What is time?

Is it counting? Is it really a written tally of minutes and mornings? Or is it wider than linear?

Is it the number of glasses and flannel and denim you have worn? ...or the number of buttons, belts, and boots that have kept you warm? Perhaps it is as simple as the freckles splattered across your forehead and the number of brown and white hairs sewn through the skin of your chin. Your face, shaped by line and circle, perhaps it is my clock. Perhaps, you are my clock. And this strong body, the part of you I feel with my strong body, is proof of the tide, and of the earth's turning, and of time. 

Your body is different now. Those 18-year-old atoms are all long gone. At the moment, new molecules make and move you. I hope that as these strong bodies shed and bloom, the formless souls in and around them will continue to grow too. May we grow too like fog, like water in the wind. May we blow to the sea and sky and into every community we reside.  May we grow and grow just as we know the universe grows and grows. May we be universes! - side by side, blissfully, blessed, boundless, and beautiful. Your body is different now. And you too are different. However, since we met, there has always been this knowing, - this knowing that we would follow us. As we have followed us, we have fallen into a generous flow, a current so natural and gentle. Boulders, dams, and boats wouldn't (or perhaps couldn't) stop us. I was never meant to meet many lovers. This I have also always known. You are this life, and in this life, you are my clock. 

Between you and me, there is a wild and simple and intimate love. It is raw, honest, vulnerable, and quiet. This love has never been taken for granted ...like we sometimes take water from the tap for granted, or food from the grocery for granted, or the air we breathe for granted. This love has never been taken for granted. We are grateful. 

I am not consuming tall cups of coffee.

I am slow now, or rather, I am slower and slowing to the speed of myself.


Are you ok? I'm asked. You seem funny.

Yes. I'm ok.

I am like a pond at dawn, still and reflective, hoping that through presence, the world will open up to me. Mostly, I'm doing this out of curiosity. Who am I? I still don't know and I don't know that I'll ever know. But for now, I like seeing myself this way - raw and full of water.

I speak now when I want and I smile only when a moment moves my heart to move my mouth. Coffee once darted and danced through me. I would feel inspired and alert with a quick wit. And yet, occasionally, I would feel a bit like a bug stuck inside a lampshade - insistent and distracted, perhaps even confused. A strong delicious drug, it has the power to fill me with temporary hope... even the darkest days lighten with a drop of cream. But, I know now, I don't need every morning to feel fixable or flexible. Instead, I can just be in the day's passing seconds. Yes, I still sometimes resist unpleasant minutes. But overall, I'm wherever I am.

Eventually, I will speed up again, but for now, I am slow, or rather, slower and slowing to the speed of myself.

King

On this day of independence, I wish for our king an awakening.

I wish for clarity to seep into the oval throne room, and for love to crown him.

On this day of independence, I wish for our king an awakening, an abandoning of blustery darkness for bright brilliant light.

Guilt and Gratitude

I am a simple human hollowed by the sorrows of others. Yes. I live with the luxury of guilt. For I live in the luxury of fair middle-class American skin. I live with the luxury of trust in the police.  I live with the luxury of English as a first language. I live with the luxury of health insurance. I live with the luxury of independence.

Now at thirty-something, I settle into the gentle bliss of ordinariness.  Sometimes, the romantic in me wants to be wild, unfettered, and free. (For this is what society preaches to young middle-class American citizens on how to have happiness.) Yet here I am satisfied and energized by the complex and yet simple work of caregiving. Here I am, on July 1, grateful that I don't need to work every single day. For if I had to work every single day, I would not be good. Nor would I be healthy and happy. Here I am, on July 1, starting my summer vacation and living with the luxury of necessary rejuvenation. 
It turns out, guilt and gratitude are two sides of the same coin. And so here I am grateful. Grateful that I don't need to flee my home and country. Grateful that I don't need to drown in the sea simply for the hope of living.  Here I am grateful that I do not starve or freeze or sleep on any street. But in a bed, surrounded by painted walls and trees.

I am a simple human hollowed by the sorrows of others.

Yes. I live in luxury.

More and Less

                                      

While blackbirds bounce across the raw wool roof of earth, I sit inside a car. Watching through slanted glass, I wonder if there might (one day) be more bird than car.

