Pieces of God

When my son was two, a fellow mother from my son's play group told me that in Bali a child is revered as a gift from God. The Balinese believe that their babies descend from the world of God and until their child reaches six months in age, the baby holds a god like status. Once a Balinese child has reached six months, a ceremony, or oton, is held. During this ceremony the baby is allowed to touch the ground for the first time as a sign of joining the human world. How beautiful I thought, that children are like pieces of God. There was something comforting in the knowledge that perhaps we all grow into adulthood with an intimate connection to a higher power.

As we continued our conversation I commented that Balinese beliefs seemed distant from the ones we see every day in America. We lamented over the recent news story about a man who had been arrested after he broke his eight-month-old son's leg just to know what it would sound like. A woman was released from prison after serving six months, plus time served, for killing her two-year-old child. “But, is it any wonder that we place such little value on the lives of children when we place no value on the lives of little babies?” she said.

I confessed to her that even I had once succumbed to the pull of society, to the lies we tell our young girls about being strong, independent women. Then, I began to tell a story about a hot June morning, fourteen years ago, when I had sat in the girl’s locker room of my high school. The changing room was small and what little light we were afforded came through three basement type windows that sat in shade for much of the day. The sunlight that did find its way in seemed to be instantly absorbed by the gray walls.

Most of the girls had left, no doubt to wait for final announcements. The idea of being left alone in the grimness of the changing room hastened me into action. As I began to dress, I noticed another girl leaning against her locker with her hands on her abdomen. I found it startling that although we had been in the same gym class for an entire year, I still did not know her name. She seemed to be a ghost of a girl who rarely said anything, hardly participated, and was often marked absent even though she stood a few feet from the gym teacher.

As a sixteen year old, I thought I had the world figured out and wasn't afraid to be an assertive woman or speak my mind about any issue. Therefore, I had no problem speaking to this girl even though she was a senior, a full two years ahead of me. “Are you okay?” I asked.

She complained of cramps, and I offered her some Midol. She accepted but said she didn’t know if it would do any good. These were cramps from an abortion earlier in the week.

For a moment I was stunned. Although I considered myself pro-choice at the time, I had never actually met anyone who had undergone an abortion. I was also shocked in her ability to confess it so openly, as if we were talking about the boys we had crushes on. I wanted desperately for her to believe that I was a strong, young woman as well, and that abortion was our right because it was our bodies. However, I never once took the time to truly consider what all of us “independent” women were doing to children who had no voice.

Something within me shifted, and there was a feeling of disconnect. “Was it difficult?” I asked.

“No. Actually, it was my third time so the routine is pretty much the same.”

My ribcage expanded then tightened against my shirt. My lungs no longer wanted to breathe. My ears did not want to listen. Something didn't seem quite right. Against the voice stirring in my blood, the knowing I held in my heart, I assured her that, of course, it was her right to do it. We'd been taught by society that the baby within her was an it, and if you couldn't feel it, hear it, or see it; than it didn't matter. And, after all, we were women, equal to men. We could make decisions on our own about our own bodies since it didn't affect anyone but ourselves.

Fourteen years later, at the age of thirty, I became connected to something larger than politics. At six in the morning my husband helped me into our vehicle, and we began the drive to the hospital, nearly thirty minutes south of our home. Our son was overdue and stubborn, so the doctor would have to induce. As we drove down the highway in the darkness of a January morning in Maine, the snow began to fall. Though it accumulated quickly on the road, it never seemed threatening. Instead, it seemed as if the universe had come along to welcome our son and had insisted on escorting us down the highway. The snow swirled on our windshield, played along the hood of the car and created a sensation of peace that connected to my spirit. I felt at one with everything God had created.

For seventeen hours I labored with my child. It seemed that even the snow had tired and by evening, had stopped completely. Finally, at three in the morning I was wheeled to surgery. Unfortunately, the spinal didn't seem to be working as I had been able to wiggle my toes on command for the doctor. I would have to be fully sedated.

Lying on my back, I looked at the white light above me, could hear the steel instruments being laid out, felt my husband's hand slipping away as they led him out. The surgical mask gripped tightly against my mouth, and I panicked, afraid that I wasn't receiving enough oxygen. Desperately I struggled to remove the mask. My shoulders lifted from the white sheets but movement seemed to stop at my elbows. In the fear of the moment I did not realize that restraints were holding my arms firmly in place. My lungs screamed for more air. I began yelling for help,but the sound was muffled under thick plastic, and the doctors averted their eyes. Perhaps if they pretended not to see me or hear me, it made their job easier. It was as if I didn't exist. Tears fell down the sides of my face. “Please, God.” I thought, “Just don't let me die before I see my son.”

