The morning of September 30, 1970 was a rough one for my mother. I don't have a lot of details, but even with the drama of my mother's telling cleared from the picture she painted, she was not well. I was her first child. I was two weeks 'late' and she was extremely hypertensive. Being a midwife myself, and knowing the structures of healthcare around here, I can tell you her care was not up to the standards of the day. That she was blind, well educated but unemployed, ferociously unliked by her in-laws, and quasi-abandoned by her husband were qualifiers for her quality of care, but the 'that she was blind' at the beginning of this sentence tells volumes by itself.
My growing-time was misery for her. She was a hurling dervish for most of her waking hours. My eating habits were limited to strawberries, chilidogs and occasional ice cream. I expressed an early interest in dance, which she managed with regular daily 'beer therapy' to calm me down. I don't think there was a time during my stay in her womb that a competent care provider would not have seen her situation as anything but high-risk. From her telling, I would have found -then- toxemia (now it's called pre-ecclampsia) at the start of her second trimester. She had no interventions.
My last day in there, I was making her life particularly unhappy. She'd been to her OB once a week for months by then, and that day, they'd taken her blood pressure and told her to lay still for half an hour and they'd try to take it again. The nurse said she was going to turn the lights off so mom could rest. Mom admitted being terrified at overhearing the nurse tell someone "I can't get a pressure. It's too high to read."
I'm not clear on the sequence of events after that, but she was admitted when they discovered she was having contractions. I think she'd been having them off and on for a week or so, but she was never clear on that with me. I'm sure the 'beer therapy' was interfering with that, too. She remembers having 'two shots' for 'ecclampsia' and a 'saddle block' during the evening. She used to describe well the stirrups, her positioning and her eventual decision that she didn't care who walked through, that she was there to have a baby, and nothing would deter her from that activity.
Somewhere amid that, she had a confrontation with her OB about 'when' she would give birth. She told me she felt I was coming and the OB told her he'd be back 'tomorrow.' It was very late in the night when she told the nurses they 'really should get somebody in here' to which they scoffed, saying "Why don't you let us tell you when things are happening?" Nobody would tell her what time it was. The closest she got to knowing when I was born was mentioning a confrontation with a nurse when she took her hands out of the wrist restraints to read her watch. The nurse was furious and warned my mother she'd be 'tied down' if she did it again. It was 11:45 at that time. I was born a short time after that, to the outspoken anger of staff, who said there was no doctor present and made no effort to shield my mother from their distaste with her, or discomfiture with the situation of having to be alone with a 'difficult patient'. The OB was in time to cut my cord, I think. Mom remembered him cursing upon entering the room.
My mother, and various astrologers along these 40 years insist my birth chart is incorrect. My birthday is 'supposed' to be 1 October, some few minutes after midnight. Mom didn't make a move to find out what time it was for obvious reasons. One theory was that staff changed it so I'd fall before the delay entry date for school. October 1st meant waiting a year. If this is so, I owe them a debt so humongous it fails description. I was miserable enough in school as it was, waiting another year to start would have gotten me committed. That's another blog, though.
There are a million directions possible with this, but the one I'm going with is that a woman's birthing experiences tell us so much about our society. They reflect the social mentality toward women and birth, yes, but the qualifiers of economic status, race, education, geographic location, ethnicity, religion, and disability all play into that framework. Therein comes the complexity, and to our shame, the disparity of care. Any woman with a disability is going to fall below any non-disabled woman in assessment of value of outcome or ablility to participate in her birthing, for example. My mother, for example was first and foremost, BLIND. Her education and determination to participate in her pregnancy/birth were ahead of her time in that being blind was a reason to not have a family in the first place, but she was vocal about wanting a better experience than her mother had, even if classes weren't open to her, or her family didn't support her choices. Certainly, no one was looking to her for guidance on where birth could be re-shaped into an experience more acceptable to moms of the day. Mom's intention to simply know the time was distressing to her care providers. Any other mother would have been stripped of jewelry, etc, before entering the delivery room. They hadn't thought of checking for her watch, so she still had it on. (Apparently the clock was hung above the head of the delivery table, so no mother would be able to see it.)
She was an enigma to hospital staff, wanting her baby with her after I was born. For that matter, wanting her baby at all was a point of distress. A nurse from cardiology summoned social services when word got out that a blind woman had 'successfully' delivered a baby, and was planning to take her home.
For all that attention, her physical care was extremely lacking. No attention was paid to prolonged bleeding, persistent fevers and severe anemia. Her recovery was not complete until after my brother was born two years later.
Have things changed? Women with disabilities are still greeted with skepticism -even outright resistance- when they choose to have families. I suppose mom was lucky in that she had private insurance and was married, if only on paper, when I was born. Disability is always first in the ranking of 'marks against' a person, but those other issues would have doomed her to death, rather than the lifetime of intermittent suffering she endured because she chose to become a mother.
So, on my 40th birthday, I consider whether I've done anything useful in gratitude for her suffering. On an empiric level, has my life merited her trials bringing me across? I have tried, at every opportunity, to make a difference in the lives I touch. I don't keep a count of those I've saved, or lost for that matter. I am certainly not complacent with the status quo, nor will I be, if I find it lacking. I will never ignore degradation of dignity or propogation of fear. I will never allow someone to suffer in silence if I can do something to change the situation. Someone greater than me will have to decide if that's a fair trade.
My next question is whether I've done anything to change the situation for women like her -and myself, for that matter? I can say, definitely, yes, I have. I am not a shaper of the world by any means, but anyone who knows me has seen me speak out for moms, babies and safer or more satisfying birthing. I'll continue teaching, healing and empowering women and their families. I'll always be a midwife, no matter how I womanifest. :)
Thank you, mom, for your hard work, determination and cooperation with the Divine. I'm still here, and grateful to be so. Blessed Peace, Edna Mae.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
My First Chip
Labor Day Eve, 24 years ago, I was stoned out of my skull. A then friend and I decided to let my brother get us pasted. It was a neighborhood event, with my brother announcing that I was finally gonna smoke weed, and all his friends chipping in on the stash that would get the job done. We had spectators, though I'm sure they were there for a share of the offerings as much as to see what I'd be like. I was a vocal assailant of anyone smoking my brother's product, and all of them were itching to see me 'blend' with the crowd I'd snubbed for years. My brother is 2 years younger than me, and back then had a thriving business from his homegrown. His customers, the local rif-raf, and anyone who'd heard the news was either in the room, on the porch, or somewhere nearby.
My mother was sitting in our living room, knitting. There's no way she couldn't have known what was going on, but she spectated, too. My friend spirited me out of the house, when I nearly fell over the couch into my mother's lap. We decided that a mutual boyfriend's house was the place to be, so we walked that way. He wasn't home. We sat there for hours, in his porch swing, hallucinating and sharing what we saw. At one point, we noticed his rubix cube and decided to fix it for him. My friend began peeling the stickers off and sticking them to my fingers. So, there I am, swinging, with colored squares on my hands, observing that it's wild how the world is completely still, but I'm moving back and forth. Yeah, my brother did a really good job...
