I wonder if the caterpillar, as she erupts from the hard shell, when her creaky wings unfold, the sun blinking in her flecks of pixie dust, does she think she might be dying? The wind sounds different now, lifts. Ah and that moment she realizes she’s been reborn.
These are my eyes, yes, the ones I used to have, but here’s new body, new perspective. I know I’ve been here before, but all I remember is that I thought I was dying.
Maybe its like this with all trauma, but when a woman births a baby, especially when she feels the pain of it all, the mind-stretch of war within, the quake of hormones, when all insecurity screams No, but then she does it, it’s like running through a brick wall and coming out the other side of it a different person. Who am I now? Erupted, a mother.
I think the brain must be rewiring itself. The body sending messages, new capabilities to nurture, to distinguish sound waves, to murder. Never are fears more confronted or heightened, scribbled or outlined.
For me postpartum depression is always a threat. I’m more prone. Even now 11 weeks later, it’s an option, but I’ve never stood this closely to it, clearly hearing the threats, the veiled invitations, without accepting them. After my first 3 babies, I simply woke in different levels of the dark place fitted with keys, all the fingerholds that fear had ever made were the keyholes locking me there.
When Titus was born, my latest, most beautiful trauma, I came out the other side of the brick wall a purified, bold-hearted mystic.
My words are wings that catch air. I don’t let my boys say things out loud that aren’t true. When I hear voiced lies, I make them voice truth. Words are swords of correction or fissuring arrows of destruction.
No one believes a thing unheard.
Just yesterday, I heard I can’t do this, too hard, too trapped.
Just as we have internal ears that hear lies, planting in us guilt or the fear of death and loss, we can also hear the voice of truth that speaks freedom and abundant life.
We can hear the voice of God. Acknowledge it. Only the fear of God is a tether of strength.
It’s one thing to never struggle and so to do well, but it’s another thing entirely to experience war and then the God who actively battles with you. I’ve never been more glad for the opportunity to hear His voice, how He comes along side me. Right there He is, giving me truth.
Even our Christian culture discounts the mystic for fear of charismania.
I’ve always referred to depression as the Dark Place. I even have a friend that asks from time to time, “How’s the DP?” Right now it’s a long hall before me. Discount me; I don’t care. I can hear God. I finally admit it, in this wind, stronghold at the nape of neck, flecks of light catching my eye.
I’m flying right through.