Sitting in my kitchen on Christmas Day. I have made my first ever attempt at homemade biscuits and have enjoyed a decadent late breakfast, contemplating the clean up in progress.
But over the last few days what has really been on my mind is birth. Now I have never had the maternal gene, and I guess luckily for me, my soul mate didn’t desire parenthood either. So I don’t know about the physical demands of birth, other than what I’ve heard and read.
I am experiencing a birth of sorts. The journey of the last few years has had the constrictions and pulsing of childbirth. The pangs have been horrendous. In the early days not even sure I would survive the process but in my new awake mode, I look back at the heartbreak, the loneliness and the grief and realize from that womb will be born a new life. A life that if I just get out of the way, will let me live into the gifts with which I was born.
Leaving the womb is frightening and shocking. All things are new. Sloughing away like afterbirth those things that do not nourish, lift up, propel.
Realizing from here on out, I write my own story, make my own traditions, live or die by the dreams I have for so long held back. As I sit here in my abundance contemplating the birth of the world’s greatest revolutionary and refugee, I look forward to 2018, the year of my rebirth.