I didn't have words for my psychological structure back then. I didn't know what shamanism was, or that I was a 'we' and that these two factors, more than any others, were how I'd stayed alive, and would continue to do so. I just knew that at that moment, I heard a very familiar voice ask me "Is this what you expected?" "Well, I didn't really know what to expect." I answered. "Are you safe?" I focused past the red and green squares on my fingers and spied my surroundings, "That's why we're here. It's safe, here." I went back to my squares, but Voice wasn't done, yet. "Would you be safe is he got to you?" I froze. "Or anyone else for that matter? Would you be able to defend yourself?" The 'he' in question was someone my mother was dating, who was obsessed with sexually assaulting me, to the point that I slept with knives, behind locked door and windows. He was as determined in his intentions toward me, as he was an angel in my mother's eyes. An image of the policeman standing in front of me, the only time I called for help, flashed. My mother's ensuing rage... I was straight and sober then, and it was a bad situation, but if it was now? I'd be just another hood whore arguing about something I forgot he paid for. Forget the police, I was too whacked to know how to dial the phone. I'd be completely on my own, and I definitely wasn't able to function. I'd be toast. I shook my head, forgetting my friend was there, "No," I answered, "I would not be safe." "How do we resolve this?" I didn't have to think about that, "Don't do this anymore. No drinking, no drugs. Nothing."
And so, with this clarity, I turned to my friend and said, "Ya know, this isn't so great, after all. We should swear never to do anything like this ever again."
She thought it over and nodded, "You're right. Let's swear."
So we did. We shook hands and everything. I cleared up a little after that, but I wasn't completely straight until the sun came up. We decided our friend wasn't coming home sometime after 0500, and migrated to McDonald's, two more stoner munchkins putting our coins together for a McMuffin. After that we went home, telling our parents we'd been at each other's house.
I spent Labor Day sorting which alcohol bottles were mine, from which were those of people I 'kept' liquor for. Since my room was usually locked up -and of no interest when I wasn't in it, anything anyone wanted to keep 'safe' was stashed in there. My drinking was with friends, or in secret, so few people even knew I drank, never mind how much.
I was 15. I was adamantly unwelcome at meetings, and my mother was so vocally hateful toward AA, that I'd be killed if she'd caught me. I never got a white chip, or sponsor, or help, aside from my Spirits, and Us, that is, which seems to be enough. I didn't celebrate birthdays, or even know the actual date of my sobriety until my husband asked me to look it up. There were many years when I forgot I had a birthday, and others when I couldn't do the math and know how many had passed. A Labor Day birthday was fine for me, and -somewhat- easy to remember, yes? My sobriety is marked by a national holiday. Cool, right?
So, this year makes 24. It was September 1, 1986 that I swore sobriety, and I keep my promises.
This year, my husband surprised me with my first chip. It's got 24 in Roman numerals on it, and comes with it's own case. My precious husband. He knows how I feel about the Program, and has witnessed how some in the rooms feel about me. His gesture of inclusion, acknowledgement and kindness has touched me in ways I haven't found words for, yet. I put my gold and silver XXIV chip on my altar, with O'Batala and my Spirits, since it is They who brought me to the point of earning it. "Are you safe?"
"Yes."
Safe, sober, loved, and loving.
Blessed Be
My mother was sitting in our living room, knitting. There's no way she couldn't have known what was going on, but she spectated, too. My friend spirited me out of the house, when I nearly fell over the couch into my mother's lap. We decided that a mutual boyfriend's house was the place to be, so we walked that way. He wasn't home. We sat there for hours, in his porch swing, hallucinating and sharing what we saw. At one point, we noticed his rubix cube and decided to fix it for him. My friend began peeling the stickers off and sticking them to my fingers. So, there I am, swinging, with colored squares on my hands, observing that it's wild how the world is completely still, but I'm moving back and forth. Yeah, my brother did a really good job...
I didn't have words for my psychological structure back then. I didn't know what shamanism was, or that I was a 'we' and that these two factors, more than any others, were how I'd stayed alive, and would continue to do so. I just knew that at that moment, I heard a very familiar voice ask me "Is this what you expected?" "Well, I didn't really know what to expect." I answered. "Are you safe?" I focused past the red and green squares on my fingers and spied my surroundings, "That's why we're here. It's safe, here." I went back to my squares, but Voice wasn't done, yet. "Would you be safe is he got to you?" I froze. "Or anyone else for that matter? Would you be able to defend yourself?" The 'he' in question was someone my mother was dating, who was obsessed with sexually assaulting me, to the point that I slept with knives, behind locked door and windows. He was as determined in his intentions toward me, as he was an angel in my mother's eyes. An image of the policeman standing in front of me, the only time I called for help, flashed. My mother's ensuing rage... I was straight and sober then, and it was a bad situation, but if it was now? I'd be just another hood whore arguing about something I forgot he paid for. Forget the police, I was too whacked to know how to dial the phone. I'd be completely on my own, and I definitely wasn't able to function. I'd be toast. I shook my head, forgetting my friend was there, "No," I answered, "I would not be safe." "How do we resolve this?" I didn't have to think about that, "Don't do this anymore. No drinking, no drugs. Nothing."
And so, with this clarity, I turned to my friend and said, "Ya know, this isn't so great, after all. We should swear never to do anything like this ever again."
She thought it over and nodded, "You're right. Let's swear."
So we did. We shook hands and everything. I cleared up a little after that, but I wasn't completely straight until the sun came up. We decided our friend wasn't coming home sometime after 0500, and migrated to McDonald's, two more stoner munchkins putting our coins together for a McMuffin. After that we went home, telling our parents we'd been at each other's house.
I spent Labor Day sorting which alcohol bottles were mine, from which were those of people I 'kept' liquor for. Since my room was usually locked up -and of no interest when I wasn't in it, anything anyone wanted to keep 'safe' was stashed in there. My drinking was with friends, or in secret, so few people even knew I drank, never mind how much.
I was 15. I was adamantly unwelcome at meetings, and my mother was so vocally hateful toward AA, that I'd be killed if she'd caught me. I never got a white chip, or sponsor, or help, aside from my Spirits, and Us, that is, which seems to be enough. I didn't celebrate birthdays, or even know the actual date of my sobriety until my husband asked me to look it up. There were many years when I forgot I had a birthday, and others when I couldn't do the math and know how many had passed. A Labor Day birthday was fine for me, and -somewhat- easy to remember, yes? My sobriety is marked by a national holiday. Cool, right?
So, this year makes 24. It was September 1, 1986 that I swore sobriety, and I keep my promises.
This year, my husband surprised me with my first chip. It's got 24 in Roman numerals on it, and comes with it's own case. My precious husband. He knows how I feel about the Program, and has witnessed how some in the rooms feel about me. His gesture of inclusion, acknowledgement and kindness has touched me in ways I haven't found words for, yet. I put my gold and silver XXIV chip on my altar, with O'Batala and my Spirits, since it is They who brought me to the point of earning it. "Are you safe?"
