The Story Midwife

A Croaking, er... A Singing I Will Go

Well, today's the big day!  I head to Des Moines for a concert tomorrow evening.  I'll begin the day by co-leading a music and movement experience with Mary Ellen Lewis,  InterPlay woman extraordinaire.  We'll frolic with drums and voices and hands and feet and bellies. I can't wait.

Then I'll close down the evening with a concert - my first solo concert in nearly a decade!  I've been feeling the call to solo performance for a few years. I think now I'm brave enough to do it.  I of course perform bits and pieces on my own while leading retreats or workshops and the like. But doing a whole 90 minute concert (guitar and all!) on one's own is a different animal all together.  I'm looking forward to it.

One thing. I've been sick all week and have very little voice to speak of. I'm not worried that I'll be completely without voice, but it's a concern nonetheless. I'm drinking lots of Throat Coat Tea, taking tinctures, and trying to rest. Hopefully with another 24 hours of rest I'll be okay. If you feel so moved, I invite your prayers, reiki, loving, healing energy, and good wishes for hitting those powerful, out-there notes with ease!  Thanks!  I'll let you know how it goes!

Now. Time to pack up those drums and re-fill my tea mug!

Here's the the long Iowa road ahead.
Love and deep bows!

One more thing...

Ooh, Ooh!  I forgot to include perhaps the most fundamental gift of feminism in my earlier post. Without this piece, the list is grossly incomplete. If you have not read that post you'll be stepping in mid-stream. So go read it first, then come back...

Okay. Now that you're caught up, we'll continue.

The greatest gift of feminism in my life is my understanding of a holy, loving, Mother God. I grew up with the image of a severe man-god who was out to get me. The church of my childhood included the reading of the Ten Commandments at the start of every Sunday morning church service. No kidding.

When the faith of my childhood began to crumble uncontrollably, I sought out new ways to image God. Actually, it felt more like the God of many faces began showing herself to me. I was both terrified and drawn with everything in me. I devoured books such as A God Who Looks Like Me, Praying with Julian of Norwich, In Whose Image?, and The Feminine Face of God.

Over time, I felt born anew. It was as if I had been simultaneously birthed from the heart of this Mothering God, and birthed from the heart of myself while being midwifed by this Mother God. And it's changed everything.

I think it is only because of this experience that I am able to claim and recognize any of the other five gifts of feminism in my life.

Procrastination, Beans, and the Gifts of Feminism

I love beans.  All beans.  Black beans, pintos, kidneys, garbanzos, black-eyed peas, navys, limas - you name it, I probably like it. When Richard and I first got together we tittered about how he introduced me to hot wings and I taught him about the wonder of beans. Today I am soaking and boiling beans to stock up and freeze in my new deep freeze!  (A wonderful birthday gift from my parents! Thanks mom and dad!) All four burners of my stove top are firing away. I've got pintos, kidney beans and black-eyed peas swimming away, and the tea kettle is humming a little tune as to keep my green tea ever warm. Steaminess is everywhere. The windows of the kitchen are dripping with condensation, lending a mysterious quality to the task at hand. Each time I arise to stir and check I wonder if these pots of beans are somehow talking to one another - ruminating about this transfiguration of sorts that asks for yielding to a consuming hotness so that a plump softness may arise. I can learn a lot from a bean.

I also just pulled a loaf of Bob's Red Mill Homemade Wonderful GF Bread Mix bread out of my bread machine. I hope it tastes okay; it smells bad. Nothing against Bob; in general, I really like his food. Especially this breakfast cereal.

In case you're wondering how I have the time to do all this when it's not a Sammy school day, I'm home alone this weekend. Such gift it has been.  Richard is away leading a worship and music conference and consultation at a church in Milwaukee. Sammy got to spend two days at the "farm" with Richard's parents. I have gotten to move about our home in solitude. A rarity, I tell you, that I am drinking in with everything in me.

I had hoped to spend a good deal of time working on a freelance writing project I was assigned a few days ago, the first looks of which are due tomorrow.  But alas, I am procrastinating. In an effort of avoidance I'm clicking through my blog roll and hanging out with some of my favorite voices from literally across the planet.  It's much more fun than work writing. Okay, I'm not just avoiding; I'm feeling a little dry and aimless with where to begin. Add to the procrastination bucket the fact that there are several topics/updates I want to blog about, and I feel even less interested in work writing. Perhaps blogging a bit will get the juices flowing.

First, look here. I visited this morning, and as the resistance to work-write strikes I'll visit again. Luscious, I say!

Second, I'm still rolling about in the time and prayers and words shared with my spiritual director last Thursday. In time, I will share more about that here. But not yet.

