chapter 11

anky

anky

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wisdom

The soft glow of dawn filters through the sheer curtains, casting a warm, golden light over the birthing room. I move through the space with practiced grace, my bare feet whispering against the polished wooden floor. Each mindful action is a ritual, a sacred preparation for the profound journey that lies ahead.

As I lay out the soft, woven blankets and arrange the pillows, my mind drifts to the significance of this space. It's more than just a room - it's a sanctuary, a sacred container for the transformative experience of birth. Each object I place holds a purpose, an intention to create an environment of comfort, safety, and warmth.

My hands smooth over the intricate patterns of the blanket, tracing the delicate threads. The fabric holds stories, ancient wisdom woven into its very fibers. Just as this blanket will swaddle and comfort the newborn child, this room will soon hold the story of Luna's birth, a tale of love, strength, and the power of the feminine spirit.

As I work, I find myself transported back to my own pregnancy, a time of boundless joy and dreams of the future. I remember the flutter of life within me, the whispered conversations with my unborn child as I went about my days. The love I felt then was all-encompassing, a fierce, protective force that seemed to emanate from my very pores.

But those dreams, like gossamer strands, were torn away too soon. I lost my child, my love, in a heartbeat, in a moment that shattered my world into a million irreconcilable pieces. The memory rises unbidden, a shadow that threatens to eclipse the light of the present.

I pause, closing my eyes and breathing deeply. I allow myself to feel the weight of that loss, the ache that still throbs in the depths of my heart. But I don't push it away. Instead, I let it settle into my bones, into the very marrow of my being. For I have learned that it is only by embracing our shadows that we can truly step into the light.

The pain of my past has become the foundation of my strength, the bedrock of the compassion and wisdom I now offer to other women as they navigate the transformative journey of birth. It's a hard-won wisdom, born of the fire of my own experience, and it allows me to be a light for others in their moments of darkness.

The sound of the door opening pulls me from my reflections. Luna enters the birthing room, her hands resting gently on her swollen belly. In her eyes, I see a flicker of the same anticipation and trepidation I once felt - the exhilaration of impending motherhood tempered by a primal understanding of the immensity of the threshold she's about to cross.

I approach Luna with a gentle smile, my movements fluid and grounded in the present moment. "Welcome," I say softly, my voice a soothing ripple in the tranquil space. "This is your sanctuary. Here, you are safe to let go, to surrender to the ancient wisdom of your body."

Luna returns my smile, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she takes in the carefully prepared space. I guide her to the center of the room, where the woven blanket lies like an inviting oasis. As she settles onto it, I kneel beside her, my hands already reaching for the oil infused with lavender and frankincense.

With gentle, circular motions, I anoint Luna's skin, the scent of the oils mingling with the earthy sweetness of her own unique aroma. The lavender is for relaxation, to calm the mind and soothe the spirit. The frankincense is a sacred offering, a way of honoring the divine in this most human of experiences.

As I work, I feel Luna's body begin to relax, her breath deepening and slowing. It's a privilege to witness this, to be a part of this intimate, sacred process. Birth is a journey that requires immense trust - trust in oneself, trust in the process, and trust in those who hold space for you.

The first contraction takes Luna by surprise, her body tensing as the wave of intensity washes over her. I place my hand gently on her back, feeling the muscles tighten and release beneath my palm. "Breathe," I murmur, my voice a steady anchor amidst the rising tide of sensation. "Breathe into the space between the pain. Let it flow through you."

Luna nods, her jaw clenched, her focus turning inward as she rides the crest of the contraction. I stay with her, my presence a silent assurance, a reminder that she is not alone in this journey.

As the labor progresses, I find myself drawing on the depths of my own experience, offering Luna the comfort and guidance that I wish I had had during my own birth. When the contractions grow more intense, when doubt and fear cloud her eyes, I meet her gaze with unwavering steadiness.

"You are strong," I tell her, my voice ringing with conviction. "Your body knows what to do. Trust it. Trust yourself."

And in those moments, as Luna digs deep within herself to find the strength to continue, I feel my own resolve fortify. Every birth is a healing, a chance to honor the path that has led me here.

But the path of a doula is not an easy one. As much as I strive to be a pillar of strength for the women I serve, there are moments when my own doubts and fears threaten to surface. When the echoes of my own loss ring loud in my ears, when the ghost of the child I never got to hold seems to linger at the edges of the room.

It's in one of these moments, as Luna is resting between contractions, that she turns to me, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I'm scared," she confesses, her voice barely a whisper. "What if I can't do this? What if something goes wrong?"

Her words strike a chord deep within me, resonating with my own deepest fears. For a moment, I'm back in my own birthing room, the deafening silence where my baby's cry should have been echoing in my ears.

I take a shaky breath, reaching for Luna's hand and clasping it tightly in my own. "I know," I murmur, my own voice thick with emotion. "I remember my own fear, my own pain. When I lost my baby, it felt like my world had ended. I didn't know how I could possibly go on."

Luna's eyes widen, a flicker of understanding passing between us. In that moment, our stories intertwine, our shared experience of love and loss binding us together in a way that transcends the roles of doula and mother.

"But here's what I've learned," I continue, my thumb rubbing gentle circles on the back of Luna's hand. "The love we have for our children, whether they're with us on this earth or not, is a force greater than fear. It's a light that guides us through the darkest of times. And right now, that love is shining through you, Luna. It's giving you the strength to bring your baby into the world."

