When we first saw our place it was just a spot of orange in a sea of green, with an amazing view - on top of the world. The orange was a little bit of the roof of the barn, and the house was completely covered by greenery.
Our youngest was only two years old and as we were clambering down from the road, someone stopped and said "Be careful of snakes." Well, of course we knew about snakes, having farmed in Italy for many years. We taught our children about vipers and were careful to keep the grass short around the house.
But what we didn't know was that here in Lunigiana, vipers have been "seeded" from helicopters, by those who want to save the lives of predatory birds. So they sent sacks of young vipers up in copters, and the sacks were thrown into the hills, releasing the babes into the woods.
So we do in fact have a large population of poisonous snakes to deal with, and whether or not the buzzards and kites I have seen above our house are grateful, who knows. It does seem strange, though, that the lives of birds would be considered more carefully than the lives of humans.
City people can often be very sentimental about Mother Nature. But nature isn't gentle - she is strong and can be cruel. The subtle opening of a flower and the pounding of a hailstorm, a giant tsunami, and a baby sparrow, are all part of nature's variations. Who are we to interfere? And especially at the expense of our own kind.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Words and Birth
I was the late-blooming Jewish girl with pigtails and crooked teeth, at sea amongst the Aryan cheerleaders, hormonal giants and cowboys. Back then we had real cowboys, not just dress-ups. I bloomed suddenly, and became the craziest, most radical cowgirl in the west. But not before I learned a few things. One of these was, never use a word with more than two syllables if you want to be accepted.
I continued to write longer words in my diaries - I have a fine assortment of them now, dating back to 1966. My diary did not judge me, and I could be as magnificently cantankerous as I wanted.
What joy when I finally decided to go to university, several years later. I met people who spoke with many syllables, and occasionally used words I didn't even understand! We wrangled about concepts that were beyond belief, wrote terrible poetry, and thought we were the vanguard.
How much of schooling is simply imposing? King Julian suggests it may be fun to "impose my ideology on them - even if they don't want it." How many unspoken and unheard beliefs and opinions have flooded my mind and the minds of my children, just from being in school? I'm not suggesting home schooling is any better - I never thought that I could provide absolutely everything for my children. I sent all my children to school, and school itself was mostly a dismal failure. But I have five completely different and magnificently cantankerous sons, who like to use many words in many languages. So their difficult birthing and difficult schooling didn't destroy their characters at all.
I digress.
Of course, that is part of being alive, being affected by our surroundings and affecting others. At what point does this process become dangerous, when does it start inflicting wounds that cannot be healed? Do we ever truly understand how sensitive most human beings are? How absorbent children's minds are? How fragile a developing character?
During the birth of a child, this fragility is beautiful - a woman is at her most vulnerable and her strongest. At this time, more than ever, it is very important for the attendants to watch what they say and how they say it. Th doula can act as a filter for rough language, and she can heal hurtful words if they are spoken. The birthing woman is well equipped with filters of her own - lost in the absorbing task of giving birth, she will sometimes not hear what anyone has to say. But if she has been pulled out of her task, she may hear and absorb some though that will plague her forever.
Words are powerful! Use them well!
I continued to write longer words in my diaries - I have a fine assortment of them now, dating back to 1966. My diary did not judge me, and I could be as magnificently cantankerous as I wanted.
What joy when I finally decided to go to university, several years later. I met people who spoke with many syllables, and occasionally used words I didn't even understand! We wrangled about concepts that were beyond belief, wrote terrible poetry, and thought we were the vanguard.
How much of schooling is simply imposing? King Julian suggests it may be fun to "impose my ideology on them - even if they don't want it." How many unspoken and unheard beliefs and opinions have flooded my mind and the minds of my children, just from being in school? I'm not suggesting home schooling is any better - I never thought that I could provide absolutely everything for my children. I sent all my children to school, and school itself was mostly a dismal failure. But I have five completely different and magnificently cantankerous sons, who like to use many words in many languages. So their difficult birthing and difficult schooling didn't destroy their characters at all.
I digress.
