Wednesday, March 27, 2019

How giving birth made me a feminist

"I need feminism because I love." Laura Forest/Flickr/CC BY-NC 2.0

Fourteen hours in, and my contractions finally turned from intermediate pain to near-constant pressure. Every sinew in my body screamed "Push!" while my breathing grew more jagged. It wasn't as easy now to huff my way through the intervals, not as easy to concentrate on the paradigm-shifting end game of meeting my child. Sweaty, sore, worn out from watching the too-large hospital wall clock plod along in 20-minute increments, I turned to my mother and said through gritted teeth, "If this experience doesn't turn someone into a feminist, I don't know what will."

After I spent four years at an all-girls' Catholic high school, I would have sworn up and down the Bible that I was a feminist. After I absorbed, aghast, the blatant misogyny laid bare in the 2016 election, I would have sworn up and down my ballot that I was a feminist. After I watched the #MeToo movement unfold with uneven and often dispiriting results, I would have sworn up and down the newspaper that I was a feminist.

Then I gave birth, one of the rawest, most intense experiences a woman can have. It was then that I finally understood on a visceral and corporeal level the power of having chosen this course for myself, and it was then that I questioned if I had ever understood feminism in the first place.

Feminism, as a reminder, is broadly defined as a belief in the social, political, and economic equality of the sexes. I stand by an even broader definition: that feminism -- and indeed, a commitment to equality everywhere, on all bases -- is about empowering individuals to make the life choices that are right for them.

For me, giving birth sat at the intersection of my personal privilege, individual choice, and access to systems such as decent healthcare, paid parental leave, job security, and flexible work policies. My privileges -- being a white, educated, upper-middle-class employed person -- statistically pointed me toward a safer healthcare experience and greater financial security. As for individual choice, I do not want or need everyone to choose what I chose. What I want, and what I believe society needs to aim for, is the third item I listed -- to develop and promote systems that allow anyone and everyone to make the healthiest, wisest choices for their given situation, without impediment, prejudice, or judgement.

In providing such systems, we acknowledge each person as a human being with inherent worth, and we grant them the dignity of autonomy. This to me is the fundamental promise of feminism -- the desire to stand with and for all people, to see them as fellow cells within the Body of Christ, and to lavish love on them accordingly.

I saw this promise personally fulfilled in my safe and joyful birth experience, and I experience it again every time I adapt a workday to spend time with my little one. I want everybody to feel this empowered, rich with such abundant and varied options that they are always able to pursue the courses of action that lie closest to their hearts. In this way we will help people realize God's vision for them and for our world as a whole.

Prayer #333: Midwife to the World

Mother God,

Make me just. Make me angry. Make me humble. Make me bold. Make me prophetic. Make me warm. Make me clear-eyed. Make me creative. Make me loving. Make me steadfast ... all so I may midwife Your idyllic vision and help deliver the world You long to see.


Wednesday, February 27, 2019

The light under the door

fotorita/Flickr/CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

When I was growing up and facing a new transition, my mother always said to me, "Just remember: In one month, you'll know where the bathroom is."

I carried that idea forward through college, my first (and second and third) job, grad school, marriage ... the "bathroom" becoming a stand-in for all the unknowns, all the nameless fears, all the "what ifs" that scurried around my brain before I embarked on a new stage. And time consistently proved my mother correct; within a few weeks, I could reliably identify the bathroom's location alongside many other useful lessons and insights.

Now I'm staring down the next logical transition after pregnancy and motherhood: ending maternity leave and returning to work. I already know where the bathroom is at my office. Yet I fear I will need to relearn everything else as I forge my new identity as manager, employee, peer, and parent.

At this point you're probably saying, "Julia, go back and reread your own opening paragraphs." The transition I warily eye will pass. I will be made anew. Until then, however, all I'm seeing is the light under the door -- the sole sign that something else awaits.

What is on this side I know? Un-vacuumed rugs. Scuffed walls. Discarded toys. Crumbs and paperwork spread across the kitchen table. My baby's sleepy head resting on his father's shoulder. That little face pulling back from nursing to regard me. My dwindling personal space. My sacred free time. The life I have created and know so well. Who I used to be.