"Yes."
Safe, sober, loved, and loving.
Blessed Be
Sunday, September 5, 2010
280 Days
I've been trying to come up with a way to get this point across for twenty years. I can't say this one will work any better, but if one mom gets it, and her baby has a better start, then I've done something, yes?
Let me start by saying that if you're reading this and you know or suspect you have an addiction, you need help, preferably before getting pregnant. AA, and many other recovery programs do work, if you do the work, and your life will be a whole different experience without addiction controling it. If you are pregnant, and that statement applies, inform your care provider immediately. Any intervention is better than none at all.
The other thing is this. I'm not getting into the scientific evidence -prolific that it is- of what alcohol or drugs, or even diet soda can do to your pregnancy, so don't expect me to list footnotes. I could, and do, sometimes, with individual patients, but I've seen absolutely NO positive results from this approach. So, here's my new tactic for getting this very important and life-changing (sometimes saving) point across.
280 days.
From conception to birth, 280 days.
Now, if you want to be really on task, you could be taking vitamins and exercising well before conception, but that's not a world most of my patients live in, so we'll keep it simple.
280 days.
We can't control destiny, or basic genetic contributions. We can't control all sorts of other things that can go right or wrong during a pregnancy. This is a given. And, yes, the line of what is, and is not in our control is changing with IVF pre-screening and genome charting, reproductive surgeries, hormone interventions, etc., but all that's an aside.
Women, you have 280 days in which you lend your body to another human being so that it can be created, grown and birthed into this world. How much of that time will you waste?
For this example, I'm going to use alcohol. You can substitute anything you want, but the formula holds the same.
Consider the last time you drank. How much time did you stay buzzed? (Relaxed, trashed, or passed out could be other words for 'buzzed'. I'll leave that to you.) Consider that alcohol passes through the placenta, so a hypothetical baby would have been drinking with you. How much time was your hypo-baby impaired?
People can tell you exactly how they felt when they got drunk. The police and MADD can demonstrate the level of impairment at different stages of drunk. Physicians can tell you how the alcohol chemically affects neurotransmitter function, cholesterol synthesis and cell replication, among the total picture of intoxication. It's not a pretty scenario.
Babies don't have a fully developed body to process all this raw toxicity. Their response is that they simply can't do the task set for the period of time that alcohol is affecting them in the way it needs to be done, or at all, depending on the fetal age, and amount of toxin. An adult can 'sleep off' a night of drinking, but a fetus doesn't have that option. They lose womb time. Some part of their development doesn't happen, and there is no make-up. We know so much about fetal development that we can match up what hypo-baby was doing at the time the drinking happened.
The levels or kind of impairment are defined by amount of alcohol and fetal age. Let me assure you, there is NO SAFE LEVEL of fetal alcohol exposure, just as there is no level of alcohol that has no effect on you. You may not feel it, or sense the real impact of it, but you are affected by the drinking you do. So is your baby.
So, I ask you. What part of your baby's life do you want to limit? Brain development? Intestinal function? Reproduction? Intelligence? Drinking at a given time during pregnancy will do any or all of these things. What mother wants this for her child? If given a choice, would you check off an item from a list of lifelong issues that your child could suffer? Would you choose a few hours a week of 'buzz' for your child's ability to do math, pay attention, or digest food? If you drink alcohol during your pregnancy, you are.
280 days. It's all your baby gets. His or her only chance to get their work done to prepare for life on this planet. Is that such a long time to abstain? Absolutely, sober gestation is the BEST gift any mother can give her baby.
With all the other things we ban from our diets while we're pregnant, with all this talk of 'doing our best' for our babies, why are so many women still drinking? Why is the topic even being debated? If we know how alcohol affects us, why can't we see what it's doing to our babies?
So, this is my challenge. You're going to get pregnant? Put your baby first. Not just in words, but in deeds. It's only 280 days. Keep away from drugs and alcohol. Get help if you can't do it on you own, but get sober before you conceive, or as soon as you find out you have. Give your baby a clean start.
***
I know this is a hot topic. I know I'm going to get a lot of resistance to my ideas. I'm not concerned, and I'm not going to respond to hostility. I have no expectations of acceptance or popularity, either. I simply want to try to find a way to end the suffering we can control. Humanity has too many hurdles. Fetal alcohol and drug exposure is one that, in some cases, can be prevented.
Let me start by saying that if you're reading this and you know or suspect you have an addiction, you need help, preferably before getting pregnant. AA, and many other recovery programs do work, if you do the work, and your life will be a whole different experience without addiction controling it. If you are pregnant, and that statement applies, inform your care provider immediately. Any intervention is better than none at all.
The other thing is this. I'm not getting into the scientific evidence -prolific that it is- of what alcohol or drugs, or even diet soda can do to your pregnancy, so don't expect me to list footnotes. I could, and do, sometimes, with individual patients, but I've seen absolutely NO positive results from this approach. So, here's my new tactic for getting this very important and life-changing (sometimes saving) point across.
280 days.
From conception to birth, 280 days.
Now, if you want to be really on task, you could be taking vitamins and exercising well before conception, but that's not a world most of my patients live in, so we'll keep it simple.
280 days.
We can't control destiny, or basic genetic contributions. We can't control all sorts of other things that can go right or wrong during a pregnancy. This is a given. And, yes, the line of what is, and is not in our control is changing with IVF pre-screening and genome charting, reproductive surgeries, hormone interventions, etc., but all that's an aside.
Women, you have 280 days in which you lend your body to another human being so that it can be created, grown and birthed into this world. How much of that time will you waste?
For this example, I'm going to use alcohol. You can substitute anything you want, but the formula holds the same.
Consider the last time you drank. How much time did you stay buzzed? (Relaxed, trashed, or passed out could be other words for 'buzzed'. I'll leave that to you.) Consider that alcohol passes through the placenta, so a hypothetical baby would have been drinking with you. How much time was your hypo-baby impaired?
People can tell you exactly how they felt when they got drunk. The police and MADD can demonstrate the level of impairment at different stages of drunk. Physicians can tell you how the alcohol chemically affects neurotransmitter function, cholesterol synthesis and cell replication, among the total picture of intoxication. It's not a pretty scenario.
Babies don't have a fully developed body to process all this raw toxicity. Their response is that they simply can't do the task set for the period of time that alcohol is affecting them in the way it needs to be done, or at all, depending on the fetal age, and amount of toxin. An adult can 'sleep off' a night of drinking, but a fetus doesn't have that option. They lose womb time. Some part of their development doesn't happen, and there is no make-up. We know so much about fetal development that we can match up what hypo-baby was doing at the time the drinking happened.
The levels or kind of impairment are defined by amount of alcohol and fetal age. Let me assure you, there is NO SAFE LEVEL of fetal alcohol exposure, just as there is no level of alcohol that has no effect on you. You may not feel it, or sense the real impact of it, but you are affected by the drinking you do. So is your baby.