Perhaps there already are more birds than cars.
I hope so.
But, is there more feather than metal?
Or more wing than gasoline?
What about more beak than brake?
And, are there more fish than human flesh?
More silence than city?
More wildflower than weapon?
More pine tree than pavement?
More orca whale than oil spill?
More rainforest than landfill?
More love than fear?
More give than take?
More hope than despair?

Inside this man-made car, I watch through slanted glass and wonder if there might one day be less for me and therefore more for me.

Here I am. Come find me.

I am the one wrapped in cotton bedding. The one praying, begging the mighty light to shine on me, and the pure summer rain to wash over me so that these tiny seeds inside of me may root, sprout, bud, and bloom.

Here I am. Come find me.

I am the one hoping for that spark. For that lark to start her singing on the eve of another morning. I am the one imploring for a strong heart, bones, teeth, eyes, ears, fingers, and toes. For a brain, a belly, and a nose. I am the one asking the universe to bless this body with the body of a second baby. To bless this soul with another soul.

I'm ready. Here I am. Come find me.

[And if it will not be, then it will not be, and I will not be angry.  Instead, I will accept that there is something else out there for me.]

Oh to be a bird

and swim upon the wind!

Free

The writers I read, write about destiny. They write about following the light like an actor on a stage might, like a car at night might, like a tree or a flower might.  Follow the light, they write. And fall into the flow, into the motion of the moment.  They write this while they sit in silent stillness for hours, writing good book upon good book. They fall. They do. And then, through deep inner listening, they rise into resiliency. Then they move people, these motivational makers of transformation. They move people to the present moment.  

They write, You can be as free as me. You can! Be open. Be as wide open as the ocean. Then, let worry fall, fear flee, and the ego drop. Now. They say. Sit in stillness. Yes, for hours! Believe. Eventually, you will be as free as me. 

Free is not fame. Fame is a myth, an invented hierarchy of modern society. Film stars, rock stars, youtube sensations, royalty, politicians, professional athletes, best-selling authors, and the business savvy - none are more human than you or me. We are not all destined for media celebrity. 

Free is not pride. Free is purity. Free is solitary and free is community. Free is joy honored in simple magnificent moments. Free is nonresistance and surrender and acceptance of what is. And yet, free is participation in human evolution. Free is naming a truth a truth, and a lie, a lie. Free is peace. Free is grace. Free is love.

Free is power. However, free is not the bombastic power with which we are most familiar. Free is not made of walls, atomic and automatic weapons, or erratic volcanic ignorance. Free is not this masculine antiquity, this dead-end road blown to bits by the wars of our entire human history. Free is bold. Yes. Free is an intricate power, a power of feminine invention, courage, and determination. Free is radical compassion. Patriarchy will eventually die, decay, and reach extinction, and these old soldier stories will live on as fossil fuel for peace negotiations. I believe it is mostly men folk who fight for pride, borders, and country. It has been mostly men who have ruled with violence in all its unfortunate forms. I write this knowing many good genuine feminine men. Men who are empathetic listeners. Men who are strong and soft. Men who see themselves in every other human. These men are free and brave and they will remain. They will be the future fathers of male transformation.

If we survive, we human beings, I mean, it won't be because one bomb was bigger than another bomb. It will be because we finally stopped believing in bombs, and in this idea of other, foreigner, enemy, and supremacy.

Lately, I have been seeking reasons why I should quit this writing. Yet, it continues to compel me. So on I follow curiosity after curiosity. Sitting in stillness (like for hours!), I seek and make. I write. For me, writing is a light to chase. A way to fall into the flow, into the motion of the moment. I may never be the author of books. I will most likely never reach media celebrity. But I can be as wide open as the ocean. I can let worry fall, fear flee, and the ego drop. I can be free.