What is on the side I don't know? The only thing I'm sure of is the light itself. An occasional shadow breaks it, but I don't know yet to what or whom those shadows belong. How big is the new room? What does it hold? Where do its other doorways lead? As a fellow new parent put it, each stage presents different strengths and challenges, and I'm certain the room will hold those. Along with new priorities. New vocabulary. Discoveries about myself and others. A life I will re-create and come to know. Who I will become.

Ultimately, the only answer I need today, right now, in this moment, is to know the light is on. It flickers in mystery. I will learn soon enough what it illuminates.

Prayer #332: Right to Passage

All ye who enter here, take note: The choice to cross this threshold is yours. Your feet on the creaking timber, your fingers on the sticky doorknob, your cheek on the peeling paint -- the movements alone will beget revelation. Thus, proceed with optimism. Simply opening the door is challenge and gift enough.


Wednesday, January 30, 2019

Let the darlings die

jev55/Flickr/CC BY-NC 2.0


No need to outright kill these darlings, but if their number does come up, don't stay the execution. Let them wither and fade into a cloudy past that grows murkier each minute, obscuring why you held the darlings so dear to begin with.

At their wake, honor the value they once held while confessing their ill fit for the present. Where the darlings hold lessons, heed them. Where they brought pain, release it. If needed, mourn their loss. Above all, embrace the fallow field that follows.

But do not think you owe the darlings more. Pat the headstone, leave the flowers, be on your way. A fresh horizon beckons.

Prayer #331: Death Grip

Our panic is understandable. No one likes to forego familiarity, even when the familiar is out to get us. Yet seasons flow, priorities shift, and the landscapes we considered immutable reveal their subtle differences in photos taken then and now, illustrating how both beheld and beholder are bound to change.

God of slippery sands, nudge us toward getting a new grip, one that relaxes our entrenchment and instead fortifies our present lives. Help our most darling selves die natural deaths so that we, renewed, might dance on their graves.


Monday, December 31, 2018

A prayer for the year that wasn't

hernanpc/Flickr/CC BY-SA 2.0

For the year that wasn't, let us pray: God of hope, restore our vision.

That humans recognize the dignity inherent in themselves and others ... God of hope, restore our vision.

That we cherish our floating blue marble and safeguard its resources ... God of hope, restore our vision.

That we commit to speaking kindly and living vulnerably ... God of hope, restore our vision.

That all lives -- especially those marginalized and colonized -- are recognized as sacred and treated with love, even if understanding is elusive ... God of hope, restore our vision.

That all bodies -- our singular vessels, our sole mode of transport, our soul skins -- receive water when they're thirsty, food when they're hungry, warmth when they're cold, security when they're threatened, and comfort when they're frightened ... God of hope, restore our vision.

That we listen to women, heed them, respect them, elevate them, and believe them ... God of hope, restore our vision.

That we abandon the hot take in favor of the slow simmer and reclaim critical thinking ... God of hope, restore our vision.

That we permit art to beckon and enrich us, to spark creative solutions ... God of hope, restore our vision.

That we remember all actions (including our own) have consequences ... God of hope, restore our vision.

I pray this prayer this year, any year, every year I live, for the act of life itself both tatters the promise and begs for its mending. Together may we stitch a new pattern and discover our seamlessness.

Prayer #330: A Prayer for the Year That Can Be

God who reaches beyond my words:

Help my hands offer more this year than they did the year before, this time to the point of true sacrifice.

Help me revel in gratitude for personal joys and have the generosity to celebrate the same for others.

Above all, help me dig a deeper well for hope and hit the rich vein I know courses beneath our troubled surface, so that we are doused by its optimism and roused to fresh action.


Thursday, November 29, 2018

The lesson of the kayak

The author in her titular kayak. Maryland, September 2018.

The picture shows me sitting in a solo kayak in the middle of a choppy bay, paddle straddled across my knees, strained smile on my lips. Behind me, a gray-green shoreline of trees and hidden cottages; above me, gathering clouds with "God rays" breaking through. With my upper torso obscured by my life vest (safety first!), you wouldn't know at first glance that I was eight months pregnant. And you definitely wouldn't know that I had just finished throwing a bona fide tantrum.

My husband and I were taking one last little weekend getaway before baby arrived, and we'd found a cozy, well-outfitted rental in one of the quieter outposts of the Chesapeake Bay. The forecast foretold gloomy rain and chill for the duration of our long weekend save for the afternoon we arrived, so as soon as we parked the car, we headed to the dock to check out the recreational equipment and take advantage of the partial sun and dry skies.

