In that 3 a.m. moment it finally became clear that this birth was not about my own experience - not about the night nurses or the hospital bed and the orange sherbet melting on the cafeteria tray. It was not about those fabulous mesh panties or the disappointing luke-warm drip of the shower or the view from my window of the building next door. It was not about how many minutes you had nursed and on which side, how long you had slept or who was coming to visit in the morning. All those things didn’t really matter. The birth wasn’t even about the experience of birth itself, the accomplishment of labor, that extraordinary feeling of being held and supported in the midst of excruciating pain as you broke free into the world.

This birth was not about any of that. It was always about you, all along. Only you. Your small, upturned face. Flickering in and out of a smile as you slept beside me. read more

I am like that friend who laid down in the grass and the grass was so exquisite it made her cry. A bluebird in a roof gutter, a robin in an overgrown yard. Even the weeds sprawling from the cracks in the driveway are laden with inspiration. And so I take long detours to drive past the river, I wear mascara to do last night’s dishes. I dream of laying on blankets with strangers in the park, telling everyone how beautiful they are.

At night, my heart is too full to sleep. I try to close my eyes but always on the other side of midnight there are things waiting to be seen. My children sleeping, a perfect crescent moon. A rectangle of light from the neighbor’s bedroom window cast against the wall. A gust of wind, passing through the trees outside, branches like long dark arms that brush against the windowsill and enter the room. . read more