On this morning’s run out out the dirt trail toward Boulder Reservoir, geese sectioned the upper sky in three mass V formations.
My heart beat in my chest. My muscles ached. The wind blew, and I re-donned one fleece layer I’d removed in sweating anticipation of a full balm that came, but later. Midway, for at least half an hour, my muscles purred like I’d reached third gear on a two-lane country dirt road and could go for miles.
I sang about my daughter today, my Gentle Dancing Dove. I sang about my own birth, and of this mysterious voice inside me wanting and needing to be born. I’ve much resistance, so I sang a lullaby to my own hiding.
I dream I shall welcome all of my voice and she’ll pour from me and from beyond me out into the world without fear.
I could Facetime my daughter Hannah now. Do you remember, I would say tenderly, that you were named Gentle Dancing Dove in a ceremony at Blue Sky Kindergarten? They took your holy light seriously, like you were destined to protect the Earth under your feet and share gifts tender and big as the sky.
It’s a holy thing, having a baby. With lots of blood and pain and snot and sometimes poop! We’ve been savoring the Netflix show “Call the Midwife.” The midwives in the early days of England’s National Health Service always gave the mothers an enema before they birthed. Why the hell didn’t I get one of those? I pooped in the middle of my labor. The stench rose and I felt like I was being tortured. I cried out for someone to make it go away, and they kind of acted like I should be patient because after all, I made it. You’d think they’d better prepared for that literal shit.
After my Saturday run, a sense of well-being purred through me. I took a short nap and savored eggs over easy with leftover pumpkin pie. Then we met several friends and fellow light workers for a powerful Take Action Prayer group online, and I felt so cared for. I guzzled big water. I received the bounty I offered myself.
When I arrived at the east side of the reservoir, the geese had settled together on the water. There had to be more than 300 of them. They wriggled together making a storm of sound like a honk festival. I ran in the sunlight with this symphony rising up the slope on my right from the water and smiled as I turned around. Nature filled my heart. I felt bigger than when I arrived. Nearing home, I ran on the soft ground instead of the concrete path and sensed the roots of trees and the alive Earth beneath my feet.
Seeing Hannah and her new cat Grapes on Zoom fills me with an odd joy these days. It’s like I’ve let go of expecting to see anyone in person. I am grateful for these visits as though they are real. I have become a grandmother to a feline on Facetime from across the country. I’ve always felt a little sorry for distanced grandparents relying on digital connections with their pride and joy most of the time, but you know what, it’s a lift, whatever form the connection takes. My heart rises, buoyant. We revel in each other anyway. We enjoy the technology that helps love find a way. And in my own home, candles lit and dinner ready for our date tonight, I open to the echo of all that’s come before.
And my voice, it longs to listen and then call out across the night sky and be born in the morning, big as the sea, open and full of everything.
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