Fishing poles, crab cage, canoe, kayaks ... only single kayaks, though, no doubles. "Think you can handle one on your own?" my husband asked. "Sure!" I replied with a level of confidence I hoped would become genuine once we hit the water. We usually take a tandem kayak for a reason, in that Nature Boy knows how to paddle and turn and steer, and I know how to sit. But it couldn't be that hard, right? I owed it to him and his many hours of past aquatic chauffeuring at least to attempt it.

Loading in progressed without incident, as did our initial maneuvers beyond the dock. I was moving generally in my intended direction, and 15 minutes in, I hadn't capsized. (Both important wins.) When we turned into the wind, however, my lack of kayaking ability rendered me impotent. The choppy waves were slapping my boat back and forth. The brackish water was stinging my freshly shaved legs. My right arm was getting sore, my left arm was staying tense, and what the hell did it even matter because I couldn't direct the vessel where I wanted anyway.

The more water dripped on me, the more my arms pumped, the more the wind quickened, the more I felt like I was moving backwards, the more agitated I became. How foolish I must look, I thought, to be out here so pregnant and bulky, windmilling my arms against Mother Nature. How vain not to admit my limits before throwing myself into the middle of a bay. Where was my natural instinct? Where were the immediate answers? Why the hell couldn't I do what seemed so straightforward when watching others do it?

A familiar lump in my throat began to rise -- the lump of shame and frustration, a lump that fattens itself on my belief of inadequacy and drinks the tears I shed to dislodge it. The lump is rarely positive, so I trailed behind my husband's kayak in the hopes of experiencing my moment of weakness alone. No such luck. My dear partner, on noticing the widening gulf between us, helpfully paused and waited for me to catch up, and when I did finally slink alongside him, he could tell at once that I was a most unhappy camper.

Pulling up his paddle and holding my kayak's carry handle, he gently asked, "Honey, what's wrong? Talk to me."

Ah, those magic words, the ones that never fail to release the flood, especially when I'm trying to contain it. Which I couldn't.

"I can't even steer a kayak," I wailed into the void of the bay, empty except for us. "How on earth am I going to raise a human?"

As the gray clouds thickened over our heads and the sun sank lower, I poured out every one of my hidden and inarticulated fears to my patient spouse:

Our entire lives are about to change forever.
What if parenthood isn't what I thought it would be?
What if I'm not the mother I thought I would be?
How are we going to keep our marriage strong?
Will we ever feel free again?
Will I still get to be myself?

And so on, punctuated by angry slaps of my paddle against the water and ugly tears further soaking my cold, stinging legs (if they made it past the bulging life vest). A dam built over a long eight months of anticipatory mystery had broken. I was laid bare on the rough waters, no longer able to outrun my anxious thoughts. Tired and pregnant, nervous and excited, impatient and annoyed ... I was all these states, plus wet. No wonder I lost it.

My husband, god bless him, did not attempt to answer me. He simply listened. Nodded. Said, "Me too." "We'll figure it out together." "I love you." "Here, let me take a picture of you."

The last one caught me off guard. "You want to take a picture of me now?"

"Yes. We need to justify you carrying your iPhone out on open water."

That's when he snapped the picture you see at the start of this post. I haven't shared it or this story until now because it took two months to let most remnants of that emotional dam drift away downstream. Though, if I'm being honest, a few hearty logs remain, fortified by the very real doubts and fears and joys presented by having -- at long last -- a very new human in my house.

So when I look again at this shot, I recognize what will be invisible to those who weren't there, such as the dried tear streaks on my face and the burgeoning blisters on my thumbs. But I also see what was invisible to me at the time -- chiefly, the sun rays defying the clouds and searching for reflection on the water below. They illuminate how this photo captures more than a moment in time; it captures a transition to a new state of being.

Parenthood -- like maturity, like love, like spirituality, like any examined life -- will be an unbroken string of unanswered questions. I can rail against them (which I'm sure will still happen at times), or I can strive to be present to them and work toward wisdom. In the meantime I will snuggle my son, share a date night with my husband, and imagine the future day when I put my child in a kayak, point him toward the horizon, and say, "You've got this."