When Spencer was brought to me nearly an hour after he was born, I sat upright in my bed with my arms stretched out anxiously. He was gorgeous. His hairline was like the top of a heart that framed his round face. As if he knew who I was, he opened his eyes and they seemed to be completely black, almost other worldly. In that moment my love for him was absolute and complete. My tears seemed to be an intrinsic response to the connection we shared. At that moment I understood his significance in this world.

Soon after, his little tummy full of my milk, he fell asleep in my arms. Carefully, I unwrapped the hospital-issued blanket that surrounded his body. Everyone says you should count their toes and fingers but I just wanted to look at them. His fingers were long, the nails oval. They were my hands. My mother's hands. His eyes were round and blue like my husband's.

My husband and I lay watching over him. All three of us cuddled on the hospital bed and marveled at the feeling of being a family. My husband and I were amazed at the creature sleeping between us. We seemed captivated and in awe of his perfect little parts. To think, my husband said, that at the moment of his conception there was a plan. He wasn't just a blob of cells but a person, someone of meaning. Each cell knew exactly what it would become right down to the smallest details: the shape of his knees, the little freckle on his lower back, the curve of his ears. It had all been created in an instant, a complete human being no bigger than the top of a man’s pinky.

In the dark of early morning and against light cast from street lamps, I watched the snow pile on the ground and along the ledge of the window. The storm had picked up again to create a beautiful, wintry setting for our son’s birth. The serenity of the storm seemed to seep into our hospital room, lulling us into a sense of contentedness as we fell asleep. In the moment before sleep I understood God’s connection to me and through that my connection to all things and all people.

I wish I could go back to that moment in high school when I sat with a girl so wholly unconnected to herself and the children she had carried. I would sit on the hard gray bench that lay between our lockers. I would tell my classmate, that the strength of an independent and capable woman, of all humanity, lies in our ability to connect with one another. The connection is a gift given to us before we are born, pieces of God, given to all things. Perhaps in Bali they understand a child’s connection to God, and in turn, a woman’s connection to her body and the child within her.

Daughter

So lovingly we had packed the necessary ingredients:
teacups used by my mother's mother.
Scones and biscuits we baked in the kitchen,
when laughter had consumed us,
flour scattered on the floor,
sticky egg whites between our fingers.
And afterward, we emerged outside with basket and blanket.
The sky, a brilliant blue, seemed a canvas
brushed with lush clouds so intensely white
it seemed they were painted in perfection.
In the far distant sky,
clouds huddled in darkness.
The threatening storm seemed far away from us
at that moment, like the first day of school, graduation, and college.
We let our blanket billow in the wind.
I stood, eyes fixed on my daughter.
Her laughter carried in the breeze,
her red skirt twirling, twirling
until she fell on the green, green grass.
Such innocence.
And with the care of a young girl
preparing for her first date,
my daughter placed the porcelain plate
bearing our kitchen creations
in the center of our blanket.
There seemed to be a change in the air,
an impending storm, like adolescence,
threatened its place among us.
Ignoring my insistence
that the teapot was too hot
for such little hands to handle,
she poured a cup with the confidence
of a grown woman
striking out on her own.
But, rain drops caught us each off guard.
Playfully we gathered our belongings
laughing with each drop,
the water so cold against our skin.
Thinking time was on our side,
we sauntered to the porch enjoying the light shower.
Suddenly an onslaught of water
with no rhythm or pattern
just chaotic splashing, crashed over our heads,
and sent us running up the stairs to the porch.
I wondered if our sanctuary, would be strong enough
to withstand the antagonistic clashing
of white electricity,
thunder so loud it shook the floorboards.
We watched the storm as silent witnesses,
she lay in my lap
in the white rocker.
With each roar of the sky, her little fingers clutched my shoulders,
as if in fear that we would be swallowed up.
And after the roar had left us, she would giggle at her own fear.
My nose nestled into the space just above her ear.
Slowly, I breathed in the scent of her hair,
willing myself to remember the freshness
of shampoo mingled with today's sunshine and rain. My lips moved slowly
to whisper a promise.
She would always be my little girl.

The Stairs at Belfast Library

An old woman sits,

her body like granite,
stiff and cold.
The spaces between the joints have been patched.
It was a rough job but she assures herself that it is only noticed
if someone gets too close.
The tinted powder brushed over her face,
an attempt at capturing a little of her youth back,
is rubbing off in spots.
From a distance however,she is quite attractive.
Still, she sighs, there are age spots
like a persistent mildew
settling deep in her skin. And
just yesterday she noticed
a yellowish stain beginning as well.
She smiles despite this, it is after all
a part of aging, that which makes her
a landmark in this little town.
In the neighborhood old friends have
passed on or had face lifts,
new friends are moving in
sporting the latest trends in fashion.
But the old lady remains a constant,
waking each morning to sweep the cobwebs from her face,
place a dress that looks much like a garden, on her body.
She seems content in knowing that we all age
but it is important to find beauty and usefulness in the
wake of it. After all, she might not be structurally sound
but she is sturdy enough to get the job done.
And for her, as well as the people who pass her everyday,
it is enough.

