Belonging and Ur: Thinking about Home

"You finally leave home, the Ur of we, and you find another we? Another place that's just like that, the substitute for that?" *

I know so many people who are drawn to a place. They consider it their home. I've never had that feeling about a place. Yes, I loved the smell of the market in Kampala when I returned 20-odd years later. I'm guessing it stimulated something in my amygdala that my lizard brain appreciated. And I do love the Rockies, as you all know. I love remembering the feeling of being young and fearless, and I love the feeling of recognizing how tiny I am in the bigger scheme of things. Oh, and I love hanging out in my house in Montreal, I love the couch, I love the smell of patchouli in the air from my morning baths. 

But drawn to a place? Having roots, like a tree or whatever? Not for me. I yearned after it for years. I ran to Africa and traipsed around there for a couple of years, trying to imagine myself at home. I joined various communities: the radical feminists, the Left, the Ultra-Orthodox Jews, the underground midwives. I created a large family and I generally feel "at home" when I'm with my kids and their spouses. I always feel at home with my baby grandson!!!

And I always feel at home when I out there running, placing one foot on the ground, then the other, then the exact same thing, over and over and over again, the farther the better. And I feel at home when I'm curled up on my couch, reading a good book. Or when I'm on a trip, going somewhere in a car or a train or a boat or a plane. In the Sahara desert in a truck. In the mountains of Morocco with a young girl who's leading me to a cool mountain stream. 

But I digress. These are all the places I've been ... not really places I actually could call my home, in any true sense of the word. Although maybe .... maybe what I feel is home just ain't what you feel is home. Maybe my wanderlust is deep, so deep that only when I'm moving do I feel "at home". That's why I speak English with a kind-of British accent; French with an Italian accent, Italian with an English accent and a couple of words of Hebrew with a Canadian accent... it's why I can have wonderful conversations with people who I've never met before, and with whom I don't share a language. We use sign language, love, and a willingness to understand and be understood.

I've met many people over the years who have had to flee their homes to settle in a completely new place. I've met families with young children who left a home that was destroyed, who walked for miles only to get on a leaky boat, and if they survived that they walked some more and then had to live in a tents for months and then they could start their new lives in a new country... and they always had their old home in their hearts, even if they knew they would never go back. 

I dream about the house I spent most of my childhood years in. But I don't look back and think "ahhhh, home." But if I just remember a feeling that I had in the back of a truck in Saskatchewan when I was fifteen, and I could feel the wind in my hair and I had no idea what was coming next ... "ahhh, home". Home, for me, is the movement from one place to another. It is never "we". It is always "I" and it can get lonely. I share my home with others - my husband shares it, and my kids and their lovers and my grandson. It's a big tent, but a moveable one. A nomad's home. A snail shell.

When I'm assisting a woman giving birth, one of my many goals is to create a "home" for her, for her baby, and for her circle. I do this in many ways: sometimes with my physical presence, sometimes with my knowledge, sometimes with suggestions for her about choosing her team of support. Giving birth to another human is about one of the biggest transitions a person can make, so if I can facilitate a feeling of being "at home" through that transition, I have done my job well. To clarify, when a woman is "at home" during her birth-giving experience, she feels as if she is at the center of that experience, which is exactly where she actually is. Many maternity situations these days successfully pull a birthing mother away from that center, and away from that home. Whenever she is told that she "should" or "shouldn't" do something; whenever she is made to feel ignorant or foolish; whenever she understands that she hasn't somehow lived up to other peoples' expectations of her, then a birthing woman will feel exiled from her home and pushed out of the center of that primal experience.

And I want to make clear that I am not saying that it's only experiences that are within hospitals, or with OBGYNs that can make a woman an exile in her own birth experience. It's more common within these institutions, for sure, but then again the majority of women now in Canada are giving birth within institutions. I am saying, however, that WHOMEVER and WHENEVER and for WHATEVER reason a birthing mother is spoken to, she must be spoken to with respect, with humility, with honour. There are social media influencers who are shaming women every single minute, with "facts" about her birth choices and her life choices that are just not true. There's a whole world out there full of people who want to drive a birthing woman from her home, by imposing their own personal choices upon her. 

We all need to find a home where we can dwell with some measure of peace. When babies are born in environments of fear or anger, they don't feel that peace. Good things can come from stress and desperation: women who have been torn apart are now trying their very best to repair and heal the birth environment for others to come. I love to do a big huge houseclean every so often: where everything is turned upside-down and cleaned before it is put back in its rightful place. I air everything out, make things smell nice, repair broken things, clean underneath.... maybe we need to do a little housecleaning! 

Please reach out if you want to be part of the new birth attendant course @mbcdoulaschool!

*from Philip Roth's masterpiece The Human Stain. 