Of course, that is part of being alive, being affected by our surroundings and affecting others. At what point does this process become dangerous, when does it start inflicting wounds that cannot be healed? Do we ever truly understand how sensitive most human beings are? How absorbent children's minds are? How fragile a developing character?
During the birth of a child, this fragility is beautiful - a woman is at her most vulnerable and her strongest. At this time, more than ever, it is very important for the attendants to watch what they say and how they say it. Th doula can act as a filter for rough language, and she can heal hurtful words if they are spoken. The birthing woman is well equipped with filters of her own - lost in the absorbing task of giving birth, she will sometimes not hear what anyone has to say. But if she has been pulled out of her task, she may hear and absorb some though that will plague her forever.
Words are powerful! Use them well!
Monday, July 4, 2011
Tickets for Italy!!
We'll be arriving before June 15 this year so we can definitely put some piantine in and hopefully get some vegetables this year. I'm thinking basil, tomatoes, lettuce, dill, zucchini...
Time travels so fast! Here we are already - tomatoes, lettuce, squash, onions, green beans, basil, parsley, comfrey, all my herbs from last year, except my huge rosemary who died probably from the cold.
Insect aggression is on us this year - the first night I was attacked by spiders, then G got a tick, then the wasps built a nest in the wall by the door. Small beach mosquitoes caused hives. Mice as well, they had a fun time with some pillows. But we have reclaimed our territory.
And minor ailments, I thought I broke my finger with a hammer but although it is very colorful I can move it well.
We got our hens back from their winter home - fresh eggs are so good.
City slickers back in the countryside - where the water tastes like wine ... and you can see forever from your front door ...
Time travels so fast! Here we are already - tomatoes, lettuce, squash, onions, green beans, basil, parsley, comfrey, all my herbs from last year, except my huge rosemary who died probably from the cold.
Insect aggression is on us this year - the first night I was attacked by spiders, then G got a tick, then the wasps built a nest in the wall by the door. Small beach mosquitoes caused hives. Mice as well, they had a fun time with some pillows. But we have reclaimed our territory.
And minor ailments, I thought I broke my finger with a hammer but although it is very colorful I can move it well.
We got our hens back from their winter home - fresh eggs are so good.
City slickers back in the countryside - where the water tastes like wine ... and you can see forever from your front door ...
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Witch Doctors?
I had to go to the hospital yesterday with my son for a small but annoying problem. While I was sitting waiting I thought about the hocus-pocus of medicine and about why we need ritual and ceremony during a healing experience.
We went to the Emergency Ward and my son was poked and prodded for an hour or so until the nurse said we had to go to the clinic in the next town. We drove down and, after doing some paperwork, we sat in a small, hot waiting room for three hours until we were admitted to see the doctor. The waiting room was uncomfortable, the chairs were hard, the other patients were anxious. Once we got into the room, the doctor was wearing a green outfit, and a young woman assisting him was wearing white. Strange-looking instruments were produced. When the young woman hit my son on the head with the metal basin, nobody laughed. Only when the doctor's cell phone started singing a White Stripes song from his pocket did my son finally crack. The doctor asked "Why do you laugh"?
The last time I went was for a series of tests a few months ago (all good!). That time, the mystique was much more serious. I had an ultrasound first. I went to the clinic, paid my money, and sat for a while in the obligatory waiting room. My name was called and I was led into a small cubicle where I had to remove all my clothes and put on a little paper gown. I was allowed to bring my purse into the examination room, where a technician smeared me with a cold blue substance and then pushed a magic wand onto my abdomen. This went on for about twenty minutes until she handed me a small tissue, told me I could leave, and left the room. I ineffectually wiped some of the blue gel off and then stickily tried to find my room. My bladder was bursting as I had not been allowed to pee since the morning. I found my room, my clothes, and the bathroom and left the clinic.
A week later I was in a similar room but this was a co-ed changing room in a public hospital. The gowns were cloth but didn't fit around the back. I was tilted on a hard table and a heavy object was placed over my pelvis. Everyone left the room. A few minutes later they came back in and said I could leave.
A few weeks later I went to my doctor and she said everything was okay. Yea! The blue goo, the isolation room, the magic wand, and the heavy object cured me!
