walk in beauty & remember your song

On a dark, late night in November, two months after losing baby Firefly, I wrote the following in my journal.

Warrior

My heart swells with pain today.

My barren womb aches with another flow,

The sickeningly familiar reminder of loss

That I know far too well.

I cannot believe how many flows of blood have marked the loss of actual and hoped-for babies in my life.

I sit now in silence.

Three babies. Gone.

Ten years of my life,

devoted to making, birthing, and sustaining

as many babies as we could possibly make.

We made two.

They are magnificent.

We lost three,

and barring a miracle

akin to Sarah & Abraham,

we will never have more children.

I will never have another baby.

And in the instant it took to type those six simple words,

my mind left my body,

and I can no longer think or feel.

It is too much.

We lost Baby Firefly two months ago,

And I’ve spent a lot of this time

Trying to build my capacity to face

One of the darkest realities I have ever known.

I will never have another baby.

And yet,

Every time, my system shuts down.

I know I need more time.

I know I need to be gentle and patient with myself,

Allowing the grief to come as it will.

To be honest, I’m scared as s***.

That is the bottom line.

I’m scared of the pain.

I’m scared I will literally not be able breathe again if I really feel it.
And if I do eventually breathe again, I’m scared of my future.

I’m scared of my sweet, living babies growing up.

I’m scared of screwing them up with my grief and severing the bond that I long for so deeply.

I’m scared of Jethro weaning. Terrified actually.

I’m scared of who I will become

As the mother of three dead, longed-for babies.

I’m scared of not feeling enough.

Not facing enough.

Not grieving enough.

Not letting go enough.

Not praying enough.

Not believing enough.

Not loving enough.

Not being present enough.

I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m beyond angry. I’m numb.

I hate numb.

It’s late. I need to sleep.

This story did not take me where I wanted it tonight.

It took me where I am,

And I don’t like where I am.

It hurts too much,

And I feel my soul deteriorating in a waste of overwhelm and darkness.

No more.

I will not succumb

To darkness.

I am practically an expert at moving darkness at this point.

I am indeed a Warrior.

I know my heart, and I know how to hold it

when I’m in pain.

No more freaking death. I won’t succumb. I won’t go under.

I will feel.

I will breathe.

I will be patient with my heart.

I will offer grace to my heart.

And most of all, I will love.

I will love the beauty and warrior capacity I carry within.

I will love my babies, the two living and the three waiting in the Quiet Beyond.

I will open my heart to my love, who has walked with me through hell and back.

I can do this.

I will do this.

I am doing this.

-------------------------------

It was a constant struggle for me between light and darkness. Two months later, I heard Peia Luzzi sing Blessed We Are, and I found my call to sing and embrace every word of it. 

"Blessed we are to dance on this ground,

The rhythm of saints to carry the sound.

We hold a prayer for the earth,

for the ones yet to come,

'May you walk in beauty and remember your song.'

Remember why you came here,

Remember your life is sacred."

It is one thing to sing these words wholeheartedly now that my belly is blissfully expanding with the life of a beloved baby. But when the hope of *said baby was non-existent, not to mention the ones we lost? THAT was the hardest and most important song for my heart to sing.

"Blessed we are to dance on this ground." I felt deeply cursed, not blessed. "May you walk in beauty and remember your song." In my best moments, I remembered that my song was that of a Warrior. It always has been. A Warrior that refuses to succumb to death despite the heaviest pull to surrender. I did not believe Peia’s words wholeheartedly at that time. But I wanted and needed to. So I sang and cried and danced, letting “the rhythm of saints carry the sound…”