Wonderings at the Belfast Coop

I take a seat at the local coffee shop. It is a coop. The sign outside reads, “All Are Welcome.” It is true as inside there is an assortment of people, some looking as earthy as the organic vegetables being transferred from boxes to display, some are mothers steering their children with gestures, grab items from shelves with their cell phone nestled between ear and shoulder, and some are older men perhaps retired but seemingly wealthy as they are dressed nicely.

A young man sits at a table in the corner. Instinct says immediately that he is an odd sort of fellow, something not quite right but there is goodness about him too, a kind of gentility. He sits with Columbia black sandals, a more expensive brand I think. His pants, soft cotton green are rolled up to mid-calf. His shirt is grey and long sleeved. Although it looks good as an outfit, he doesn’t seem to be the type that spent awhile purposely creating a nonchalant look. On his face is a blonde beard, two small brown eyes, and his blonde hair is cut short. It is odd I think that he has no one to talk to or anything to read. He just sits with his arms at his side looking around the room, sometimes staring in the distance. The coffee cup remains on the table, occasionally he sips from it.

Intuition says he is not of this world. He is authentic in his oddity. He seems deeply in tune with the things around him that the other customers are not aware of. He is comfortable with being solitary. Apparently he is a writer too as he has just pulled out a notebook. He seems observant but easily embarrassed, aware if people are watching him. Discovering that one back door had a sign that said broken and the other said emergency exit, he commented about it on his way past my table, as if he had to explain why he appeared so confused. He wants me to know he is a smart guy, probably noticed me looking at him occasionally.

I imagine he has no girlfriend, he seems too shy and it is as if the universe is waiting to have his intended soul mate turn up. I can picture his apartment: fairly organized, no clothes or dirty dishes but cluttered with books, artwork, and his writings. The books have long outgrown the shelves and are stacked in piles all over his small one bedroom place; they even go up the stairs to his loft. There is no television or sofa, just big comfy chairs with stacked books used as coffee tables. Artwork covers the walls. The kitchen is bare of blenders, food processors, and mixers. A lone coffeemaker sits on the counter surrounded by bags of organic seeds, nuts, and granola. He devotes much time to writing for newspapers or magazines. If that is not his full time job than he works for some sort of environmental agency or non-profit group. But, he is responsible and sensible, not frivolous with his earnings.

Coastal Living

When I lived on the coast for a short time in my early 20’s with two roommates, I found the ocean life depressing. Or maybe it was that particular house set away from the life of town. IT seemed as soon as you went down the road that led to our house you entered a conclave. The paved road bared no shoulder and allowed just enough space if you drove slowly and carefully, for two cars to pass each other. Most of the homes were decorated with birch trees, flowers, and landscaped gardens. The edge of the road that ran parallel to the ocean had grown a fence of wild roses, as if even it did not want foreign people to our neighborhood to trespass. Even the sign left as a mark post for public access had begun its descension into the leaves and shrubs that grew around it promising that the beach would remain a neighborhood secret. Yet, it didn’t seem like a conceited place, reserved only for wealthy. It seemed instead an old Maine relic refusing to let out of staters rape it of its ways.
On many days I would carefully scale the cliff from our rental home and lower myself to the rocky shore below. Armed with a sweater, for the weather was always colder and foggier, along this shore than in town, I would begin walking over stones, sometimes jumping over seaweed or small estuaries.
It was during this time I discovered the captivating sadness of the ocean. There was no one to share my walks with, no lover to kiss under the setting sun, no reason to walk along the beach in moonlight.
On occasions when my sister visited to enjoy a hike and picnic on the coast we would sit and talk of the ocean’s beauty, how lucky I seemed to be in getting such a cheap rental in Belfast. In those moments I would try to express to her the other side of the ocean and my fear of it. “Just stare, “I’d say, “at the water. Not the rocks or shoreline or sailboats. It’s as if the water is purposefully dark, like it’s trying to conceal its own depth. “We watched together, a slight smile on my sister’s face. The waves rolled in gently with a calming sound, lulling us into a trance like a mother rocking with a child on her breast.
“I don’t see it.” She’d say. “It’s just too beautiful to see anything bad.” I can see my sister saying this as she tilts her head back letting her hair loose in the wind, she closes her eyes and breathes in the air full of seaweed, sand, and shells.
“But, don’t you feel it?” I ask. “It is like it wants you to come into it. And you are fooled into thinking that it will be warm and safe, that the water will cloak you and keep your body floating with some sort of magic. “My eyes remained on the water. “It’s evil. There is no bottom and it will put you to sleep with its rhythmic rocking then gently pull you under. Those waters are cold. It’s like it needs your warmth.”
“You are seriously crazy.” She laughed.
But, really it is my deepest fear. Having no Earth under my feet, surrounded by cold darkness and there are no arms to pull you safety. No chance you’ll survive this one. Your lungs scram for air and your arms and legs numbed through with the cold barely assist in an effort to make you live. And you want to live. The fear of drowning, the pain you are sure will come when you lungs fill with water push you to the brink of madness and desperation. But, there is no fighting your involuntary need for air. Your mouth opens independent of your demands, and you take in water that sears in your lungs. Such intense pain right before you die. Your body is limp and hangs alone in the water. There is a haunting vacancy in your eyes. It’s over and you are alone in the dark, a few rays of sunlight glinting off the water above you.