Not so far from reality, really. Maybe all I needed was some ritual, some magic, someone knowing more than I about the mystery of my own body. Perhaps I just needed someone to say "Everything is fine - your body works". Maybe I needed to feel vulnerable in a paper gown so that I could fully comprehend how scared I was of something being really wrong.
We can't know in the end what heals and what doesn't - and why some cures work for some people and not for others. Or who will not be cured in the end, and who will walk away. For this reason, it is important to have an open mind, to accept the rituals, no matter how annoying they may seem. And to remember to do no harm.
We went to the Emergency Ward and my son was poked and prodded for an hour or so until the nurse said we had to go to the clinic in the next town. We drove down and, after doing some paperwork, we sat in a small, hot waiting room for three hours until we were admitted to see the doctor. The waiting room was uncomfortable, the chairs were hard, the other patients were anxious. Once we got into the room, the doctor was wearing a green outfit, and a young woman assisting him was wearing white. Strange-looking instruments were produced. When the young woman hit my son on the head with the metal basin, nobody laughed. Only when the doctor's cell phone started singing a White Stripes song from his pocket did my son finally crack. The doctor asked "Why do you laugh"?
The last time I went was for a series of tests a few months ago (all good!). That time, the mystique was much more serious. I had an ultrasound first. I went to the clinic, paid my money, and sat for a while in the obligatory waiting room. My name was called and I was led into a small cubicle where I had to remove all my clothes and put on a little paper gown. I was allowed to bring my purse into the examination room, where a technician smeared me with a cold blue substance and then pushed a magic wand onto my abdomen. This went on for about twenty minutes until she handed me a small tissue, told me I could leave, and left the room. I ineffectually wiped some of the blue gel off and then stickily tried to find my room. My bladder was bursting as I had not been allowed to pee since the morning. I found my room, my clothes, and the bathroom and left the clinic.
A week later I was in a similar room but this was a co-ed changing room in a public hospital. The gowns were cloth but didn't fit around the back. I was tilted on a hard table and a heavy object was placed over my pelvis. Everyone left the room. A few minutes later they came back in and said I could leave.
A few weeks later I went to my doctor and she said everything was okay. Yea! The blue goo, the isolation room, the magic wand, and the heavy object cured me!
Not so far from reality, really. Maybe all I needed was some ritual, some magic, someone knowing more than I about the mystery of my own body. Perhaps I just needed someone to say "Everything is fine - your body works". Maybe I needed to feel vulnerable in a paper gown so that I could fully comprehend how scared I was of something being really wrong.
We can't know in the end what heals and what doesn't - and why some cures work for some people and not for others. Or who will not be cured in the end, and who will walk away. For this reason, it is important to have an open mind, to accept the rituals, no matter how annoying they may seem. And to remember to do no harm.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Winter Blues, Spring Fever
As I write this I can hear a bird from the back yard, through my open window. I suddenly came alive again about two weeks ago, when the sun came out and my blood started moving. I realized that I'd been in hibernation for most of the past six months, my body was sleeping and that affected my mind. Oh, yes, I know I was at those meetings, I attended births, I wrote stuff. But I was moving through a sludge of hormones that were not letting me wake up.
How much of what we do and feel is just about chemicals? We are synapses, elements, neurons, electrons, and those little neutrinos and prions are part of us as well. Where's the "me" that feels happy when the sun finally shines?
I watched the hockey game last night. Oh, what testosterone! What violent ballet! What ballerina skill those large men have, and how I love to watch them jostle and spin their way across the frozen water. I am happy when my team wins, sad when they lose.
When I am accompanying a woman giving birth, I remember that we are all part of a net of atoms, molecules and love and I enter into that shimmering net with an open heart. Her hormones pass to me and we make the journey together. Even if it is in the dead of winter, when I take my son to school and pick him up from school in the cold and dark, the hormones of birth are warm and bright. Small punches of light in a darkened window. Just like the cardinal in my back yard in the winter whiteness, when the snow covers everything and he is a patch of crimson and a sharp song in the darkening day.