A Montessori Toddler Classroom

It has been a school year full of so much joy. {Sorrows too - big and small moments of pain and struggle and challenge.} But mostly, there was giggling and singing, hugging and dancing, jumping, climbing, balancing, painting and playing, spinning, hand-holding, running, tumbling, falling, bumping, crying, ice pack applying and injury report signing, sand, sweat, snow pants, "stop!", pee, poop, water bottles, and lots and lots of sunscreen! We've had bubble building and bubble pop pop popping! We've had so many hours of sweet deep sleep. We've seen innumerable bouts of beautiful concentration... Children practicing until they fit all the red nesting dolls into the biggest nesting doll. Children practicing until they string 10 tiny beads into a necklace. Children working a key, a latch, a hammer, a pair of scissors, and a screwdriver. Children naming and matching small objects to corresponding photographs. We have heard, "I did it!" so many times. We have said, "You did it!" so many times. We have witnessed babble become word, diaper become underwear, and foe become friend. Hundreds of hellos and so many waves goodbye. It has been a school year full of so much joy.

Acceptance

I am tall and slender like my father. I look a little like my mother. Though my face will never be as soft. One might say I am pretty. People take pride is such silly things. Don't they? As if we do all the work. But I didn't mold my cheekbones, chin, and nose while floating in utero. I did not decide on the wave and color of my hair, nor the blueish brown irises of my eyes. I never selected my hip width or the length of my legs. Sure, I want this body to move me and work, to climb mountains, run, garden, lift children, dance and write. I want to feel good and strong and so I eat well and work. I dance and play. Therefore, this form is strong and healthy and for that, I am grateful and I am happy. Certainly, it will not be strong and healthy for all eternity. For this body is entirely temporary. Still, I try not to give in to common earthly worry. Instead, I try to let whatever is, be.

I look older because I am older. This is obvious. This is acceptance. Luckily, I've never leaned too heavily on my hair color or my face or figure. When I was younger, I tried (leaning on my looks), but I just, sort of, fell over. So I no longer look too longingly into any mirror. This is the soft fragile shell I wear. That's all. One made for me by other bodies and by the great soul of all souls. Surely, I am curious about it, curious about time and age. I find my white hair, wrinkles, and wisdom most interesting.

Last year, I bought myself a pink t-shirt with the word MOTHER printed in large red letters across the front. At the time, it seemed like a powerful purchase, like a public naming. However, I've hardly worn it. For it feels like a bumper sticker on my chest. THIS IS ME! It screams. Yet, I don't want to be defined by any label. Labels just become judgments and assumptions. A simplified effort to name oneself, know oneself. As if I could ever be the abstract image of a word anyway. As if we were all our bodies or our roles and not a chaotic blended bit of the universe.

We try. We write lists, labels, profiles, roles, and words around ourselves...
I am this
I do this
I live here
I traveled there
I wear this
I have this
I was this
I am this

Words cannot define me. Not really. Though this doesn't keep me from trying. I love language. And I love all that it fails to do. For then there is only living.  I am living. And I am learning. Learning not to label. I am not what I do or the places I go to. I am not the linen, cotton, and leather I wear. I am not my brown and white wavy hair. I am not my moles, my freckles, my legs, my hips, my lips, my fingers, my feet. I am not what I have. (Again, I say.) I am not what I have. I am nothing and I am everything. An abstraction in body, traveling.

Hurry and Surrender

I once allowed my mind to push us through time. 

Wake up!

To the toilet!

To the dresser!

To the table!

Cereal? Toast? Juice? Water?

Here are your boots... your coat! I've got your bag!

To the car!

To school...

I Park. 

We walk. 

Good-bye! 

Love you!

[SCHOOL]

Hello! 

Let's go! 

To the car! 

Get in the carseat. 

Please. Climb. Up.

And we’re in the car. 

To the house!

Ahhh. Home. 

Wash your hands.

Come to the table!

Your bath is ready!

Open your mouth - time to brush!

Put on your pajamas. 

Get into bed!

Books.

It's late. 

Lights out. 

It is time to sleep! 

Go to sleep. 

Sh sh sh! 

She is three years old.

You cannot hurry her into the car or she wanders into the parking lot weeds or the woods. You cannot hurry her into the bath or she dances away. And you certainly cannot hurry her to sleep. Sleep comes soon or sleep comes slow, and lately, on account of her napping at school, sleep comes slow.

She is not yet sleepy at 7:30. 

So with that truth, I surrender. And so we read books a little longer and she falls asleep a little later.