So, I ask you. What part of your baby's life do you want to limit? Brain development? Intestinal function? Reproduction? Intelligence? Drinking at a given time during pregnancy will do any or all of these things. What mother wants this for her child? If given a choice, would you check off an item from a list of lifelong issues that your child could suffer? Would you choose a few hours a week of 'buzz' for your child's ability to do math, pay attention, or digest food? If you drink alcohol during your pregnancy, you are.
280 days. It's all your baby gets. His or her only chance to get their work done to prepare for life on this planet. Is that such a long time to abstain? Absolutely, sober gestation is the BEST gift any mother can give her baby.
With all the other things we ban from our diets while we're pregnant, with all this talk of 'doing our best' for our babies, why are so many women still drinking? Why is the topic even being debated? If we know how alcohol affects us, why can't we see what it's doing to our babies?
So, this is my challenge. You're going to get pregnant? Put your baby first. Not just in words, but in deeds. It's only 280 days. Keep away from drugs and alcohol. Get help if you can't do it on you own, but get sober before you conceive, or as soon as you find out you have. Give your baby a clean start.
***
I know this is a hot topic. I know I'm going to get a lot of resistance to my ideas. I'm not concerned, and I'm not going to respond to hostility. I have no expectations of acceptance or popularity, either. I simply want to try to find a way to end the suffering we can control. Humanity has too many hurdles. Fetal alcohol and drug exposure is one that, in some cases, can be prevented.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Mother's Day
It's May? The year's nearly half over? When did this happen? Why wasn't I told?
I don't make yearly plans, anymore. Since my son was born, I've noticed that my attention span matched his, at whatever age he happened to be when I was trying to get something done. He was an infant when I started a file called 'shorts' which became a lengthy string of glimpses of scenes, which could stand on their own, but were really a way of keeping track of ideas for longer works. I could write a couple in a sitting, and then he'd need something, and off I'd go.
He's 12, now. Not only can I sit for a couple hours and do ONE thing, but I can -most of the time- remember what I was doing so I can return to a project and -sometimes- finish it. I've been looking forward to this for YEARS! BC (before child) was a time of prolific production for me, and I've been nostalgic about the lists of things I wanted to get done since my tummy was big enough to block my access to my computer.
Don't get me wrong, here. I wanted to be a mother. I trained for the responsibility I fought for the ability. I wept when I failed, and more when I succeeded. I altered my Contract for this experience. This was not a simple process for me, and many were the opportunities to decide not to continue trying. I do not regret the outcome. My son is a blessing.
So, for this Mother's Day, I thought I'd try to put into words the ways he has brought blessings into my life. I am grateful for all of them.
I am truly grateful that I chose to stay, and was worthy of such a gift. I am grateful he chose me. I am grateful he stuck with me when his little bodies died, and kept coming back. I am grateful for my Spirits, who held me when no one else was there, who kept encouraging me, who told me the outcome when I was in surgery and wouldn't let me forget it. I am sooo grateful for my OB, who kept me strong, healed me, and kept the little body that finally survived alive even though I couldn't. I'm grateful that he watched all this, and still stayed. I'm glad he likes his name, though he still asks me what it means. I'm grateful he's healthy and cancer free. I'm grateful he likes some of the things I do, like painting and writing. I'm grateful he's strong and funny, and likes my stories. I'm grateful he and I are still here to celebrate Mother's Day.
I haven't stopped training for this responsibility, so maybe I'm prepared for adolescence. I'm grateful for the humility to know I've missed something, and the willingness to hunt it down when I figure out what it was. It will be something I really need, I'm sure. I'm glad I can see the humor in whatever. That's been a Goddess-send.
This is the second Mother's Day I've also been a wife to Joe. He's needed more mothering than my son lately. The infection is on the run, the PICC line is out, and I'm not on 'tiller patrol, but those months of convalescence... There's a spot I missed in my training, and I did have to hunt for the answers. (The bit about a sanity transplant is still out, though.) I'm really glad he's feeling better. I am grateful for the reality check that my Contract can be altered for something so sweet and joyful as the love of my sweet husband. I was beginning to wonder what I was going to do when I finished with raising this boy.
As soon as the question was asked, here comes Joe.
Answers rarely come in words, but part of the skill in 'presence' is recognizing them. Mother's Day is a day that reminds me that I've been answered more than I realize. I am grateful for the whole of that process. My own adulthood. My fertility. My child. My husband. Shade under this beautiful umbrella held by Creator, made of Orixa and shared with Spirit. The sum of a life-gift of -now- 32 years I didn't expect. We remind each other daily how grateful we are to be together on this journey.
Mother's Day may be a whole day set aside to say/do things we don't usually think of. As we mothers get gifts, accolades and a break from the usual, we can be mindful of how we came to be in such a venerated space. As we children give our gifts and accolades, we can be mindful of the continuum we are a part of, and how we can integrate the Sacred in a form of gratitude we carry and share every day. It's good that we have days set aside for such things, but they are reminders of how we should be living daily.
And yes, now that they're older/healing, a little trickle of creativity that has nothing to do with dinner, laundry, a clean face or weed-pulling is flowing back into the keyboard and paintbrush. I'm back to studying, reading like a fiend, and actually have finished some things I've wanted to do for a while. I don't plan to give up this mothering day job, but I'm grateful I have re-found my old ways of occupying myself now that he's too big for fingerpainting in the bathtub. This time next year, maybe I'll be finished with Kethiny's Mural, too. :)
I don't make yearly plans, anymore. Since my son was born, I've noticed that my attention span matched his, at whatever age he happened to be when I was trying to get something done. He was an infant when I started a file called 'shorts' which became a lengthy string of glimpses of scenes, which could stand on their own, but were really a way of keeping track of ideas for longer works. I could write a couple in a sitting, and then he'd need something, and off I'd go.
He's 12, now. Not only can I sit for a couple hours and do ONE thing, but I can -most of the time- remember what I was doing so I can return to a project and -sometimes- finish it. I've been looking forward to this for YEARS! BC (before child) was a time of prolific production for me, and I've been nostalgic about the lists of things I wanted to get done since my tummy was big enough to block my access to my computer.
Don't get me wrong, here. I wanted to be a mother. I trained for the responsibility I fought for the ability. I wept when I failed, and more when I succeeded. I altered my Contract for this experience. This was not a simple process for me, and many were the opportunities to decide not to continue trying. I do not regret the outcome. My son is a blessing.
So, for this Mother's Day, I thought I'd try to put into words the ways he has brought blessings into my life. I am grateful for all of them.
I am truly grateful that I chose to stay, and was worthy of such a gift. I am grateful he chose me. I am grateful he stuck with me when his little bodies died, and kept coming back. I am grateful for my Spirits, who held me when no one else was there, who kept encouraging me, who told me the outcome when I was in surgery and wouldn't let me forget it. I am sooo grateful for my OB, who kept me strong, healed me, and kept the little body that finally survived alive even though I couldn't. I'm grateful that he watched all this, and still stayed. I'm glad he likes his name, though he still asks me what it means. I'm grateful he's healthy and cancer free. I'm grateful he likes some of the things I do, like painting and writing. I'm grateful he's strong and funny, and likes my stories. I'm grateful he and I are still here to celebrate Mother's Day.