Tears spill down Luna's cheeks, but there's a new light in her eyes, a flicker of determination that wasn't there before. She nods, squeezing my hand in silent acknowledgment of the bond we share.

As the labor intensifies, as Luna begins to push with primal force, I find myself fighting to stay anchored in the present. The memories of my own birth, the crushing grief of my loss, rise like specters, threatening to pull me under.

But I focus on Luna, on the power and beauty of her struggle. I let her strength fuel my own, let her courage be the light that guides me through the shadows of my past.

And then, with a final, guttural cry, Anky emerges into the world. I catch her in my hands, this tiny, perfect being, slick with the essence of life. Her first cry pierces the air, a triumphant declaration of existence, and in that moment, everything else falls away.

I place Anky on Luna's chest, watching as mother and child meet each other for the first time. There's a sacredness to this moment, a profound intimacy that words can never fully capture. The love that flows between them is tangible, a living, breathing force that fills the room.

And in the radiance of that love, I feel something within me shift, a subtle but seismic realignment. The knot of grief in my heart, the one I've carried with me since the day I lost my own child, begins to loosen. It's not a sudden erasure of pain, but a gentle easing, a sense of something hard and heavy beginning to transmute.

For in witnessing the pure, unconditional love between Luna and Anky, I am reminded of the love that once grew within me. The love that welcomed my own child, even though they never took a breath in this world. That love, I realize, has never left me. It has simply been waiting, patient and steadfast, for me to acknowledge its presence once more.

As I step back, allowing Luna and Anky to bask in the glow of their newfound connection, I feel a sense of profound gratitude wash over me. Gratitude for the privilege of being a part of this moment, of witnessing the miracle of new life emerging. Gratitude for my own journey, for the love and loss that have shaped me into the woman, the doula, I am today.

In the hours that follow, as I clean and clear the birthing space, I find myself reflecting on the larger tapestry of life - the intricate weave of joy and sorrow, love and loss, that makes up the human experience. Each object I put away - the oils, the blankets, the candles - is infused with the energy of Luna's birth, with the memory of Anky's first breath.

This, I realize, is the essence of my work, the heart of my calling. To hold space for the full spectrum of human experience, to offer comfort and guidance through the most profound and transformative moments of life. It's a sacred trust, a responsibility that I hold close to my heart.

As I prepare to leave, I pause at the threshold, my hand resting on the doorframe. The late afternoon sun streams through the windows, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. It's a moment of stillness, of quiet reflection before I step back out into the world.

I think of Luna and Anky, resting together in the peaceful aftermath of birth. I think of all the women I've supported, all the births I've witnessed. Each one a unique thread in the vast tapestry of life, each one a reminder of the resilience and power of the feminine spirit.

And I think of my own child, the one I hold in my heart rather than my arms. The love I have for them, the love that welcomed them into existence, has not diminished with time or loss. It has simply transformed, flowing now through my hands, my words, my presence as I guide other women through the sacred journey of birth.

This love, I now understand, is the foundation of my work, the bedrock of my own healing. It's what allows me to show up, fully and authentically, for the women I serve. It's what gives me the strength to face my own shadows, to alchemize my pain into purpose.

And as I step out into the golden light of late afternoon, I feel my heart expand with a fierce, bittersweet ache. The loss of my child, the story of my own truncated journey into motherhood, will always be a part of me. But it no longer defines me.

Instead, I choose to define myself by the love I bring into the world, by the light I offer to others in their moments of darkness. This is my story, my tapestry - woven of equal parts sorrow and joy, heartbreak and healing.

I walk forward, rooted in the knowledge that this is my path, my purpose. To be a guardian of the threshold, a midwife to the soul. To bear witness to the raw, unfiltered beauty of life in all its shades.

The world stretches out before me, a canvas of infinite possibility. And with each step, each birth, each moment of connection and compassion, I add my own thread to the great, shimmering tapestry of existence.

I am a doula, a woman, a healer. Shaped by love, forged by loss, and forever connected to the pulsing, primal heartbeat of life itself. In the space between breaths, in the sacred silence of a new soul unfurling, I find my own redemption, my own rebirth.

And so the journey continues, a spiraling dance of endings and beginnings, of grief and grace, of sorrow and enduring, extraordinary love.

jorge pablo franetovic stocker
jorge pablo franetovic stocker
Commented 1 year ago

I feel Maria's pain. I resonate with it. It is inside me. The stories that we tell, and how we connect with them, end up being the vehicle for us to feel what it means to be human. By reading Maria's perspective, I feel what it feels to be human. I honor it. I embrace it. I am alive with it. I am alive through it. And it moves me. I liked how Maria's pain was woven into the story. How it showcased us what is on the background of her. How it brought us the mystery. The love. The alchemy. And how it was on the background of our relationship to this moment of the birth of Anky. Important element: to clearly define the gender of the participants of a particular scene. In this case, the gender of the unborn child of Maria was not defined on the prompt, and that's why the writing refers to her (or him) as "they". This is something to take into account, to be as clear as possible with the prompting. To give directions that maximize the capacity that our model has for crafting this story. This pain is woven into the story. And the alchemy of it is medicine. The alchemy of it is medicine. And it is alive. It is here. And I become alive through it. I become alive as it. Thank you.

chapter 11