How much of what we do and feel is just about chemicals? We are synapses, elements, neurons, electrons, and those little neutrinos and prions are part of us as well. Where's the "me" that feels happy when the sun finally shines?
I watched the hockey game last night. Oh, what testosterone! What violent ballet! What ballerina skill those large men have, and how I love to watch them jostle and spin their way across the frozen water. I am happy when my team wins, sad when they lose.
When I am accompanying a woman giving birth, I remember that we are all part of a net of atoms, molecules and love and I enter into that shimmering net with an open heart. Her hormones pass to me and we make the journey together. Even if it is in the dead of winter, when I take my son to school and pick him up from school in the cold and dark, the hormones of birth are warm and bright. Small punches of light in a darkened window. Just like the cardinal in my back yard in the winter whiteness, when the snow covers everything and he is a patch of crimson and a sharp song in the darkening day.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Book!
My book is actually in print!
Only review copies are available now, so if you are a journalist and would like to review please contact me.
It looks good, and reads beautifully...the culmination of many months of work.
Only review copies are available now, so if you are a journalist and would like to review please contact me.
It looks good, and reads beautifully...the culmination of many months of work.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Doula Breakdown
Last week was a week full of difficulties and ruptures - it wasn't a rapture, silly, to quote my dear friend Syd...
All sorts of very difficult things happened to a lot of people I know, and by the end of the week I was just wondering what was going to happen next. And then, after a rather difficult labor and birth, a proud new grandmother hugged me and said, "This is the happiest day of my life"!
It was the same day a very gentle and wonderful woman in our family passed away, so it was especially poignant to me to see the paradox of being alive with such clarity.
A couple of months ago I called one of my apprentices to let her know that our client was in early labor. She said she just couldn't come with me - literally that minute she had broken up with her boyfriend. I let her know that this is something that happens - the doula's life goes on, and even if something disturbing is taking place in your life, you can still put that something in a box and go to take part in another woman's joy without reserve, clean, fresh, and open.
How do we do this? I have spent many taxi rides doing just that - letting go of my worries about one of my sons, or the fact that my husband and I had planned a much-needed evening together, or what that strange phone call was about from my dear friend. I let it go, and I try to concentrate on the woman I will be attending, and her needs.
Sometimes the doula does have to take a break from doula work in order to concentrate on sorting out her personal issues. I remember several years ago when a doula called me in tears because her husband was not happy with her being away at nights. She chose to move to a different area of maternity care and is happy doing childbirth education and staying home nights. I personally take a break every summer and turn my energies to creating a different sort of life in a very different environment. That life may include birth one day, I don't know right now, but I do know that I am happy without my pager when I am working the cement mixer up on our mountain.
Just fixing everything up here with a little love, some words, and a dab of cement!
All sorts of very difficult things happened to a lot of people I know, and by the end of the week I was just wondering what was going to happen next. And then, after a rather difficult labor and birth, a proud new grandmother hugged me and said, "This is the happiest day of my life"!
It was the same day a very gentle and wonderful woman in our family passed away, so it was especially poignant to me to see the paradox of being alive with such clarity.
A couple of months ago I called one of my apprentices to let her know that our client was in early labor. She said she just couldn't come with me - literally that minute she had broken up with her boyfriend. I let her know that this is something that happens - the doula's life goes on, and even if something disturbing is taking place in your life, you can still put that something in a box and go to take part in another woman's joy without reserve, clean, fresh, and open.
How do we do this? I have spent many taxi rides doing just that - letting go of my worries about one of my sons, or the fact that my husband and I had planned a much-needed evening together, or what that strange phone call was about from my dear friend. I let it go, and I try to concentrate on the woman I will be attending, and her needs.
Sometimes the doula does have to take a break from doula work in order to concentrate on sorting out her personal issues. I remember several years ago when a doula called me in tears because her husband was not happy with her being away at nights. She chose to move to a different area of maternity care and is happy doing childbirth education and staying home nights. I personally take a break every summer and turn my energies to creating a different sort of life in a very different environment. That life may include birth one day, I don't know right now, but I do know that I am happy without my pager when I am working the cement mixer up on our mountain.
Just fixing everything up here with a little love, some words, and a dab of cement!
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