I haven't stopped training for this responsibility, so maybe I'm prepared for adolescence. I'm grateful for the humility to know I've missed something, and the willingness to hunt it down when I figure out what it was. It will be something I really need, I'm sure. I'm glad I can see the humor in whatever. That's been a Goddess-send.
This is the second Mother's Day I've also been a wife to Joe. He's needed more mothering than my son lately. The infection is on the run, the PICC line is out, and I'm not on 'tiller patrol, but those months of convalescence... There's a spot I missed in my training, and I did have to hunt for the answers. (The bit about a sanity transplant is still out, though.) I'm really glad he's feeling better. I am grateful for the reality check that my Contract can be altered for something so sweet and joyful as the love of my sweet husband. I was beginning to wonder what I was going to do when I finished with raising this boy.
As soon as the question was asked, here comes Joe.
Answers rarely come in words, but part of the skill in 'presence' is recognizing them. Mother's Day is a day that reminds me that I've been answered more than I realize. I am grateful for the whole of that process. My own adulthood. My fertility. My child. My husband. Shade under this beautiful umbrella held by Creator, made of Orixa and shared with Spirit. The sum of a life-gift of -now- 32 years I didn't expect. We remind each other daily how grateful we are to be together on this journey.
Mother's Day may be a whole day set aside to say/do things we don't usually think of. As we mothers get gifts, accolades and a break from the usual, we can be mindful of how we came to be in such a venerated space. As we children give our gifts and accolades, we can be mindful of the continuum we are a part of, and how we can integrate the Sacred in a form of gratitude we carry and share every day. It's good that we have days set aside for such things, but they are reminders of how we should be living daily.
And yes, now that they're older/healing, a little trickle of creativity that has nothing to do with dinner, laundry, a clean face or weed-pulling is flowing back into the keyboard and paintbrush. I'm back to studying, reading like a fiend, and actually have finished some things I've wanted to do for a while. I don't plan to give up this mothering day job, but I'm grateful I have re-found my old ways of occupying myself now that he's too big for fingerpainting in the bathtub. This time next year, maybe I'll be finished with Kethiny's Mural, too. :)
Monday, March 15, 2010
2012: The Mayans, their calendar and the movie.
We're seeing a lot about this infamed date. My husband and I just watched the movie, and I must say my thoughts were provoked.
Let me start with a question. Why are all these Christians so worried about something on a Mayan calendar? This facinates me. I'm not Christian, and don't pretend to be, so I need some help with this. My Catholic husband has made this point a few times, in his dealings with other Christians, too. Why does it matter what the Mayans thought? Were they Christian? I've read the New Testament, and nowhere in there does it mention "Beware thou of the Mayanst calender for it portendeth the end of the world for thee!"
See this as a farce if you will, but I'm serious. It bothers me to see so many otherwise sensible people freaking out about this.
First, for the Christians I'm sure are flocking to this blog as I type. If you pray, why worry? If you worry, why pray? Simple plan, I know, but think about it. The Bible says plainly enough that a person with faith has no need fear life, death, or the afterlife. What ill could a calendar from an 'extinct' civilization truly wield on such a person?
Now, for the rest of us, and any Christians willing to come along. 2012? Truly. If it's the end of the world, what can we do about it? Prevailing theories say that possibly a solar flare will take us out. It could also be the CERN chain reaction thing the SciFi channel put across. I don't see global warming escalating to that degree in two years, but hey, ya never know, right? If I may be so bold, I might have suggested to the inscribers of the Prime Document a notation about WHY the calendar ended when it did. Too bad nobody thought of it back then, eh? So, we have plausable science, mediocre science fiction, no clue from the author, half-baked hysteria from this author, and a reasonable explanation from a group of anthropologists who say that the calendar represented a SECTION of the whole Mayan calendar and that possibly -if they hadn't been exterminated- the Mayans would have added another chapter to the future of the world.
Empirically, we have no idea what outcome awaits us. We must also accept that we have no control over anything but global warming, and we haven't done anything about that yet, so why start now if the world's gonna end?
What do I think?
How have you lived your life? How have you left a mark on your world, family, community, etc? If you knew you had two years to live, would you change anything? Seriously, people. If you knew the end was truly upon you, what would you do? This is one of those times when the doctor says "You have a brain tumor we think we can treat with this new proceedure. You won't know if it worked for two years. We can't do anything else for you if this doesn't work, so prepare for the worst, and we'll hope for the best."
We're going to see a lot of deviant behavior in the intervening time. People are going to decide the world will end, and that they should do everything they were afraid to do before because nobody's gonna be around to arrest them come the 22nd. We'll see as many evangelists trying to prepare us for the Mayan Judgement Day. We'll see people doing good deeds because they want to improve their Karma before they hit the scales. We'll see apathy, too. Fear is a strong motivator, though an unpredictable one. The most vocal on the subject will undoubtedly be the ones thinking themselves the most pious, which is where I started this chicken-egg-chicken.
Personally, I'm going to keep working on reducing my debt, raising my boy, working on my garden and maybe -if I'm lucky- writing an autobiography AND this blog. I'm going to pray that others find peace, without wreaking havoc on everyone else. I'm going to let go of the things I can't control and steer clear of fruitcakes. I'm going to continue to help others heal, learn and thrive. If I frizz out via a massive sun-zap, I'll know I didn't waste my time here. If nothing happens, and the 22nd's sunrise is similar to the 21st's and something is left after all the hysteria, fatalism, and mass who-knows-what is said and done, then I'll be glad I paid Bank of America down, kept my pantry stocked and have clean socks. Those are things I can control. The 'me' things.
As for the movie. The FXs were terrific. The acting, passable. The plot? Well, the Russian gazillionaire was stereotypically seemingly-evilly materialistic, most of the 'chosen' live, and their mode of survival is oh-so-X-Files possible. Like I said, it provoked thought. If you see it, and you find yourself gripping an armrest, willing people to MOVE, you weren't alone.
Let me start with a question. Why are all these Christians so worried about something on a Mayan calendar? This facinates me. I'm not Christian, and don't pretend to be, so I need some help with this. My Catholic husband has made this point a few times, in his dealings with other Christians, too. Why does it matter what the Mayans thought? Were they Christian? I've read the New Testament, and nowhere in there does it mention "Beware thou of the Mayanst calender for it portendeth the end of the world for thee!"
See this as a farce if you will, but I'm serious. It bothers me to see so many otherwise sensible people freaking out about this.
First, for the Christians I'm sure are flocking to this blog as I type. If you pray, why worry? If you worry, why pray? Simple plan, I know, but think about it. The Bible says plainly enough that a person with faith has no need fear life, death, or the afterlife. What ill could a calendar from an 'extinct' civilization truly wield on such a person?
