//Midwifery//, Pieces, Scriptural

nativity

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“Oh, this means so much to me. Up close, I see everything.”

I see Joseph’s hand on Mary’s shoulder. I see the Child breastfeeding. Mary is tired, she just had a baby; exhaustion and satisfaction in her face. I see the midwives, on their hands there is blood. I see the baby angels, the old lady angels, the 13 year old angels, the red headed ones, the white headed ones. I see the tears on some of their faces. The angels are rushing to see the Child, and rushing to share the hallelujah.

I see everything in this painting. I see the faith of the mother, the faith of the midwives, the faith of Joseph.

I also see my faith.

This is how I envision the Christ-Child’s birth.

This is how I see birth.

The hand of a lover, exhaustion and satisfaction from the mother, midwives, angels. Foreseen and unforeseen, all attend.

A miraculous birth,  indeed.

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Pieces

(What’s) In a Name?

I was filling out the form to change my last name. It gave me the option to change my first name too. This option led me to wonder: what if I changed my first name, what would it be, what is the significance of my names?

I have always loved names. I collect them, like a stamp collector collects stamps. I file them away, categorizing them: aliases if I were an author, names for a spunky heroine, names for my future sons & daughter.

My name is Sofia. Sofia means “wisdom”.

My middle name is my great grandmother’s maiden name. It is also similar to the Spanish word for “red” (my Mom’s favorite color). I am blessed with a second middle name, Fe. I am named Fe because my parents exercised faith that I may be healthy, because they had so little money.

What’s in a name? There are little stories in mine.

I am blessed because of the gifts my parents gave me when they named me.

I have wisdom, family and faith in my name.

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Catapults, the Body

Heirloom.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the composition of my body. I feel certain that I’m not the only human that has done so. While I was online, I came across an image of a woman at the age of 20, and an image of her grandmother at the same time:

mygrandmotherandi

(image found on Reddit.)

Seeing this picture reminded me of a journal entry I wrote September 6, 2012.

>>>>  I run down the hill. The hair in my ponytail sways back and forth, going speedily, the rate at which it goes is faster than the motion of my hips. My chest bounces up and down and my bum echoes the motion. My arms swing back and forth and I feel my muscles expanding. My skin is slowly misting with sweat. I breathe the morning air through my nose, it recycles and comes out my mouth. In spite of all that I put my body through- I still love it’s pieces. . .

My body keeps a better record of my life than I can keep with my pen. The scar on my left wrist, the sun tan lines, the freckle on my back- all are there- and all have a story to tell. My nails were painted, but last night I scraped the paint. My hands curl when I’m writing- and my legs are crossed when I sit. My eyes- a place that has seen anger, sadness and most of all, laughter and love. My brown and curly hair that is soft and fuzzy. My arms, thinner, but still carry stretch marks that will probably always abide there. My wrists are so skinny and little, one of the purest part of skin and bones on my body. My legs are covered in hairs, bristling against my pants. . . . My ears that can hear my sister asking how to spell a word. Someday they will hear my daughter ask the same question.

When I shower, I realize how much of me there is- but as I look at my thighs, I can’t hate them, for in the raw, there is something special. It is my body. And this body, this gift- is so special and perfect because it is imperfect.

These ears, toes, smile crinkles, they all came from my family. My collarbones, hipbones, and knees have been passed down from centuries of grandparents. My skin isn’t white- or brown- or red, it’s all of these. My arms are a pecan brown. My stomach, soft white with a glimmer of shiney-ness where stretch marks lie. My thighs are tan. My lips a purple pink. . . Yet, with all my un-eveness, I am here. And this is true- I am unique. . . . All the pecularities, they are gifts from my grandmas, grandpas, aunts. . . . I have been developed. (edited for grammatical clarity.) <<<<

I struggle consistently with remembering that my body is beautiful and that it is precious. Remembering that pieces of me were passed down until they culminated to form me, helps.

My body is an heirloom & it is a valuable.

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Current State of Affairs//

Exploring a Whirlwind.

My life feels like a whirlwind.

It’s a beautiful and strong whirlwind. My days are simple and generally not too revolutionary, but as a week passes, I see  remarkable changes happening.

I wake up at night, my mind teaming with questions: “what will tomorrow be like?” // “when I’m old, will I be proud of who I was today?” // “what should we name our first baby (this baby isn’t even made)?” // “will my dad be alive at Christmas time?” // “will my mom still want my brother to be home-schooled?” // “I wonder if the chard will grow?” // “what grade will I get on my essay?”

And more. Of course. Because my brain never wants to not throw up thoughts.

I have always wanted to travel abroad- even to travel to another state, I thought, would be nice. I wanted to travel, because I wanted to be an explorer. I wanted to travel and see knowledge and thoughts and hear sounds and see sights.

I am realizing this:

I already am an explorer. I don’t need to travel to a distant land to find difference and colors and brightness. I already am exploring my own life. Each day, I learn some thing. Each day I can meet another person. Each day I can marvel at a certain color. I have a wealth of opportunities to explore.

I live an explorable life. It is beautiful and oh, so good. It isn’t a whirlwind that causes destruction. It is a whirlwind that detoxes and cleanses confusion.

 

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Catapults

catapults.

I am starting to begin to recognize how my mind learns and retains information.

First, after reading or partaking in a lecture, it is helpful for my mind to do  manual labor. Washing dishes is the best, but cleaning up horse manure, or folding laundry are also quite effective. Further clarification on the dish washing- I find I have more thoughts and my mind makes more connections when I wash the dishes by hand. For some reason, the process of having all the dishes on one side, all dirty, and then slowly, them transforming into clean dishes is symbolic, I think. Maybe my mind relates it this way; I have all these thoughts, theories and facts in my head. As I organize dishes, my mind is organizing my new knowledge.

Second, If I have someone to share my knowledge with, I can further establish in my mind how I made connections. I even begin to see even more connections. It becomes a beautiful learning process. I get all excited and fluttery when my mind gets going like this.

Third, after my manual labor step, and I share my knowledge, then I write about the process, my mind further catapults.When I write out my thoughts, I start to really feel my mind expand. Actually, my soul expands when this happens. Being able to state as succinctly what my mind is wheeling through is thrilling. The sound of the keyboard being tapped to, my fingers trying the very best they can to keep up with my mind-thoughts.

I experience joy when my mind catapults this way.

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