Home Can Be A Tower

I'm thinking a lot about home, and what home means to us. We moved our family to a medieval tower in 1988: it was the beginning of a long series of adventures, some cool and exciting, others devastating and dangerous. I pulled the Tower card this morning for my reading, which can mean change in a fundamental way. It can mean the destruction of one home and the creation of another. It can signal the breaking down of old habits and patterns to make way for new: an eruption, a revolution.

I work alongside women who are thinking deeply about how they want to give birth. Most of them want to birth at home, and many of them do. Last week, one of the women I have been working with over the summer gave birth at home, peacefully, in her place, with her partner alongside her. She came back to the city from abroad because she felt the need to give birth "at home". She didn't just mean in her own apartment, on her own bed. She meant "in her home". She missed the smells of her city; the bicycles; the streets and trees of the place she knew - she knows - as her own home.

When I am invited to accompany a woman during her reproductive experience, whether that is pregnancy, birth, miscarriage, abortion, infertility experiences, or the decision whether or not to have children, I try to facilitate a way that she can work her way back to her "home". We all have a centre place, a home, that we need to be able to return to. When we can't return, we get lost. We get lost in other peoples' needs and desires. We get lost in addictions. We get lost in our jobs. We get lost in cleaning up. We get lost in the search for money or new things. We get lost and then the Hungry Ghost finds us and we feel empty all the time, and hungry, and we don't even know what we are hungry for. But the answer is, we're missing our Home.

I've never felt I had a geographic home. I moved from one continent to the next all my life: Africa, North America, Europe. I love the Canadian Rockies. I feel at home when I'm on a trail. I love the desert. Give me temperatures at body temp or higher, and I'm happy. Then again, I love the challenge of a 20 k run in 20 below zero. 

But I wouldn't say I have a home, like, I don't feel "at home" anywhere. I am at home when I'm with any number of my five children and their spouses. I'm at home when I'm running a long distance. I'm at home ... when I'm on a plane, looking down at my planet.

I listen with awe to people who speak of missing their home, how they miss the taste of a place, or the feeling of the wind on their faces in their home place. My journey is different: because I've never felt the geographic pull of home, I seek to find my centre, and I accompany others on their own journeys to their centres. When a woman is birthing in her centre, she is birthing at home. When she gives birth in her power, at the centre of the event, she has found her home. My job is to navigate with her so she can find the path home. Sometimes there are huge prickly trees in front of the entranceway. Sometimes her home is very small, so small she can trip on it at night. Sometimes she needs to lose something in order to find her home. Sometimes she needs to let go of one place to journey to the other.

Peace.

Running Home

I never thought I'd be interested in a sport. I guess running isn't a sport, per se. Anyway, I have a drawer full of running gear, I have three different pairs of running shoes, I now read running articles and magazines, and I would rather be on a nice long run than just about anything else.
So what happened?
It's just wonderful to feel yourself strong and in your body. It's fun to run like you used to when you were a kid. There's no team work involved, so you don't have to relate to anyone except yourself. It's fun to sweat, and it's fun to achieve something in a half hour that you didn't think you could do. It's even fun to come home after a not-so-great run and feel a sense of satisfaction that at least you went out and did it.

Another weirder thing, for me. When I'm out running it's the only time I feel normal. I rarely feel at home in my skin. From being a white colonial baby in Africa cared for by my Ayah, to suddenly moving to oil country (Alberta) when a toddler, and being the only weirdo in school... and becoming a wanderer... whatever, I felt like an outsider much of my life and sometimes that is even outside myself. Which yes is also weird.

But when I'm running? I'm here and now! I'm free again - running in the Rockies, or anywhere. Just running for the hell of it. Ya, so get shoes, clothing, gloves whatever a hat if its cold, and just step out... and run...

Of course there are problems, life is suffering after all. Don't go out alone on a rural road if you're a woman. Don't run after dark in an isolated area if you're a woman. And all that. Even today, some asshole yelled after me ... actually he yelled AT me while I ran past. I turned back around and came up to face him again... he looked down at the ground. Didn't want to deal with a mean-ass bad-ass 62 year old like yours truly.

I'll have run 1000 kilometres in 2018. I'm hoping to crunch a half marathon in February and a full in May.
So grateful that I can.

Grateful for Home

Home is where the heart is. Over the years, we have built a few homes here and there. I've had the pleasure of learning how to build, alongside my husband. I've knocked down stone walls, built them up, placed large chestnut beams, tiled floors, and watched him work wonders with plumbing, electricals and the less fun side of building, like drywall and plaster. I'm not so great at masonry but it just takes practice.

Home is also the smell of baked bread, laughter, the wood stove, everyone yelling at each other, music, babies crying, the silence when everyone is asleep except for a newborn and a suckling mother, the ringing of phones and excitement when a big family visit is planned.

We've had big fights at home. We've cried, been desperate, lost people, broken things, had bad things happen. But its still our home, and I am so grateful to have one.