Now, for the rest of us, and any Christians willing to come along. 2012? Truly. If it's the end of the world, what can we do about it? Prevailing theories say that possibly a solar flare will take us out. It could also be the CERN chain reaction thing the SciFi channel put across. I don't see global warming escalating to that degree in two years, but hey, ya never know, right? If I may be so bold, I might have suggested to the inscribers of the Prime Document a notation about WHY the calendar ended when it did. Too bad nobody thought of it back then, eh? So, we have plausable science, mediocre science fiction, no clue from the author, half-baked hysteria from this author, and a reasonable explanation from a group of anthropologists who say that the calendar represented a SECTION of the whole Mayan calendar and that possibly -if they hadn't been exterminated- the Mayans would have added another chapter to the future of the world.
Empirically, we have no idea what outcome awaits us. We must also accept that we have no control over anything but global warming, and we haven't done anything about that yet, so why start now if the world's gonna end?
What do I think?
How have you lived your life? How have you left a mark on your world, family, community, etc? If you knew you had two years to live, would you change anything? Seriously, people. If you knew the end was truly upon you, what would you do? This is one of those times when the doctor says "You have a brain tumor we think we can treat with this new proceedure. You won't know if it worked for two years. We can't do anything else for you if this doesn't work, so prepare for the worst, and we'll hope for the best."
We're going to see a lot of deviant behavior in the intervening time. People are going to decide the world will end, and that they should do everything they were afraid to do before because nobody's gonna be around to arrest them come the 22nd. We'll see as many evangelists trying to prepare us for the Mayan Judgement Day. We'll see people doing good deeds because they want to improve their Karma before they hit the scales. We'll see apathy, too. Fear is a strong motivator, though an unpredictable one. The most vocal on the subject will undoubtedly be the ones thinking themselves the most pious, which is where I started this chicken-egg-chicken.
Personally, I'm going to keep working on reducing my debt, raising my boy, working on my garden and maybe -if I'm lucky- writing an autobiography AND this blog. I'm going to pray that others find peace, without wreaking havoc on everyone else. I'm going to let go of the things I can't control and steer clear of fruitcakes. I'm going to continue to help others heal, learn and thrive. If I frizz out via a massive sun-zap, I'll know I didn't waste my time here. If nothing happens, and the 22nd's sunrise is similar to the 21st's and something is left after all the hysteria, fatalism, and mass who-knows-what is said and done, then I'll be glad I paid Bank of America down, kept my pantry stocked and have clean socks. Those are things I can control. The 'me' things.
As for the movie. The FXs were terrific. The acting, passable. The plot? Well, the Russian gazillionaire was stereotypically seemingly-evilly materialistic, most of the 'chosen' live, and their mode of survival is oh-so-X-Files possible. Like I said, it provoked thought. If you see it, and you find yourself gripping an armrest, willing people to MOVE, you weren't alone.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Echu Eleggua in Kroger: an exercise for inner listening
For those who don't know... Kroger is the same as Ralph's, Grand Union, Price Chopper, Pathmark, Food Lion, or any other big supermarket.
Spirit-Led activities are an important part of any Yoruba's daily life. Especially for those past initiation, and training for Ocha, the days when you feel like your body is your own are few in number. The Spirits have no qualms about waking a person, giving them directions, and giving them hives if they hesitate. The same can go for things a person chooses to do that the Spirits didn't agree with, too, btw. Part of this is to reinforce a sense of obedience between Spirits and their Head. Another reason is that that line of communication is essential for all things Yoruba. It must be strong, trusted by the Head, and recognized as the 'real' thing or something that needs to be removed, as in the case of an inappropriate possession. This process is fundamental to becoming a Yoruba Child. It's one of the things you hear Santeros tell stories about when they get together.
For me, this extra-sensory information was with me from birth. I don't remember a time when I didn't hear those Voices. I didn't always obey them and I saw the consequences, immdeiately. There were times when listening to them meant physical harm, which either happened, or was averted at the last minute. Simply said, my childhood would have been greatly impacted without their influence at the times when they were trying to keep me alive. Those whose intentions weren't so life-preserving were a good lesson in sorting 'good' from 'bad' and that 'bad' did exist, which tempered me and has made survival of other things bearable. Thankfully, after my initiation, the negatives were cleared off my Head. I was reassured that I wasn't schizophrenic -as my mother warned I would be- or in need of holy water, which, for a raised-white child in the Bible belt, were sincere concerns. I am grateful for every aspect of that immersion in living. I am likewise grateful for my human teachers, Yoruba and not, for sorting these things out with me.
A Shaman's life. A medium's life. My life. Likely, a lot of your lives, as well. Regardless of your Path, the name you have for your Creator, or the ways in which you give Honor, this exercise might be useful to you. I must also add, that it may seem mundane or frivolous to 'waste' time with such an activity, but the lesson there is that we are always Created. Even when we're matching coupons with toilet paper, we have a greater purpose. Sometimes, recognizing the sacred embedded in the mundane is how we realize the power and grace of our connection with our Creator. Sometimes, accepting that we know very little about Creator's Plan is a blessing immeasurable in itself.
For you non-Yorubans:
Eleggua is the Yoruba messenger. No matter who you want to send a letter to, He owns the postal service. He's the one we 'pay' for taking our requests to the other Orixas, Spirits, Ancesters, or other people. He sometimes has a solution for us that doesn't require all the stamps and paper, and will help when he can. Sometimes, He's all we need. Eleggua also keeps maps, clears routes, removes blockages, settles small disputes and handles anything to do with travel. (Eleggua is a good patron for your cell phone for it's proper function, with Oggun being the patron of the physical contraption.)
Eleggua likes adventures. Despite his love for pathways and maps, he truly enjoys the thrill of a spontaneous jaunt. Eleggua, one could say, is the Yoruba embodiment of Synchronicity, and where better to see synchronicity in action than an unscripted visit to a Kroger store? Eleggua's colors are black and red, so carrying something, even a scrap of material with these colors on it, will be pleasing to Him, and will bring his attention to you, and help you focus yours on Him.
You can do this with any Deity, for those of you wondering if it translates. It does. Simply carry something representing your relationship with your Creator and substitute that Name for Eleggua's.
1. Represent to your store or place of choice.
2. If you have a question or problem in mind for the trip, focus on that when you enter the building. Invoke Eleggua by calling His name and thinking of His colors. Ask Him to plan your path for you. Remember that demands are not a good idea for any Creator, but sweetly proposed ideas might be happily considered. You can try to set a time limit if you need to, but remember, a Spirit's plan for you may differ from your own ideas.
3. Follow your instincts. You might find ideas for dinner. You might find a new friend, or something for a cough weren't thinking about. The answer you get will likely not be what you expected, which is exactly when you know you're listening to your inner Voice, but it will be what the Spirits wanted you to find.
4. After your trip, analyze what you found/learned.
Both the trip and the aftermath are the lessons in the exercise.
To consciously allow your Creator to shape your actions is a form of prayer. To be open to that Creator's will being different from your own is part of being shaped. Being able to see that that Shaping had an effect and what the outcome was, and accepting that your Creator's intentions are greater than your own is Faith. Too often, we lose these understandings, or don't find them at all.