Third, look here and scroll to the October 16 entry. Kristin's tagged me in my first ever meme!  I get to consider five things feminism has done for me.  Let's go!

Not surprisingly, many of the gifts of feminism center around relationship: with myself, with my husband, with my son, with the world around me.

1. When I consider my relationship with myself, I immediately think of BODY. I think it's in part because of the feminist movement that I get to talk about my body out loud, in private and in public. Here on this blog, for instance, I can say out loud that I have orgasms. Fabulous orgasms. Rock-the-house and thunder-in-my-soul orgasms.  And quiet, gentle, ever-so-compassionate orgasms. And move-me-to-healing-tears orgasms. And playful, romping orgasms. (Hmmm, turns out the steaminess in my house is not just on my windows, but arising in my belly, too. When WILL my beloved be home?!) Because my husband was also raised with the gifts of feminism, my body is important to him. We talk about sex. He cares about my pleasure. He is genuinely interested in my moon cycles. Interested, people!  He LOVES the fact that I bleed in rhythm with the moon. This is obviously a gift of who Richard is as a person, I know; but I believe it is also because he was raised by gender-equality minded parents and we live in a time when even at his Christian liberal arts college he was required to read Our Bodies, Ourselves. Amazing, really. (In fact, it was Richard who gifted me with my first copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves.)

2. Another aspect of my relationship with my body is knowing that if I get pregnant and for whatever reason choose not to remain pregnant or am unable to carry the child to term, I may choose to terminate the pregnancy.  While I have never had an abortion and do not foresee that I will need to, knowing this option is available to me is a great gift. Knowing that my husband is also on the same page is an even greater gift.

3. Writing. Women writing is a damn fine boon of feminism. I remember when as a teenager I first encountered the writings of Julian of Norwich and thought it insane that she was among the first women writers to be published. It was the 14th century, for goodness sake! Women long before and since Julian have had worthy, brilliant, life-altering words within them. I am so grateful to live in an era where I can explore my own inner world of words and share them at will.

4. As a mama who values feminism, I get to be conscious and intentional in my parenting. It is by intended choice that Sammy has a female doctor and a female dentist. He knows that women are pastors and firefighters and mamas and motorcycle drivers. He knows that men are nurses, stay-at-home daddies, teachers, and really great cheesecake makers. I hope someday he gets to see a woman as president of the United States. When it came time to consider how we would both work and care for our newborn Sammy, I knew that I could stay home with him because I wanted to - not because it was my society's inherent expectation of me by way of my vagina and breasts. Thankfully, this view is shared by my husband.  Which leads me to...

5. My relationship with my husband.  For more on this one visit number 1, 2, and 4 above.

And there you have it. 

As for passing on the meme, I tag Christine, The Red Barn, Shannon, Bette, and LBP. (Maybe even LBP's divine daughters??!  Do I sense a project coming on?)

Turns out while I loved the whole process of this writing it didn't offer me the creative kick in the pants I was hoping for; I'd rather go read in the bathtub than get to work on that writing project.  And since I'm only home alone a few more hours, I will. I wish not to pass up another opportunity to make some steam.

Steamily yours,
SM

Nest TWO!

Prologue: I'm going to experiment here, okay?  Instead of attempting to gather some thoughts into a coherent something-or-another before writing, I am using this writing space as a way to understand more of what is happening inside me. Consider yourself my lovely therapists. If the whole post feels a bit disjointed, don't say you weren't forewarned!
________________________________________

Good God.
I swear -- I SWEAR -- I have no idea what is going on.

Nest number two found me today.  After we came in the house from the bus stop, Richard came to me and said, "There's a nest in the front yard."  Gasp!  For those who are keeping track, this is two nests in 10 days.

So of course I leapt from my chair and went to inspect.  Then ran back in to grab the camera. 

This is not a half-nest. It is whole. And filled with leaves. It's amazing, amazing, amazing.  So delicately and powerfully woven is this nest, crafted together with grass and branches and horse hair and sheep wool fuzzies and tule fabric. Tears fill my eyes as I write.  What is this nesting thing about???

Indulge me, will you, as I read a bit about nests in one of my symbol books:

This book, Denise Linn's Secret Language of Signs, says this:

Nest:

• A nest is a sign of incubating ideas or projects.
• When you are nesting, you are creating a warm, cozy, safe space within your home. This is an excellent sign for congenial family life and domestic affairs.
• A nest can be a sign that it is time to pull inward for rejuventation. Go into your inner nest and incubate there for a while. There are times in life when you need to be still and inward and times when you need to be outward and expansive. if you see a nest, this could mean that it is time or you to withdraw into yourself for a period of renewal.

Okay. Sounds a bit like getting ready for winter.  I like that.

