Spring is unfurling here in tiny and unremarkable ways. In the seed potatoes chitting hopefully in the window sill. In the misplaced beluga lentils accidentally sprouting on the damp cloth by the sink. In winter they would have moulded instead.

Likewise, in tiny and unremarkable ways I midwife the women of this small town – unfurling from every corner in the damp grey nights.
Reaching in to help an outstretched hand meet the new, thin dawn as a heavy, calm baby unsticks and eases slowly out.
Talking and listening, and then again a thousand-fold – through the rough, frightening and lonely places of birth and new motherhood. Gently guiding women back to their own centers of instinctual trust and confidence. Placing a quiet hand here and there occasionally – always remembering the truth that the woman’s body knows the best ways.

Oh, and sometimes I am not great. Unsure, confused, inwardly panicked and doubtful. Sometimes I leave work with no evidence to hold that I have done any good things.

But that is just fine. I am still a humble student at the feet of midwifery.
Only now someone has given my signed name a steady legal flourish.

And sometimes, often times, there are tangible signs that I made something different.
In the blissful tableau of guzzling pink face and confidently nurturing mama.
In being stopped just outside the door by a new father who says “I’m so glad you were there – it made everything better”
In the silent, steady breathing of the safely born.

The other morning I drove home towards the fog-topped mountains and came across a woman walking along the raised curb – arms outstretched, reveling in the birth of the new, damp day.
We grinned at each other – the beautiful wide smile of those that understand the world is good.

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