This is why I tell my son that 'We are but clay.' The concepts of 'Service' and 'being shaped' are the same, though some Shaping must happen before Service can be effective.
Very little of my life has been light or funny, though I do try to bring it across whenever possible. This exercise can be as transformative as a person allows, though sometimes it's just fun to let someone else plan your menu.
For examples of my own results I give you these:
`My last 'guided' trip to Kroger led me to pork tenderloin on sale. YAY for the hubbie!
`On a fluke pass through the produce section (Yes, I was already stocked up! Imagine that?) I crossed paths with someone who needed advice about hot peppers.
`I found a shirt at Wal-Mart that nobody -but you- knows about. I liked the blue/black pattern, but I think I was supposed to hook onto the red/black one... Perhaps this is why it's still there?
Be Clay!
What did you find?
Spirit-Led activities are an important part of any Yoruba's daily life. Especially for those past initiation, and training for Ocha, the days when you feel like your body is your own are few in number. The Spirits have no qualms about waking a person, giving them directions, and giving them hives if they hesitate. The same can go for things a person chooses to do that the Spirits didn't agree with, too, btw. Part of this is to reinforce a sense of obedience between Spirits and their Head. Another reason is that that line of communication is essential for all things Yoruba. It must be strong, trusted by the Head, and recognized as the 'real' thing or something that needs to be removed, as in the case of an inappropriate possession. This process is fundamental to becoming a Yoruba Child. It's one of the things you hear Santeros tell stories about when they get together.
For me, this extra-sensory information was with me from birth. I don't remember a time when I didn't hear those Voices. I didn't always obey them and I saw the consequences, immdeiately. There were times when listening to them meant physical harm, which either happened, or was averted at the last minute. Simply said, my childhood would have been greatly impacted without their influence at the times when they were trying to keep me alive. Those whose intentions weren't so life-preserving were a good lesson in sorting 'good' from 'bad' and that 'bad' did exist, which tempered me and has made survival of other things bearable. Thankfully, after my initiation, the negatives were cleared off my Head. I was reassured that I wasn't schizophrenic -as my mother warned I would be- or in need of holy water, which, for a raised-white child in the Bible belt, were sincere concerns. I am grateful for every aspect of that immersion in living. I am likewise grateful for my human teachers, Yoruba and not, for sorting these things out with me.
A Shaman's life. A medium's life. My life. Likely, a lot of your lives, as well. Regardless of your Path, the name you have for your Creator, or the ways in which you give Honor, this exercise might be useful to you. I must also add, that it may seem mundane or frivolous to 'waste' time with such an activity, but the lesson there is that we are always Created. Even when we're matching coupons with toilet paper, we have a greater purpose. Sometimes, recognizing the sacred embedded in the mundane is how we realize the power and grace of our connection with our Creator. Sometimes, accepting that we know very little about Creator's Plan is a blessing immeasurable in itself.
For you non-Yorubans:
Eleggua is the Yoruba messenger. No matter who you want to send a letter to, He owns the postal service. He's the one we 'pay' for taking our requests to the other Orixas, Spirits, Ancesters, or other people. He sometimes has a solution for us that doesn't require all the stamps and paper, and will help when he can. Sometimes, He's all we need. Eleggua also keeps maps, clears routes, removes blockages, settles small disputes and handles anything to do with travel. (Eleggua is a good patron for your cell phone for it's proper function, with Oggun being the patron of the physical contraption.)
Eleggua likes adventures. Despite his love for pathways and maps, he truly enjoys the thrill of a spontaneous jaunt. Eleggua, one could say, is the Yoruba embodiment of Synchronicity, and where better to see synchronicity in action than an unscripted visit to a Kroger store? Eleggua's colors are black and red, so carrying something, even a scrap of material with these colors on it, will be pleasing to Him, and will bring his attention to you, and help you focus yours on Him.
You can do this with any Deity, for those of you wondering if it translates. It does. Simply carry something representing your relationship with your Creator and substitute that Name for Eleggua's.
1. Represent to your store or place of choice.
2. If you have a question or problem in mind for the trip, focus on that when you enter the building. Invoke Eleggua by calling His name and thinking of His colors. Ask Him to plan your path for you. Remember that demands are not a good idea for any Creator, but sweetly proposed ideas might be happily considered. You can try to set a time limit if you need to, but remember, a Spirit's plan for you may differ from your own ideas.
3. Follow your instincts. You might find ideas for dinner. You might find a new friend, or something for a cough weren't thinking about. The answer you get will likely not be what you expected, which is exactly when you know you're listening to your inner Voice, but it will be what the Spirits wanted you to find.
4. After your trip, analyze what you found/learned.
Both the trip and the aftermath are the lessons in the exercise.
To consciously allow your Creator to shape your actions is a form of prayer. To be open to that Creator's will being different from your own is part of being shaped. Being able to see that that Shaping had an effect and what the outcome was, and accepting that your Creator's intentions are greater than your own is Faith. Too often, we lose these understandings, or don't find them at all.
This is why I tell my son that 'We are but clay.' The concepts of 'Service' and 'being shaped' are the same, though some Shaping must happen before Service can be effective.
Very little of my life has been light or funny, though I do try to bring it across whenever possible. This exercise can be as transformative as a person allows, though sometimes it's just fun to let someone else plan your menu.
For examples of my own results I give you these:
`My last 'guided' trip to Kroger led me to pork tenderloin on sale. YAY for the hubbie!
`On a fluke pass through the produce section (Yes, I was already stocked up! Imagine that?) I crossed paths with someone who needed advice about hot peppers.
`I found a shirt at Wal-Mart that nobody -but you- knows about. I liked the blue/black pattern, but I think I was supposed to hook onto the red/black one... Perhaps this is why it's still there?
Be Clay!
What did you find?
Monday, December 14, 2009
I've been assimilated?
I suppose this is a question anyone asks when they find themselves doing things that would otherwise be outside their sphere of activity. Trust me when I say, it can be asked of a great many of my activities, but for this blog we'll stick with decorated trees and nativities.
My evolution started with being in a house that vaguely reflected on the 'true' meaning of Christmas. I remember my mother mentioning somebody's birth, likely more than once, but this was couched in lectures about materialism, humility and avoidance of establishment dogma. Yes, we had a tree. It was decorated, with things my mother considered must-haves... glass balls, bubble lights and NO tinsel. These were in thought of, or in spite of our numerous cats, depending on which item you consider. These lectures were interspersed with descriptions of reincarnation, the death process and what a soul was -mostly from a Bhuddist perspective, so you can see where I got my ecclecticism? I was permitted to explore just about anything that wasn't going to send me to hell, which was a nebulous parameter, governed by my mother -again- who, I learned, knew a lot about some things, but didn't really understand Karma, or accountability for actions.