None of my other symbol books (some of which I like better for their historical context and/or women's spirituality connections) have "nest" listed.  Hmmm. Doesn't this seem like an archetypal symbol???

Some background information:

• The half-nest was in the backyard; the whole nest was found in the front yard.
• The half-nest was an immediate reminder of death and the women I know who are dying.
• The whole-nest comes to me on a morning when I am thinking about the dance in my life between these things: food, exercise, money/debt, lack, abundance, spiritual practice, teaching/learning, (meditation, prayer, writing, art-making, songwriting, etc.). They all seem to inform one another in ways I cannot untangle right now.

Well, golly. As long as we're experimenting, can we try something else?  If you've been hanging around here awhile you know that dreams are important to me, and dreamwork is one of my spiritual practices. When sharing dreams with one another, it is standard practice to share one's insights by prefacing the comments as such: "If it were my dream...". This isn't a soft way to whip the dreamer into shape with the sharer's most dazzling sagacity. It truly is a practice of seeing through the lens of one's own life, and sharing what would be true for that individual if she had had the dream herself.

So I ask you: Knowing what you know about this nest story (limited though it may be), what would it mean if you had found it?  If this was your "dream" what images, thoughts, stories, insights, blessings and questions would arise for you?

Now, are you ready for this picture?  As with the half-nest I placed it around and inside my home snapping pictures. Rather than sharing them all, I will share just one. I played around with this image in Photoshop - I have no idea how I did this as I am so new to this software and usually just flubb things up instead of making them prettier. This time, however, something in the spirit of the nest came forth.

I am absolutely smitten.

 

(Click on the photo to see full-size.)

She seems to want a name, though I don't yet know what it is.

Scattered around it are buckeyes, a pecan from my neighbor Ev's tree, and yes, that IS a little two-pronged, lime-green Lego. (What good eyes you have!) I am a mama, afterall.  The nest is exactly as I found it, leaves and all. I took the liberty of adding the buckeyes, pecan, and Lego that were in a red, octagon-shaped bowl on our bookshelf.

Whatcha think?

P.S.  I must shower now and scamper out the door. As soon as I found this nest this morning I called my spiritual director to see if she had an opening today perchance. She does!

P.P.S. I joined RevGalBlogPals!  My site should be listed among the other amazing sites soon. Who among you is part of this community?

Shameless Plug

Excuse me while I shamelessly plug myself, friends.

I've just uploaded a new song for download on my website.  Called We Remember Them, it is the song I mentioned in my previous post.

Visit my other blog to

• read the story behind the song, including how and why it was written;
• and hear a little snippet;
• purchase and download instantly!
• 
  

Okay. Back to your regularly scheduled programming...

Keeping Vigil: An Altar of Attending

This is a deep and wide post that has taken me nearly all day to write so grab your tea and snuggle in...

Last week I shared about Heather and G. In the next few days, G will be leaving the hospital for the last time and entering hospice care at her father's home. G's life is coming to a close and, in Heather's words, her circle is getting smaller and smaller to include just a select few. Heather continues to walk very closely with G and her family. Your continued prayers, candle lightings, songs and dances of healing are so greatly appreciated.

I am holding several stories of women who are dying or have recently died right now. Some of them I know, most I have never met but hold their stories through clients and friends. I so deeply struck by these women and their stories. I seem to carry them like a seed in my belly. Sometimes I find that I have turned my head to look out the window at my naked trees, wondering what these women are thinking in that moment. What is happening in their bodies? What do they know that I will not know until I am approaching the end of my life? What do their prayers sound like in their mouths? Feel like in their bellies? Look like in their eyes? 

In the last few days these wonderings have begun to stretch out to include the women all over the planet who are dying. Right now. And right now. And now, too.

Yesterday while Sammy and I were outside throwing the boomerang around, I found a half-finished nest under our ancient lilac trees. Or maybe it was a falling-apart nest, I’m not sure. Somehow, in an instant, this half-nest represented all these women - known and unknown - that I have been praying with. I thought of G – and the women who are saying goodbye to life so much sooner than they expected to. Women who will not marry; women who will not mother; women who will leave behind children and lovers and neighbors and best friends; women whose dying is prolonged; women who are dying suddenly or violently or in great pain.

My hands and body knew what to do: I fetched the camera, then set this small, half-nest all around our house and yard taking pictures and praying as I went. It was quick and spontaneous.

Here's the half-nest and a few of the places we prayed together:

On my lap...

Cupped gently in my hand...

Among a five-year-old's toys in a rusty wagon... 

In a cracked-open pottery vessel,
a tulip bulb nearby...

 

Atop weathered corner bricks... 

 

Then, I ascended the steps to my office / meditation room to completely dismantle my altar and re-set it to receive the half-nest. 

