One of the books that has been sitting on my nightstand for a while is There is No Such Thing as Bad Weather. I finally got around to reading it, and had an epiphany almost as soon as I started: no more playgrounds for us! In an attempt to visit places where the little unicorn can meet others, we have traipsed all over town looking for playgrounds these past winter months. Beside the fact that more often they were completely deserted, I seemed to always be counting down the number of times I was going to carry her to the top of the slide or hold her hand as she walked over towers that are always slightly too high. I realised that most playgrounds are inanimate and uninspiring places made out of dead wood that are in fact not very child (or parent) friendly. So let’s go into the woods together to play hide and seek, climb over fallen branches, marvel at the fields of Indian Lillies, learn about ants and other small critters, enjoy our little picnic and visit the place where the fairies live.
It was during the Wolf Moon that our rainbow baby first arrived. I carried her for the next nine moons, dancing with her and singing lullabies. One fine day in the library I found the most beautiful book My journey within: Your way to a Free Birth and made a birth plan with sweet drawings. To reduce the risk of stillbirth we were offered an induction at 39 weeks, which felt like the safest choice. But as we got closer to the due date, we continued to struggle with the decision. I read all the leaflets and the underlying research, but it felt like an impossible decision. Science or nature? Control or trust? It was only when I remembered Women Who Run With the Wolves that I understood that there is a time for burying the dead and a time for birthing babies, and by choosing force to get her out we were superimposing our grief on her birth and disrupting the natural rhythm of life. So instead we created a despacho ritual to let go of the past and bless her birth, whenever she was ready.
It’s still early morning as I go outside on the balcony with my cup of tea. It is the end of the summer and the light is starting to change already. Looking at my potted plants, I notice that there are three seeds dangling in the silky threads of a spider web. It reminds me of the midsummer day that my love and I spend in a hazy field of wild horses and golden flowers. It was on that day that I caught a little seed head flying through the air. We marveled at it together, before I released it again. We watched as it was caught by the wind and carried towards its destiny. After the sun had set, we said farewell. Can you believe that when my love got home that night, he found it beside his pillow? It was then that I realised that we had a shared destiny. And you see… now there are three of them. Life expands that way. If you breathe into something, it will grow. Maybe not always in the way that you expect or hope, or as quickly as you wish for it to happen, but in some mysterious way it always does.
This winter was one of the darkest winters in years. At first it seemed it would be beautiful season, full of new adventures and love. It was the discovery of a tiny heart beating inside of me that illuminated our world. Isn’t it the most miraculous thing, to carry the seed of life within you? From that day on you are the guardian of another living being, protecting it with all your might. Words fail to describe the sadness and grief when this little heart stops beating. Together we surrendered to the dark, letting it cut more deep. It was only after a few days that I realised that somewhere inside I might be holding onto it, not wanting to let it go… but that eventually I would have to. Over the years I’ve learned that rituals help with grief, so that night we put a blossoming Curcuma flower on a silver tray in the middle of the room and lit three candles around it, a healing stone and seashell heart, and as the sage was burning and the drum beating, I cut the seed of life and offered it up to the stars.
I used to be so creative as a child. The walls of our kitchen were covered with my work, colourful paint splattered across every canvas I could get my hands on. But then something changed: it happened on the first day of the fourth grade. Our new teacher handed out beige notebooks with a little house on the cover, blotting paper between every page. I got to work with my usual enthusiasm, but when it was time to show our assignments to the class, I came to realise that my drawing wasn’t very ‘good’. Everyone was in awe of the horse that one of my classmates had drawn. And there was a girl who had made a beautiful, realistic portrait: eyes, lips, hair – all so perfectly captured. Until then I hadn’t had the faintest idea that I couldn’t draw, but there it was. Eleven years of art classes ensued, and how I hated every minute of them. Do schools kill creativity? In my case, they did. For sure. It took me thirty years to build up the courage to say: Master Henk, I won’t be coming back!