Prayer #329: Paddle

Why exactly should I learn to paddle? You have gifted me currents that bear the load, easily whisking me on their fast-flowing backs toward a determined end. If I simply raise my oar from the water and lay it across my lap, the river will carry me to the mouth of the great ocean, and my life as I'd conceived it to be will widen, deepen, amplify everything I hold most dear.

God of such obliging movement, build in me the trust to let go, and guard my tiny craft on its great adventure into the unknown.


Thursday, October 25, 2018

Open to the wonder of it all

Wonderment aflame. katariinajarvinen/Flickr/C BY-NC-ND 2.0
"I think us here to wonder, myself. To wonder. To ask. And that in wondering about the big things and asking about the big things, you learn about the little ones, almost by accident. But you never know nothing more about the big things than you start out with. The more I wonder, the more I love."

― Alice Walker, The Color Purple

My baby doesn't kick; it stretches. For months now, its semicircular position has helped it push its little foot into the flexible walls of my belly so that a heel-hard lump pokes out from beneath my right rib cage. A knob of wonder, I think every time. A reminder that an autonomous person is building bit by bit inside me, and that it too wants to test its constraints, explore its existence, and discover what lies beyond known borders.

These days, with gestation rapidly waning and actual parenthood waxing, I'm forced to consider whether 40 weeks of growing a human being has normalized the miraculous and made it mundane. I feel more fixated on labor stages and breathing techniques and birth partner support than I do on the mutability of life as I have known it to this point. Yet when that insistent heel chimes in like a game show buzzer, it recalls me (despite myself) to the present moment.

My priority for the last week or two of this sacred period, then, is not to freeze meals or stock extra diapers. It is to ask myself on repeat: Do I choose and invite the joy that longs to fill me? Have I left room for rampant delight to trample illusory control? In short, am I remaining open to the wonder of it all -- the beauty, the discovery, the pain, the enchantment, the enormity and impossibility of life itself?

A knob of wonder turned to 11, incapable of being any less.

Prayer #328: The Beginning of Wisdom

Socrates said, "Wonder is the beginning of wisdom," but I wonder if my brand of wondering -- my meandering awe, my distracted musings, my inconsistent revelations -- will bear the vaunted fruit in enough time for it to be any use to me.

Though, he did say the beginning of wisdom. Not the final stage to reach, nor the ultimate goal to attain. It's more like wonder is the patch of sunlight that beckons me outdoors, the curious object that begs my close examination, the low murmur that draws me closer for a listen. It starts my journey, then accompanies me, along the way honing my perceptions and augmenting my experiences.

And it will, if I allow it, open me to You.


Thursday, September 27, 2018

What will I tell my child?

mark notari/Flickr/CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

What will I tell my child about this moment in time?

When we sit at the kitchen table 10, 20, 30 years from now, will shame stain my recollections as it does now? Will I fully convey the impotence, anger, and grief I felt? Will tension still constrict my bruised consciousness?

Where will tribalism stand? How about a two-party political system? Will my child understand the significance of truth and -- god willing -- not only be able to recognize it, but convey it?

Will the world be safer, letting us sigh in relief and laugh away the bogeyman from the safety of our warm home? Or will the world be worse, justifying my child's disappointment, blame, or -- god forbid -- fear?

Will I look my child in the eye and tell them with full faith and great pride that good women and men stood up to combat the abject wrong? Better yet, will I be able to count myself among that group?

On days like today, when old wounds reopen in the face of blatant, unapologetic hypocrisy; when people of integrity in our highest offices seem but a Pollyanna-ish dream; when the country's fevered news cycle compounds hysteria; when the September rains fall, fall, fall (to commiserate with tears, or to drown a scorched earth?) -- on days like today, I feel my unaware, unborn child stir within me, and I know in my deepest heart that I can not yet answer them to either of our satisfaction.

Thus, I am sobered. Emboldened. Terrified. A will in search of a way. (Or is it the other way around?) My path to the kitchen table is murky, but the goal itself is blindingly clear: to stand right in the eyes of God and all God's children.

Prayer #327: Back to the Light

Stand with the victim, the assaulted, the sneered-at, the spat-upon. Call out the hypocrites and liars in every rank. Don't just cleanse the temple -- burn it to the ground, and with it all who defy Your mandate to love. To love, to trust, to exalt, to truly and fully see. And I pray that my own defiance of Your great mandate lessens every day, that my heart opens its miserly, self-protective grip and admits Your power -- the only force that can sway our broken humanity back to the side of light.