The Other Side of the World

Living on a little island in the middle of nowhere, we are usually a little zio deprived.

Sometimes we get lucky though

Sometimes, we get a whole month of a resident zio

Complete with grandiose plans, epic installments of the family favourite “running out of petrol game”, giant pots of pasta, beans, bony meat and the contents of an entire jar of mixed italian herbs. . .

O, and a garden!

Fitting that he came all the way over the ocean to help us sink our roots into a new little bit of soil.

Thanks little zio (and Big Zio, for lending us your first-born)!

Home is a tiny warm orbit to return to after a day of bright lights and uncertain newness and potential face-thrusting-into challenges that seem to often occur only after I’ve finished my shift. It’s a small, safe place to ponder the planting of winter gardens and admiring the growing attachment between sister and brother and the steady thrum of old sewing machines churning out the almost undetectable thrills of double-sided cloth wipes and draft-stoppers crammed full of holey socks (I knew it was a good idea to save them!).

It’s a good place to sip cider by the roaring pot-belly stove, to celebrate 27 years of life (and my mother’s 24 epic hours of labour) and to entwine myself amongst the loving limbs of my affectionate people.

It feels like catch up time. There is time to sleep, gaze, ponder, plan, do a little growing. A very different pace from the past year. And plenty of time for, as someone around here likes to say: Acuddle.

steadily treading the round and round here

learned, yet again, something new about patience when a young gazelle of a woman breathed slowly and tumbled her son into my crouched hands

took my sea-pebble faced babe over the churning unseen expanse to both meet and farewell his great-grandfather – and in doing so taste the fruit of the family tree

cooked, ate, sang, talked into the night

quietly moving from one goodness to the next

Now where to?

Two degrees, two babies and two continents later and here we are.

The lovely daddy is outside soaking in the autumn rain as he plays elaborate games of Tetris with our surprisingly many belongings (we came with four suitcases he says half chagrin, half wonderment) and a ramp-less truck.

and we’re off.

to a little valley
living as a little family in a little grey house
one where every so often I leave (not too far or too long)
to do some midwifery*

Here we are, on the edge of another beginning.

Because life does that – that part where, just as you come to know you have a good place

Things shift.

*I’ll be working at a small rural service hospital staffed by ~2 midwives and an on-call obstetrician. When we transfer, we do it by helicopter!

sort of unbelieveable.

the sheer number of intense hours – brain-stuffed, lip-chewed, fingers slippery with anxiety, heart tripping from rending exhilaration to agonizing dances with patience.

the babies – mostly-fat, always hot. Squelching in their other-worldiness. Holding my breath with theirs as they dangled on the perineal precipe of life.

the teacher-midwives – the ones with faces of faith (when I burst not one, but two mid-semester pregnancies into their carefully planned schedules), of calm, of passion. The ones I cried to and cried with through every strange hour of the night. The ones that stood behind and held me forward – guiding my hands, needle, heart with their steadiness.

my friends – who showered me with every imaginable provision of love and care. For nodding encouragement into my dream-whispers at the very beginning and the very end. For holding me in a vast and beautiful web of love – feeding me, housing me, loving my children. For the countless hours and travel-miles and even breastmilk they shared willingly and easily.

my family – who overcame their skepticism (what’s a midwife?), mostly bank-rolled the operation and always made sure I knew they cared.

my babies – for showing me the unfathomable depths of richness in life. Who knew you could just make beautiful little people?

the lovely daddy – for not knowing what he was getting into, but getting in anyway – whole heartedly, without reserve and with seeming preternatural calmness.

and, of course -

the women – for being infinitely generous in letting me learn to be with them.

this is for all of you.

 thank you

Doing a bit of breath holding.
We’ll be back shortly.

deck baths at dusk

tub tub

peas: serious work

window ledge contemplation

not pictured: mama catching a few last babies as the last weeks of student-dom  sally on by

because

he’s

freakishly

delectable

no?

where I come from – the darkest day of the year

where I am – the brightest

this solstice, I midwifed a woman who was so beautiful in labour my heart rose a little every time I glanced at her
(and I glanced many many times. . . ah the privilege of the midwife!)

and then the impossible was actually. . . like a tear of iron-truth through my hoping and trusting and gently feeling.
actually was impossible.

the baby didn’t come.

we cried together in the operating theatre.  Our heads close together, shielded by the unnaturally blue sterile swathes.

O. but it hurt.

And then suddenly, there was a new breath of air.
In she came – all perfection and wonderment

sometimes you can only stand by and watch.
sometimes that has to be enough.
sometimes you will be loved and remembered for doing only that>

hopefully -
sometimes, there is still enough light.

The brightest light – on here, my longest solstice day.