Every moment is meant for me. Even in these seemingly tedious times of transition. Even while waiting, weeping, and cleaning. Every moment is meant for me. Just as this child is meant for me. Already, at three, she is my wisest teacher. She is a master of the moment, and of play and spontaneity. I want to land on every moment the way she does, with such curiosity, confidence, and creativity.

As the adult, I am the doer and the time keeper. This all has its place. However, I don't want to hurry her when I don’t need to. Hurry becomes worry. And what is worry but a wrecking ball in the body, putting me into an angry, clumsy frenzy? I don't want that for her and I don't want that for me. And so I surrender. Stress never stalls time anyway. Instead, with this small person, stress stretches time into long fits of strife and struggle. Therefore, I surrender. 

Yes, clear boundaries. 

Yes, routine. 

And yes too to her whims, wants, and needs.

Yes to empathy. 

When I must wake her now, I try not to speak. Instead, I play sweet, soft songs, songs without drums or cymbals or horns, - just voices, and strings.

I set down the speaker in the dark...

slumber

song

arm

eyes open

blink

sit

stretch

rise 

dress

pee 

soap & water

food

breathe 

quiet drive

park 

carry 

walk 

goodbye, love 

[school]

hello

car

home

play 

hands 

supper

play 

bathing 

brushing 

bed

books 

and books 

and books

and snuggle

and slumber

[It isn't always this small and slow and quiet, but this soft flow is the goal.]  

Air

If I sit very still, I can feel my heartbeat as it rocks the top of my body.

It just does that.

Eckhart Tolle wrote that we are more air than atom. It has been proven.

I am more air than atom, more SPACE than skin, bone, and organ. I must remember this next time I fall on my thoughts, myself, or the earth.

We are more air than atom. What a beautiful idea.

One day, I hope to float - to rise above the little stuff and ride the current of universal consciousness.

Murder

In the woods, the boy finds a fallen branch. Holds it up. A little later, I watch while he lies across a wide circular swing on his soft belly, pointing the stick at the other wide circular swing, where three three-year-olds, one born of me, sit, smiling and swinging. He looks like a mass shooter in a custodian's closet, machine gun on shoulder, mouth ruffling his tongue and lips to sound like the rounds of rapid-fire bullets burning through air and bone. He is probably between 12 and 14 years old.

I stare at him. He doesn't notice. I look to the women talking over him, the women with him, but they do not notice. I then move to stand between the boy and the girls, with the center of my back blocking his ignorant play. I sense him adjusting, stretching around me. The girls notice. They make the machine gun sounds with their own mouths, while still smiling and swinging. They do not understand. Bless them.

Inside my body and brain, judgment, anger and sadness rise.
Columbine.
Newtown.
The Boston Marathon.
Parkland.
The Pulse Nightclub.
Santa Fe High School.
Las Vegas.
Virginia Tech.
Mass shootings to list and list and list.
And all of this just makes me wonder. Why do we entertain ourselves with murder?

I have seen the video game where the player murders monsters. The player is then given gold and the glory of victory. Then there are the movies where the heroes murder monsters with explosives, fire, swords, and bullets. King Kong. Stormtroopers. Orcs. Death Eaters. Dinosaurs. There are the television shows where the accused are shot in the back by the good guys, the vigilante judges, juries and executioners. There are the television shows where the unkind kings are killed by poisonous wine. Then there are the films where zombies and great white sharks and enemy armies are cut to pieces.

This is our entertainment, watching bad guys bleed, choke, wheeze, fall, and die.

What do the good guys do to the bad guys? The good guys (with confidence, fast cars, muscles, sexy wardrobes and weapons, epic soundtracks, and impossibly impressive targeting) chauffeur the seamless endings again and again and again. Yet, when we walk out into the bright light of real life, people are complicated, flawed as they fumble and bumble and stumble through time.

We see it in the news. Someone makes someone else into a monster, a monster to be murdered.

We entertain ourselves with the over-simplified hate of separateness. Good and Evil. And then we walk around the world of grays and rainbows, of dirt, sea, sky, skin, and egos, of weapons, of kitchen knives, chemicals, cars, machine guns, and sticks, and blind to our oneness, we do harm.