Two Pieces of Toast, Please

“All set to order?” the waitress stood at the edge of the booth, notebook in hand, expecting she’d given them enough time.
“I think I’ll have two eggs, over easy. Bacon. And what kind of bread do you have for toast?”
“Um we have white, wheat, or you could get a grilled biscuit,” the man frowned at the menu and she continued, “Or a marble rye. It’s a little bit extra.”
“Ooh, marble rye sounds interesting.” His wife declared mulling over the promise of flavor.”
“Yes, yes, but I’m not paying extra for interesting. No, I’ll take the wheat.”
“Okay, and you ma’am?”
“Oh yes, what was it I wanted?” the woman scanned the menu quickly aware of her husband’s stare and definite misgivings of her absentmindedness. She wondered why he had married her twenty-six years ago. “Oh, here it is the house special. Can I have the eggs scrambled with cheese and some onion and green pepper with the homefries?”
“Sure. “ The waitress began to collect the menus and in the midst of her reach asked to no one in particular, “Coffee with that?”
“Yes.” They replied the woman’s voice just slightly behind that of her husband’s.
Her husband waited until the waitress had left before he commented to his wife that the onions and green peppers would cost extra. In fact the menu priced them at ninety cents each. “That’s a whole dollar eighty. You can buy a whole pepper in the store for that.”
In the quiet that followed the man reorganized his utensils to the far left making room for the Belfast Daily. Hidden behind the pages, he did not see how lost his wife seemed. How her body and dress seemed to contrast sharply with the well worn seat of the diner’s booth. She gratefully received the coffee from the waitress and began to stir in the cream. With hands wrapped around the mug for warmth, she looked out the window to the ocean.
“What if we went for a boat ride today? I always loved going on whale watches with the children when they were younger. And this will be the first June that neither of them will make it up for a visit.”
The paper crinkled as a triangular edge was bent down revealing her husband’s face. He looked at her with his eyes just over the rim of his generic reading glasses. “What? Sorry, dear I was just reading an insightful article about…well never mind. What was it you said?”
“Just mentioned the boats. The boys aren’t visiting until August or September or so. Thought maybe you and I could go for a sunset whale watch tour.”
“Those rides are so expensive for a stomach full of nausea. Maybe we could go poking around some antique stores today. I’ve been looking for a nice model ship to put in my study.”
“Another one?”
“Yes, I want something made out of mahagony or darkened cherry. Regal, rich looking. Don’t you think it would look nice against the bookcases we just had built?”
“Yes, very nice.” Her eyes seemed distant, her mouth puckered just slightly into a frown. “Oh waitress,” she called stirring her coffee, “I’d like some more coffee and can you change my order to that marble rye.” And looking straight at her husband she added, “two slices.”

The Meaning of My Daughter

On display behind a window on main street:
an earthen bowl,
shades of sage green mingled
with brown specks.
Its beauty is unique
someone says,
the way it stretches to a widened mouth
full of tiny holes. Different.
A rim that sets it apart.
To think someone created this with much
love, care, and attention.
Took clay with meaning and intention
into their hands.
Added water and let their entire being free
on a massive wheel
to spin, stretch, smooth - create.
After constant movement, careful decisions,
a multitude of colors painted on the surface
created a finished product. A color unseen before.
Distinctly its own sense of self.
Someone knows the divine beauty of this bowl,
the flaws no one else notices but is
deeply appreciated as setting it apart .
Someone has run their fingers over the edges,
to remember the smoothness, how difficult it had been
to make them stand firm on their own without caving in.
Smiles with satisfaction to see each hole, all of different sizes,
have survived the process intact.
Understands not everyone will find the beauty
but still can’t see anything slightly unattractive.

After all the attention and care given, the artist
has lovingly surrendered it to the world like
letting go of her child.
Trusting someone will take it home and honor it
with a special place.
Will create memories of their own.
Will love its shape, meaning, and sense of purpose in this world.