I’m thinking about  the Indian blessing Namaste.  And I’m also thinking about moms (it is, after all, Mother’s Day).  I even, for a very brief moment, considered naming this post Na-mama-ste. 

Na-mama-ste.  *closing eyes and shaking head at self*

I had lunch with a friend (let’s call her Storm, like her husband does–I’ll introduce you later.) yesterday (after backing out of a facial piercing–another story). Somehow, the discussion eventually turned to the inherent good of each person–that is always there (somewhere), and it benefits us all to recognize it in others. 

We congratulated ourselves on our highly evolved thinking, then proceeded to sing Kumbaya while holding hands and burning incense on our heads.  I’m just kidding. 

Namaste.  Yes, the bowing thing you do at the end of a yoga session.  Do you know what it means?  One translation, attributed to Deepak Chopra (even he is on Twitter!  come onnnnn….) is this: “I honor the Spirit in you which is also in me.”  I love the translations of Namaste.  I get all giddy and geeky about it.  The concept of bowing to the light or divinity of another, while recognizing the connection–that same light or divinity or Spirit within yourself…  Oooh, hoo hoo.  Good stuff.

But.  It’s crap if you don’t believe it.  And, there are so many people that make it really really hard for anyone else to recognize that Divine Spark.

“I’m sure his mother loves him.”  There it is!  My Mother’s Day tie-in.

Hercules’ mom says this often.  She will interrupt any negative gossip with some version of what the object-of-gossip’s mother would think.  And it’s true–there is no better example of unconditional human love than that of a mother.  No matter what, your mother always loves you.

She knows–we know–that Divine Spark.  We mothers know it is there in our children.  With the exception of a few questionable moments of tantrum, we know.  We were in awe of it at the moment of their birth.  We have been well-acquainted with their innocence, taken pride in their potential, shared that intense connection of Spirit.

So, take the wisdom of Hercules’ mom, and keep it in your pocket for a not-so-tolerant day.

And I bow to you.  Namaste.  I’m sure your mother loves you.

The prompt for Illustration Friday this week was Fleeting. 

That pissed me off.  Why?  Because everything pissed me off the past couple of days.  I blamed it on the moon, but in truth, I was just being a miserable ol’ wretch who needed some breathing space.  Inhale, Exhale, is all.  Ah.  That’s better! 

So today was scheduled “me” day.  (Always a nice Hercules knee-jerk reaction to my occasional–yes, occasional!–crabby phases.)  My agenda was: 1. browse antique store for hankies.  2.  hit fiber store to touch wooly stuff.  3.  sit next to a river and be enlightened, Siddharta-style.  4.  doodle and paint with ink on new (expensive) piece of hot-pressed watercolor paper (the main event!).  5.  Wal-Mart (cringe) for Easter candy.

I could not find my new paper.  This made me cry and throw things.  I inhaled, exhaled, and grabbed sketch paper instead. 

I made it, without incident, to number 4 on my agenda.  (Enter crazy lady in van down by the river talking to self.)  Doodle.  Play.  Fleeting.  Ugh.  I hate creativity prompts.  As if I can’t come up with a theme on my own!  Fight the system!  But I couldn’t stop thinking the word.  Fleeting.

Just before I left, Hercules had learned that his uncle had passed away.  Fleeting was heavy on my mind.  Old, decaying leaves blew past me, and my mind was dark, morbid, and what’s-the-point-everything-dies-and-I-can’t-find-my-new-paper.  But I drew anyway, and in the mindfulness of drawing, with the birds and the leaves and the water rushing past me, my thoughts resolved.  “Fleeting” evolved, in this drawing, from a depressing impermanence to an enlightening, cyclical transience.

This, too, shall pass, floated around in my head, weightless and subtle.  I contemplated the fleeting nature of the seasons–darkness to light, death to life.  It was only later that I realized how timely a  thought this was, the day before Easter.  And so, despite myself, I cheered up (dammiCK.), and braced myself for a last-minute Wal-Mart Easter candy run.

“Best Daughter Ever,” the labor story. That’s right, another one. Actually, the first. Sorry.

It was a dark and stormy night…

No, really, it was!

I finished my evening shift after midnight on October 2nd, completely exhausted. I hadn’t gotten the chance to eat, sit, or even think; it had been such a busy night. The thought that kept me sane was that this was my last night. I had scheduled a week off for myself before my due date, and was looking forward to seven blissful days of R & R.

As soon as my late-night bowl of Golden Grahams was empty, however, the contractions began. Braxton-Hicks, I assured myself. Still, when I tried to sleep, I knew that these were different, more intense. I let myself breathe through the denial of early labor for an hour, and then woke up Hercules at 2:15 AM.

Like I said, it was a dark and stormy night. We drove on a wet, deserted highway for 30 minutes, the pendulum swinging from fear to excitement and back with each contraction. We were greeted at the ER doors with valet parking and umbrellas. A boisterous African American woman wheeled me to the birth center, which, I believe, was 5,000 miles away from the ER. “She’s gonna go before mornin’,” “OOoooooh, now, girl,” “Mm-Hmm, That’s it,” …Phrases that she crooned in her thick soulful voice all the way.

I was 4 cm sometime around 4:00AM, and the nurse told us that we had several hours to go. I called my mom, and told her to stay at home for a few hours. She did not listen. Herc & I walked around the birth center. What I remember from that walk is Hercules’ shoulder, the baby portraits on the wall, the wooden railing, and the 5 babies in the nursery.

After one lap around the hospital floor, the pressure and the pain were too strong for walking. I could not even believe the power of the relentless, squeezing force that overtook my entire body. Initially the nurse did not want to check me. I could see in her eyes that she “knew” there had not been enough time to progress. Watching me shamelessly groan and writhe through my next contraction changed her mind. She quickly checked my cervix, hesitated, and hurried out of the room saying “I’m going to get someone!” Meanwhile, Herc was holding his index finger, an imaginary candle that I panted at to try to stop myself from pushing. (Anyone who has been at 10 cm unmedicated can tell you how pointless it is to try to stop pushing, however.)

The second nurse returned to the room and told my (very surprised) nurse that I was, indeed, 10 cm and ready to push. At 5:25 AM, elevated, stirrup-ed, and spotlit like a superstar, I started pushing. Let us just hurry past the agonizing-tearing-screaming bit here, shall we? OK one more sentence: I would not have remembered the screaming part, had my sister not been so emotionally scarred by hearing it echo down the hall to the waiting room, and had I not been fascinated by hearing her tell me about it. (5 weeks, JuJu!) My body knew what to do, and before I knew it, she was here.

At 5:40 AM, there was a shiny, pink, crying baby on my stomach, and it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. I could not comprehend what was suspended in those few short moments. Indescribable joy. Unbelievable pain. Sudden pride. Unexpected calm and contentment. All for this beautiful child!

“It’s a girl!” I heard someone say. To my surprise, I saw Herc cut the cord. I laughed when I saw that she was pooping on me. “You have daddy’s toes!” I told her. I said “I love you. I always will, no matter what.” It was magical. It was surreal. We had a daughter.

And now she is eight years old.

Happy Birthday, Pumpkin. And for the love of all that is good and holy, must you keep growing up?