I do not believe that these isolated screens where insanity screams for violence is quenching some deep human instinct or need inside of us. Inside of us, we are lit like the sun. We are one, one piece of all peace. We just need the space and silence and stillness to sit with it, see it and believe it. We need a flood of love to cool and wet the planting of lit matches throughout the dry forests of us. A flood of love to grow us up, and not burn us (and the whole good world) down to soot and ash. A flood followed by seed and sun. Give us boats, GOD. Let us float among flowers as they grow from the fire-fallow earth. Let us abandon this poison, this pain, and be young again.

Monsters

Silence is underfoot - too many thoughts trampling parades of cacophonous monsters and trash into every moment. I wish I could watch it all pass and laugh, but instead, I see everything. I don't believe everything, but I see everything. Then I am angry, and then I am angry because I am angry, which is simply, a big stupid circle of stupidity.

I have been away at this charade for most of the day, and now I am ready to go home.

"BE STILL!" I shout to all of my imagined monsters like the child from WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE by Maurice Sendak.

I want this mind to be a bare mirror, reflecting earth, soul, object, light, and color. I want to wait and watch while ideas appear like hot air balloons, breathing fire and blowing in the wind.

I sit and place a white page under pencil. Then I scribble, hoping the sight will write some of the noise away.

I will not be eaten up by my wild things.

Clatter happens, and when it does, I can always climb into my paper sailboat and float for home.

Gusts

Laughter moves through me in gusts, belly, and mouth, sudden and deep. This is bliss, I believe.

We are the same. You are there on your journey. I am here on mine. We are separated, but only by skin and air and time.

I am a cloud floating inside the container of an animal, and I am expanding, seeping into the soil and sky. I want to be the laughter that moves through me in gusts. I want to be the wind, the leaf, the sea, the swallows, the sky.

Worry

I am allowing the worry to abandon me now, letting it leave me like sweat and tears.

Why, I ask myself, revive old rancid regret? Why write out old ugly worry into word and story? Why drag up nets of jagged metal, splintered junk, and wreckage onto the deck of my being?  Why, when I can just release it? I release it now. And when it rises again, I look at it, then I release it like fish, like flies, like flocks of caged birds. For worry is tight and heavy and fierce. I don't want this wild thing. It clots and rots my body. Severs me from soul.

I only ever want to be here. And I only ever want to be a life that is light and clean. I want to sweep out the dirt, guts, and dust of unwanted thoughts. I want to seek and settle into silence, float within stillness.

I once wore worry like a gold medal. Look at me! Look at all the worry I have! - worry for others, worry for the world, worry for myself! Goodness, I must be good for I feel so horrible about so many things! I would write congested paragraphs of the stuff, scribbled page after scribbled page, then I would open my mouth and spew my fury and fear. I thought worry made me a better person. That it was proof of my awareness of all the suffering, - my suffering, your suffering, the suffering of every suffering stranger.  I believed that worry made me and the world better. But what has my worry ever really made (aside from a false means of activity)? I'm not sure it has done much of anything. For my worry rarely dissolved and evolved into action, which certainly would have been worth my attention.  Instead, my worry formed a wind storm inside me.

Now I let it blow through me.

I once had a water wheel for a heart, a thrashing thump thump THUMP of wood against water. Now, inside me, there is a leaf on a stream, gliding gently gently gently, paper between water and air.

I am allowing the worry to abandon me now,

and good GOD it feels good.

I am life.

I once thought my emotions were asleep under my skin, resting there like a wounded beast, weeping quietly, waiting for my attention and self-pity, but this is not so.

It is the show of the ego - an unwanted actor addicted to my cheers and jeers, my whistles, whispers, boos, and bravos.

Well, hello to the show! Hello!

I see you.

I am in the audience, watching your production of pain and conditioned thinking. No longer do I find you funny, fun or full of fury. No longer do I applaud your dramatic monologues, your cyclical sobs, or any of your self-righteous banter. 

Now I am calling for an orchestra of wind instruments to blow through you. Soon the commotion of your emotions will become silence. Then snoring. Yes, peace can be quite boring! Good. You go sleep in the wings, while I fly, dance and sing to the cathedral ceilings of my being. I am turning off your spotlights and I am turning on the ghost light. I am calling for the fall of your curtains too, the letting down of soft consciousness.

One day, I will build a box of metaphorical matches and burn this place to the ground, leaving you a shadow without a stage and me naked in the woods of the world.

