecting it onto others. One night about three weeks after Kaya was born, T and I went for a walk and talked at length about all the advice we'd received, and how our experience of pregnancy, childbirth, and becoming parents was so radically personal that we could not imagine telling someone definitively what to expect--it's just not possible to predict. Even if you could predict some constants (labor will hurt, babies will cry, you will not sleep much, etc etc), you could not possibly predict another person's experience of those events. Thus, I promised myself that in the future, should I feel the need to be a GOUA, I would speak only of my own experience, and not project what I've been through onto others. This is a small gift we can give to one another--the gift of our own wisdom without the expectation that any one person's experience can or should be the same as another's. With that in mind, oh, sweet Rabbity-most, here is a list of some wisdom I found helpful in my own time.

Things that I Found Helpful

• Two days after Kaya was born, my neighbor Erin, mother of two, dropped off a care package for us (the necessities: apples, beer, Reese's peanut butter eggs) and told me her three rules for the first weeks at home with a newborn. She said that if you can accomplish one of these each day, you should consider yourself a champion of parenthood. Two, and you don't have to do anything else. Three and you might actually feel like a normal human again. The rules are: 1) talk to an adult human (who is not your partner), 2) leave the house, even if just for a short walk, and 3) take a shower. Now as you know, even in the best of times, a shower more often than once a week is an heroic feat for me, so I will admit that in the early days of Kaya’s infancy she was subject to less than ideal smelling conditions with me, her mother. But, that’s the great thing about babies—they don’t really notice and they most certainly don’t care, because your smell, even if it is a little scraggly, is their very favorite one. However, the shower advice is less about hygiene and more about sanity, alone-time, and comfort, which I only know now that I’ve started forcing myself to have one every two days (!!).

• You’ll recall that Chanell and I had babies approximately two weeks apart. Our experience of pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood have been very different indeed, but alas, the miracle of it all is that there are some sweetly universal elements of this experience as well. The ecstasy and terror of these first weeks of motherhood escape almost no one, and that is what makes the community of motherhood your new home. As such, it is other mothers that will provide you the most comfort, the most wisdom, and the clearest picture of how you might go forward when you are sure you have hit the end of your line. I will never forget Chanell imparting to me two pieces of wisdom that she herself gained from Courtney, herself a mother now. The first is, moms always do more. No matter how equitably you may divide the baby-caring responsibilities, no matter how many well-intentioned family members show up to “help” you, you are Lucy’s mother and you will always do the lion’s share of the work to keep her safe, alive, and happy. It helped me greatly to own that piece of wisdom, accept it as true, and then release myself from any expectation that it might be otherwise. Ultimately, I found great freedom and joy in being able to provide for Kaya all by myself for the most part, and found the help of others, especially my husband, to be just a miraculous little treat.

The second piece of advice was: whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it right. Perhaps you’ve realized by now that your life and your parenting are now open for debate by essentially everyone in the world, like it or not. You will be told over and over again what you are doing right and wrong (hopefully more of the former than the latter), and even if it isn’t said outright, you will certainly be made to feel as though you are just a notch above the drug-addicted prostituting mothers on the news when you do something that doesn’t fit with another person’s idea of parenthood. For my part, I have done just about everything “wrong;” we co-sleep, sometimes with our baby on her belly, surrounded by pillows and blankets (though I am always careful to arrange them just-so, and I am confident she has never been in danger of any kind). I nurse her to sleep and have never let her cry alone in her crib. She goes to bed at the “wrong” time and wakes me up all night long. She has never been left alone with a single human other than Tyson and is not in a baby playgroup of any kind. And you know what? She is already a being of other-worldly intelligence and empathy. She is sensitive, kind, happy, and healthy, and I am reassured every single day of my life that we are doing exactly what she needs in exactly the way she needs it. I didn’t anticipate parenting in this fashion and I am sure you will be shocked by your own parenting in a similar way. But don’t worry—whatever you are doing, you are doing it right.

