Raw and unpolished, garden is life.
Full post:
July 4th five years ago I sat on our back porch in the almost full moonlight dealing with hour after hour of contractions. We spent the day swimming at our favorite hole. Making a lunch of pistachios, dried mango, and garlic almonds. I felt my boy in my belly, 41 weeks along, swimming while I swam and quiet like he always was. That night as I was breathing into the moon, each contraction rose up from the depth of my body, out through my mouth, and into the moon. I heard every insect, they're clicks and cricks and lightening bugs and buzz. I asked for help. Out of the shadows of our elder, a werewolf came along to greet me. He told me he protects and patrols our property and is meant to be seen in his were form or his human form. This night he was at the end of his transition just waiting for the full moon to help him burst forward. I asked him to show me his true form, as it is. He was mangled and in the midst of transition. Not quite human, not quite animal. He told me that transition is the most painful process. All that space in between formless and form. It ripped him apart. I asked him to stay with me and he told me to howl the pain into the moon. To let the animal in me be birthed. That animal was death. And as I write this, intuitively knowing this is the right phrase, I feel guilt for saying so. I am a woman who gave birth to death. That is my power. That is my magic. To take death and make life, to allow the transitions of my life to burst forward and take shape. Like the were, after I lost my son, I believed I was cursed and bound to a fate I had no control over. But now it feels like a blessing. A moment in time where a mother brings through death and a new life for herself. The sacrifice and the initiation. The flames of change forever stoked because of my son. Feeding the beast within me, always. We love each other so.
To my sweet baby Callum on his death day ❤
