Every Turn of the Moon

I like to imagine my womb as warm and welcoming, her lining exquisitely molded and extraordinarily cozy and calm. She is pregnant always with expectation. She is filled with desire and hope, she floods with life potential, patiently ready. She is beautiful and strong. Her yearning ancient, she reaches ever for what could be, ever for the swell of new life, the expansion of love into new territory. She is unwavering. But every turn of the moon around the earth, she is disappointed, her desires unmet, purpose unfulfilled, her emptiness taunting. Her wailing sears through my body, racking me with pain. Her hot tears drain out of me, uncontrolled. Her grief sits raw, heavy and aching in my pit. Restless and roaming, it goes. And it comes in wave after wave, repeatedly debilitating me, doubling me over.

I’ve learned to let her grieve, to give her space. To not exhaust us both beyond what we can bear. I’ve learned to slow down, take a breath, accept that I must do less, be gracious. For indeed, her grief is not hers alone. It is my very own. She brings to physical expression what lies deep and hidden. Her tears bring me to my own. She is a reminder I would often rather go without.  

Finally, our grief wanes, not in forgetfulness of loss, of emptiness, but in hope. She sheds her last tear and because she is an unfathomable force of resilience, she rises, rebuilds, molds again. In an act of ceaseless tenacity, she dares to try again, to lose again. She is unafraid.

 

I must imagine her like this. I must hold her in high esteem. Otherwise, I would have no sympathy for her. She would be but an organ, causing me unnecessary discomfort and pain, executing precisely no essential function in keeping my body alive, her waxing and waning entirely meaningless. I would curse her cyclical torture. I would be at war with her, forever trying to deny her presence, to smother her and her weeping, berating her for making me weak.

As it is, she is an invaluable teacher. One of being unapologetically true to self. Of awareness of desire and grief, and that the expression thereof is not weakness, but courage. Of the acceptance of loss as part of life. Of dependency without shame. A teacher of resilience and unwavering hope and of rhythm, riding every wave with ardor.

As it is, she is a miracle.

I will hold her in high esteem. I will receive her with grace. I will speak to and of her with kindness. I will warm her in her mourning, as she does what she must.

02.07.22