• For me, becoming a parent to Kaya was the most empowering experience of my life. It allowed me to come face-to-face with my own strength and internal teacher. It forced me to rely on wisdom both within and outside myself to which I never would have been otherwise open.  And it gave me the incentive and the sheer will to transform relationships in my life that were not healthy or worthy of the world of this precious being in their current form. As such, I had to set boundaries and insist on new ways of relating with many people, especially those in my family, in the early weeks of life with my daughter. This came in myriad forms, more than need be detailed here now, but one simple form was that of allowing others to hold her. Now, Kaya has been a highly sensitive one from the start, and our bond was forged in steel the second she came earthside; she is and always has been deeply attached to me, and has always desired bodily closeness 24 hours a day. Partially due to this aspect of her personality and partially to the hormonal tidal wave of early motherhood, I found that I wanted to scream/throw up/impale myself on something sharp if I was away from her for more than 5-10 minutes at first, and certainly no more than 30 minutes as the weeks went on. The only person I wanted holding her for any extended period was Tyson, and I got itchy and fussy if someone fought me on that. I regret not one second of that and you should not either, if you feel similarly. This period of bonding is one you will never get again, and after all you and Lucy have both been through you deserve every second of bleary-eyed, honeyed hormonal cuddling you can get. And if you don’t feel like you need to hold her constantly, and/or Lucy is less needy than Kaya was, that is perfectly fine too; you may work in a bit more self-care than I did, and that is just as important as the rest.

• My friend Catherine introduced me to this blog when Kaya was about a week old. I was still in the throes of post-partum emotional upheaval, and the way it hit me in the gut resonates inside me to this day, 10 months later. It may or may not do the same for you, and you may or may not relate to its content, but I found it comforting to know that another mother knew how to describe the heaviness of this love in a way I could not yet articulate.

• Kaya had some stomach issues in the early days that were helped greatly by this magical potion. I recommend having some on hand, just in case—it is a probiotic that aids in digestion of milk and may save your life if Lucy has a fussy belly.

You can rest assured that there is more where that came from, anytime you want it. And perhaps sometimes when you don’t.

I love you in all the ways,

M.Wings

A Letter to My Best Friend, On the Birth of Her First Baby

My dear sweet rabbit,

So it is. The day has come, the day that you have thought about since you were old enough to think of such things: you are meeting your daughter for the first time. In the minutes, hours, and days to come, your world will turn upside-down in ways that both enliven and shock you, and you will find it hard to believe that the earth itself continues to spin as if you were not viewing it from your new, upside-down perch. It is with this understanding in mind that I write to you, not out of a need to guide you or impose my own experience upon yours but as a welcome to the community of which you have just become a part, through a most difficult and triumphant initiation. Very soon you will feel a connection to the mothers of the world that defies even your own understanding, and you will need that connection very much—you will cry out for it, perhaps literally at times. As a person who loves you oh so much and has walked only a few short steps ahead of you on this particular part of the journey, I hope mine is among the first of hands to reach out to you and pull you in close for this tender, groggy, perfect slice of life.

Throughout your pregnancy, you may have felt an undercurrent of transformation swelling in your every-day being, slowly and evenly bringing you closer to the knowledge of how things were about to change. Perhaps this transformation was not so slow and even, but chunky and volcanic, rising up and choking you on its way to the surface. Or, maybe out of unreasonable luck (and/or a healthy denial), you were blissfully unaware of it, able to experience only the joyful and exciting elements of the process. For me, this groundswell peaked in a moment about a week before Kaya was born, when I realized that it was no longer going to be just Tyson and me in our relationship anymore, and that I rather liked my life, just Tyson and me. I was hit with a tremendous fear of what that change was going to mean for us, and a sense of grief over the loss of our happy two-some (if you are feeling this same thing, don’t worry: that’s not at all how I ended up experiencing it. Isn’t that always how it goes?). And I’m glad that the change in me began announcing its presence before Kaya arrived on the scene for real, because it helped to prepare me for the real trial of my life, the first weeks of motherhood.