I am not you, ego. I am not my thoughts.

I am the naked body. I am the woods and the world. I am life.

Eckhart Tolle told me so. In a book. And I believe him.
  

I am life. 

In their own awakened way, the children say

I don't want to be
        anywhere but here.

BUMP!

Hands fill a jar with cold tap water. Feet shuffle in socks to the couch where this body drops and wraps knit knots around cold legs. The back bends then, touching cup to coffee table where there is pen and paper and book.

Above this body, child and man sleep on wooden frames, spring mattresses, and cotton bedding, dreaming forgettable tales while their hearts beat blood and breathe. My breath is wet as a sea breeze, in and sigh, in and sigh, in and sigh... these breaths of bliss.

Behind the window and behind bold feathery firs, the sun rises like a glittery gold balloon, floating, pulling ribbons of pink and yellow, ribbons that wrap every little thing in light to be seen.

The house is soft and warm and still until  ---BUMP! Two bare feet bark on floor planks followed by, "Momma!"

Another sigh followed by,
acceptance. "Yes, love. I'm downstairs!"

Bump! says a foot.
Bump! says a foot.
Bump! Bump! Bump!
say two bare feet on tall wide stairs
Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! 

    patter...patter...patter...patter...patter...
She appears in short dress, no pants,
hair ragged as weeds in the wind,
a shine beneath the nose,
sweat between the toes,
and diamonds in her eyes.
She is glad to be alive!

Who is this person wearing the body of a child?
I don't know, but yes to this moment and yes to this one and this one too! 

be

I want to be

      be and be 

until i am 

empty.

dear GOD, please

open me

and

scatter me

like the stars.


I want to be

everywhere.

The ego would like a new pair of glasses.

The ego would also like a facial, eye cream, makeup, a new hairstyle, hair dye, and a manicure. The ego has also requested black boots and another costly sweater. The soul, however, is warm in worn woolen sweaters and bruised boots and contentment and has requested that the ego instead save the money for good food, drink, and books. 

METAMORPHOSIS

Accept the metamorphosis 

     ___no matter how slow it is.

For what else really is there to do?

A tote of metal tubes slumps on the floor beside you. A tablet is blotted with acrylic paint. A jar of water stands under your fingers, a dunk tank for your brushes of wood and horsehair. Your easel is splattered like a suncatcher. You mix and mop color: spirals coiling into conversion. Then with swift or slow strokes, you make salt clouds and sand reeds and dune mounds. You make a road too to blue where a rowboat floats behind clay and shadow. I want to walk upon your muted moss, step on your shell and sand, and swim in your blue-gray water, Great Grandmother. Oh, what a distant summer! I remember you in your rocker, swaying gently by the windows in the sharp slanted light of morning. Light so bright, I was sure it would cut you, however, you were stronger than the sun for someone (other than your mother) named you Sunny. We would visit you on Sunday mornings. There was a coin bank with pennies. We would fill it, wind it, and listen to it sing. And monkies in a barrel. And in two glass bowls on your dining room table, golden butterscotch candies in crinkly papers and chalky white peppermints. I remember the single bed in the small rectangle room where Great Grandfather died. Someone (other than his mother) named him Grand. I remember searching for his spirit. I never found it. However, I did convince myself that I felt him, hovering. Now a wall in my house leans beneath your bay. In a speckled gray frame, there is no glass over your sea of serenity. It is dull and pretty. I can touch and look at your brush strokes and be glad of you and the time it took you to paint these salt clouds, these sand reeds, these dune mounds. Perhaps you stood barefoot on the soft sand, quiet company to the gulls, fish, and breeze. Perhaps you stood in your studio, photo in hand. It doesn't matter really. You knew how to drink the air and settle your glassy eyes upon the ground, sky, and sea. You knew that to make beauty, one must first see it. You saw it. I see it too. For what else really is there to do?

A Littler Loss

I call the midwives.


I'm bleeding. I tell the one who answers. 

Many women bleed.

But I never did... with my first, that is.  

That doesn't necessarily matter. Every pregnancy is different. 

Oh. 

However, due to your negative blood type, you need to come in tonight or early tomorrow morning.

I'll come in tonight. 