I think the most insulting thing that ever happened to me during my open and seeking years -when I was definitely NOT Christian was at my beloved Enchantments, when, after purchasing a pentacle for myself I was blessed, "Have a merry Christmas!" Ooh that boiled me! It's not like I hid my paganism, or that I was a cringing newbie in there, either. I held my own, rightfully, with the Adepts in that store from multiple traditions. That was where I was greeted by a Native Shaman as 'Sister,' too, along with many positive experiences which far outweighed this individual's insincerity. The public declaration that I didn't belong resonated along well-trodden nerves of disability, race and sexuality, which were, I felt, integral parts of the pagan tapestry I wove for myself. (A side note to this: that individual left the store a short while later. No one mentioned his absence, and I didn't ask.)
To be sure, race was more of an elephant in our house than any religious affiliations, but for me, the two were/are inseparable. I sign this blog 'Daughter O'Batala' because I am, in race, African, and in religion, a child of the Yoruba religion. At breaks, I'd bring home another part of myself to introduce to my shell-shocked family and just as happily board the plane before their senses returned. For years, my mother's greatest fear was me coming home with a black woman on my arm. All else paled. She referred to me as a 'witch,' but never as a bi or black woman. As it went with childhood teaching sessions edited for mom's comfort or purpose-of-the-moment, so it went with her descriptions of my adult life. I mentioned bringing home a live tree, and this was translated as "Gretchen's decorating for the holidays." to friends and family. She saw these as 'moments of sanity' in my otherwise Twilight Zone life.
I thought of these things when my husband mentioned the Christmas decorations. Being a Catholic, the Nativity is important to him. My opinions aside, it became my job to assemble the menagerie that is our holiday decor. I assembled the Nativity with the animals surrounding the babe and his parents, which seems more biblical than all these wise men gawking, while the animals wander in the yard and the barn gets cold. My Yule tree is as ecclectic as me, disobeying 'theme' for diversity. I love plants, and this year's poinsetta is basking in the window. She's also there for Guadalupe, who, before the Catholics assimilated her, was the Sun Goddess for the Aztecs. O'Batala is sincretized as Mary in Santeria, and the Virgin of Guadalupe is one of her manifestations, and thus, a form of my Father, so her candle can fill a place in both genres. I have candles for the dark month, too. I don't have anyone to celebrate Mother Night with or Solstice, but I will mark them as I always have, with prayers and flames and carefully chosen clothes. Certainly, my mother would find enough 'normal' in the picture to satisfy her demand that I comply with social requirements. Of course being married to a white man has civilized me, somewhat, as well.
My facebook page has 'a picture tells a thousand misconceptions' under my picture. This house is like that, too. You find what you're looking for, and nothing more than that. I am not as exclusionary as I once was. I am not so threatened by a crucifix that I refuse the placement of one at our door, nor is my husband offended at the African cross painting that hangs below it. Have I assimilated? No. Not by a long stretch of the imagination.
I'll put this to you, though. As you pass through the homes of friends and family, or businesses decorated for the season, holiday or Holy Days, what do you see? Do you assume their use of these age-old and rarely Christian-originated symbols represents the same things to them as they do to you, or are you willing to see things from a different perspective? How assimilated are you?
Blessed Be, all!
Daughter O'Batala
My evolution started with being in a house that vaguely reflected on the 'true' meaning of Christmas. I remember my mother mentioning somebody's birth, likely more than once, but this was couched in lectures about materialism, humility and avoidance of establishment dogma. Yes, we had a tree. It was decorated, with things my mother considered must-haves... glass balls, bubble lights and NO tinsel. These were in thought of, or in spite of our numerous cats, depending on which item you consider. These lectures were interspersed with descriptions of reincarnation, the death process and what a soul was -mostly from a Bhuddist perspective, so you can see where I got my ecclecticism? I was permitted to explore just about anything that wasn't going to send me to hell, which was a nebulous parameter, governed by my mother -again- who, I learned, knew a lot about some things, but didn't really understand Karma, or accountability for actions.
I think the most insulting thing that ever happened to me during my open and seeking years -when I was definitely NOT Christian was at my beloved Enchantments, when, after purchasing a pentacle for myself I was blessed, "Have a merry Christmas!" Ooh that boiled me! It's not like I hid my paganism, or that I was a cringing newbie in there, either. I held my own, rightfully, with the Adepts in that store from multiple traditions. That was where I was greeted by a Native Shaman as 'Sister,' too, along with many positive experiences which far outweighed this individual's insincerity. The public declaration that I didn't belong resonated along well-trodden nerves of disability, race and sexuality, which were, I felt, integral parts of the pagan tapestry I wove for myself. (A side note to this: that individual left the store a short while later. No one mentioned his absence, and I didn't ask.)
To be sure, race was more of an elephant in our house than any religious affiliations, but for me, the two were/are inseparable. I sign this blog 'Daughter O'Batala' because I am, in race, African, and in religion, a child of the Yoruba religion. At breaks, I'd bring home another part of myself to introduce to my shell-shocked family and just as happily board the plane before their senses returned. For years, my mother's greatest fear was me coming home with a black woman on my arm. All else paled. She referred to me as a 'witch,' but never as a bi or black woman. As it went with childhood teaching sessions edited for mom's comfort or purpose-of-the-moment, so it went with her descriptions of my adult life. I mentioned bringing home a live tree, and this was translated as "Gretchen's decorating for the holidays." to friends and family. She saw these as 'moments of sanity' in my otherwise Twilight Zone life.
I thought of these things when my husband mentioned the Christmas decorations. Being a Catholic, the Nativity is important to him. My opinions aside, it became my job to assemble the menagerie that is our holiday decor. I assembled the Nativity with the animals surrounding the babe and his parents, which seems more biblical than all these wise men gawking, while the animals wander in the yard and the barn gets cold. My Yule tree is as ecclectic as me, disobeying 'theme' for diversity. I love plants, and this year's poinsetta is basking in the window. She's also there for Guadalupe, who, before the Catholics assimilated her, was the Sun Goddess for the Aztecs. O'Batala is sincretized as Mary in Santeria, and the Virgin of Guadalupe is one of her manifestations, and thus, a form of my Father, so her candle can fill a place in both genres. I have candles for the dark month, too. I don't have anyone to celebrate Mother Night with or Solstice, but I will mark them as I always have, with prayers and flames and carefully chosen clothes. Certainly, my mother would find enough 'normal' in the picture to satisfy her demand that I comply with social requirements. Of course being married to a white man has civilized me, somewhat, as well.
My facebook page has 'a picture tells a thousand misconceptions' under my picture. This house is like that, too. You find what you're looking for, and nothing more than that. I am not as exclusionary as I once was. I am not so threatened by a crucifix that I refuse the placement of one at our door, nor is my husband offended at the African cross painting that hangs below it. Have I assimilated? No. Not by a long stretch of the imagination.
I'll put this to you, though. As you pass through the homes of friends and family, or businesses decorated for the season, holiday or Holy Days, what do you see? Do you assume their use of these age-old and rarely Christian-originated symbols represents the same things to them as they do to you, or are you willing to see things from a different perspective? How assimilated are you?
Blessed Be, all!
Daughter O'Batala
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