Here:

 

The window shows the view from my office. That's our naked tree on the left, and our fiery orange one on the right.

Some close-ups:

 

 

In addition to the nest the altar holds items of special meaning:

• Lit stick of my favorite incense;
• Candle made for me by a little girl - also the candle I used in the placenta burial ritual; 
• Tibetan bell, which we call the Bell of Kindness;
• A Talking staff that appeared in my life at a spiritually transformational time, and has been held by hundreds of women in sacred circle;
• Pocket goddess token;
• Bundle of sage and sweet grass;
• Glass star and two pieces of broken glass;
• Heart-shaped rock; 
• Two goddesses, a tree goddess and Gaia,  keep guard on the window sill.

I feel as though I must midwife this altar today. When one stick of incense goes out I whip out another and light it up. I ring the bell and bow to a women - any woman - on the planet who is dying.

Please hear me: this is not morbid!  (At least not to me, though some may beg to differ.)  Nor I am depressed or heavy-hearted. I am full. And I'm compelled to keep vigil. Is anyone else keeping vigil with these women? What about those who die alone or frightened or without anyone to hold their hand? Today I feel as though I cannot let this go unnoticed.

Last week it was one year ago that my Aunt Lori committed suicide. She died utterly alone in her basement. Today I keep vigil for those like her.

We do not know how to die well in our culture. I guess I want to learn about this for myself. And when I really need/want to learn something I do just what I'm doing: I read about it, write about it, make songs, do rituals, look at pictures, pray, light candles of vigil, take long baths, gather up stories in my story pouch and pass them around.

I am in the process of writing some songs and rituals for women who are dying, including a sacred cirlce ritual for women to do with a woman near the end of her life.

A few weeks after Aunt Lori's death I wrote a song called We Remember Them inspired by the Jewish poem of the same title. In a few days I will be offering this song for download from my website in honor of the approaching Mexican celebration, Day of the Dead. (More on D of the D here and here and here.)

I'm finding that I have absolutely no idea how to wrap this post up.  All my thesis summation ideas feel utterly inadequate. So I'll ask some questions - since that's what this Story Midwife does - and see where the conversation goes, okay?

Can you imagine creating an altar for the women who are dying today?

Who in your life is dying right now? How are you companioning her/him?

Are you afraid of dying? Why or why not?

What rituals do you have to mark the passing of those whom you love?

If you knew you only had a few weeks to live, what would you most want/need to do for closure?  What rituals and prayers would be most important to you?

How do you want to be remembered?

Accordion Revolution

So, people. I'm looking for an accordion. I have wanted to learn for quite awhile and have been on the lookout for an instrument. I know there have to be dozens of folks out there who have their uncle's dusty old accordion up in their attic or behind the ironing board in their closet -- and they'd be delighted to have someone take it off their hands and put it to good use. But after a year of looking I still haven't found those folks. So I'm puting out the Accordion S.O.S. here. Do you have one? Does your grandmother? Your next door neighbor? Your sister-in-law's great aunt Mildred? I like things with history, so a vintage accordion that's still got a few miles left in her is a grand inspiration that sets my foot a-tapping.

Why the accordion, you may ask? (As nearly everyone does when I tell them.) Let me list the ways:

It's quirky.  And so am I.

The accordion has shown up in many of the world's music. Think polka, Celtic, folk, Jazz, Scandinavian, Latin, Italian, Old World, even African! I like that in an instrument. I strive to be that adaptable and worldly.

It's old.

It's new.

It uses air - like breath - to "sing."

It's more portable than my 300-pound "portable" keyboard.

I'd like to teach Sammy, my 5-year old, to play. Then we can have a little trio of Mama & Sammy on the accordion and Daddy on the guitar.

Every picture of every accodion player I've ever seen just has a little..., well, SOMETHING about them. They're a little outside the lines. Let me just say I ADORE that in a person!

Finally. I'd like to start a whole accordion revolution. I have this vision of rescuing all the "sleeping" accordions in attics and closets and barns around the world and getting them into the hands of children who are in foster care. I used to think I wanted to gift every child in the Iowa foster care system with a hand-made quilt. That still seems like a possibility. But lately I've been drawn to the idea of teaching - and therefore empowering - kids to express what's within them. Music is an exceptional way to do this. See, as a teenager I was in foster care. In addition to being placed in a phonomenol foster family, music saved me. I'm not sure why, exactly, but the accordion seems like an unlikely tool to help bring this to fruition. 

Ah, dreams! Any thoughts? Reflections? Ideas?

Bring 'em on! Along with that accordion collecting dust in your grandma's closet.

Before I go, here are some other delightfully quirky accordion pics.