When I stand and walk to the bathroom, fluid falls from me. I sit on the cold toilet. There is a pop and gush. In the bowl: blood, piss, and water. It's over. Or rather, it's nearly over. 

I leave Scott standing in the kitchen. 

Oh, you're leaving now? He asks. 

I feel the weight of him behind me, not in flesh and feet, but in soul. It wanders around him, trails his body, the yellowish-green bile of melancholia, of helplessness. A shadow in the dark. 

I wobble into my boots, pressing against the wall to steady myself. We move then toward my dark green coat, which I wrap and zip. Knit hat. Scarf.  I trust they will contain me, protect me. When I was a little girl I was so shy. I remember wishing that I could hide inside my shoes. Far from the eyes of strangers, I would live there, cozy and safe, between leather and laces. At 35-years old, I stand now in my boots ready for community, big and small, to be with others, others I know and others I don't know. For I have learned to trust my neighbor, my stranger, my other. 

Stay here with her. I tell him. I'll be fine. 

I am holding my keys when I kiss him. I turn on the outside lamp, lock the door and step out into the cold night air. 

With every uterine pinch, I shiver and sob. It is leaving me, the contents of my brief pregnancy. Here in the privacy of my moving car, I will weep it out, pour myself dry. These thoughts will call forth my fears until I am quiet inside... I never heard a heartbeat. Why did I tell so many people when I hadn't even heard a heartbeat? Why did we tell our little one (our little one who loves littler ones)? Why were we so naive? so bold? so stupid? What will I tell her? How much of the truth? Something went wrong. I'll say, along with, I'm sorry. And what about me? What will I see when it comes out? Will it be limp? translucent? still wet with the warm spit of my womb? Nothing frightens me more than loss.

Waiting for my midwife, I lie on crinkly paper in a triage room. It is nearly midnight now. I was once in the room next to this one, trembling with contractions, my first baby banging on the gates of me, screaming for freedom, for breath and breast.  

I am no longer 12 weeks pregnant. I know that now. My due date was mid-July. Now it is midnight of December 28, 2018. What will they do with it once it is out of me? Once it is birthed, removed, expelled? What will they do with it? Will I see its bones, veins, and soft skull?  What will they do with it? What will they do with me?

Perhaps I should have known. A few weeks ago, nausea and exhaustion lifted. What relief I felt. Not dread. Not fear. Relief. I could function again without dozing off or looking for bread. I didn't gain any weight though. In fact, I seemed to be losing weight.  Then last week, a midwife searched for a heartbeat, pressing deep into my doughy belly with her electric wand. She couldn't find one. Still, I had no dread, no fear. 

It's still early. She said. 

I believed her. 

Tonight, at two minutes before midnight, I stand and feel my body empty. 

12:37 a.m... Still no midwife. 

My sister's maternity clothes hang in my closet at home. I feel foolish for wearing that denim dress on Christmas, the one with the buttons and the high elastic waist. 

1:15 a.m... I lie on my back, my legs wide and bent like a spider's, while my nurse and midwife remove "the tissue."  I hate this word.

It probably stopped growing a few weeks ago. They tell me. 

Now it is "tissue." Nothing more than the contents of a small jar. It isn't even a fetus. It is the saddest bit of gore I have ever seen. Gray bits and bluish blood, perhaps a placenta gone rogue, I learn later. The nurse is kind. She tells me that I still have ten more childbearing years. I don't believe her, but I appreciate her. She asks if I'd like it blessed. 

I don't understand at first, but then I do. Sure, I guess. Thank you.

Under a 3am sky, I watch the highway sweep beneath me, while my body seeps silently, still emptying.

At home, I stand in the hot shower until my skin is pink. I dry off and cover my bleeding parts in cotton and plastic, then dress in my robe. I should go to bed, but I stop at the fridge instead. With bare feet on the cold kitchen floor, I eat leftover pumpkin pie like a hungry dog. Once I am full and bare, I pull myself up the stairs to dress in the dark.

I'm not pregnant anymore. I tell him. 

He has been at the edge of sleep for hours. I crawl in beside him. Damp and warm, I lie on my soft belly while he gathers my heavy bones into his heavy bones and we sleep like new parents, restless and bewildered.