If you are lucky enough to have navigated the minefield of worries and doubts throughout pregnancy (is she kicking too much? Not enough? Is my shower too hot? Was there lunchmeat in that sandwich? Was that gas or am I in early labor? Is she alive in there?) without too many of them being true, you can thank your lucky stars, and prepare for a whole new set of them now (why is her poop that color? Does she have a fever? Did I shake her too hard last night when I was so tired? Is she eating enough? Too much? Can I actually keep this baby alive?). I do think it is possible to prepare for this phenomenon, largely by reminding yourself over and over and over again that every day, thousands of babies are born without incident, from the halls of the greatest medical centers in the world to the jungles of Borneo, and they all turn out to be just fine. Great, even. Almost every condition you can talk yourself (or Google yourself—more on that later) into believing she has is an extreme rarity, but the presence of social media and a vast network of fear-based news reels make it seem like she is bound to experience some awful affliction. I once watched a soccer game with a family high in the mountains of Puerto Rico and had to temper my judgment as I observed their 4-year-old skitter across a rocky mountain ledge, naked but for a pair of Princess Jasmine underpants, fearlessly above a long slope into deep jungle while their mother fed the baby (3 months old? Maybe 4?) orange soda from a dirty bottle and their father smoked weed in the next room. Two years later at my next visit I saw that family, and those little girls were healthy, happy, bi-lingual and able to identify every plant on their little rocky ledge above the deep jungle, perhaps because their parents did not shield them from their world. Of course, I don’t condone feeding your baby orange soda or letting her clamber around rocky ledges (or smoking weed around her), but I won’t judge you if you do any of those things, and the odds of her turning out just fine if you do are overwhelming.

Now. While I think it is possible to prepare for those thoughts and their impact on your life, I believe there is an equally intense phenomenon in the early weeks with a baby for which preparation is absolutely not possible. It goes by many names and no name at all, and turns up for each mother differently (note: I’m sure it is also experienced by fathers and by people who become parents through adoption, surrogacy or other means, but my own experience was colored specifically by the biological intricacies of childbirth, breastfeeding, and the ensuing hormonal tidal wave, as I imagine yours will be). Baby blues, the fog of war, nesting, post-partum sensitivity and depression, love…..these are all descriptions of the various facets of this time, which cannot be adequately captured by any one term; it is too highly dimensional, too holographic, too everything-and-its-opposite-all-in-one to be defined by language or other conventional logic. And this, this is the nature of the thing that is both indescribable and impossible not to describe, but which will deliver you to your own motherhood, sure as the sun.

My sweetest friend, I know you. I know that crook in your neck, softened by pregnancy and pain, that would ache from staring at her so many hours in the day were it not for the delicious balm of her beautiful face. I know that toe-curling cringe that comes with her latching on to your breast, and the joy flowing like a burst dam when she finally gets her milk, gulp gulp gulp, and your pain lessens with each suck. I know your bleary-eyed look in the night when all you want to do is sleep, but you can’t stop looking at her and worrying if she will stop breathing the moment you look away. I know that heaviness just behind your eyes, the result of accumulating thoughts that you are dying to share with your husband except that you know he can’t understand and you fear that he will think you’re insane, thoughts such as: how will I ever live again, with my heart walking around outside of me in this baby girl? How will I get through this world without ever getting sick again, and certainly without dying, because I can’t ever leave her alone? What have I done to myself, and will anything ever be normal ever again? And most of all, I know that feeling. The feeling that you have about her, the one that constantly threatens to topple you. The love that feels so enormous that you are not sure there is room enough in your heart to accommodate it all, so overwhelming that it consumes your every thought, so heavy that it feels as though your heart might just break and you will collapse under its weight. Precious friend, new mama to her, you are not alone in this feeling, and it is this fiery crucible in which you die to your old self and are reborn again into motherhood. This is the rite of passage through which you become a guardian of the life you now hold in your hands, the process that will soften you and see you through to a sacred relationship beyond just your two bodies, holding onto each other in the night. This is it, sweet one.

When I was first learning about midwifery from my friend Katherine Williams, herself a trained homebirth midwife, she told me that there was one tool she always used in birth work, one that never failed her and saw many a mother through the inevitable I-can’t-do-this moment of birth. She said that she would tell the mother to sit up against a bed or wall and visualize a long lineage of women, mothers before her, all sitting up behind and against her, pushing right along with her with the strength they found in their own births. My sincerest hope is that throughout the bleary, misty early weeks of your new life with Lucy and Ben, you will remember this same metaphor, but now used to give you strength for the soul-touching, heart-cracking process of growing into motherhood. I hope that when you are in the moments that you are sure will topple you and you ache for rest, you will breathe into the arms of the women and mothers around you and gather the strength for just one more push, one more night, one more feeding through relentless pain. And I hope the first arms you feel in that embrace are mine.