Sunday Scribblings: Birth

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is birth.

After giving birth to four babies, as clean and pure and close as possible, I am in that birthing realm once again. I've written about birth a number of times and this is an ode to the beauty of birth that I wrote last year. A home birth, a baby boy, and that fertile place: the Full Harvest Moon...

The Moon-Blooded Boy

Each baby arrived early, but never in this lucid way. The boys, ever so ready to tread their way about, could not be late. More so than his brothers, hungry little Govinda, beckoned by an autumn sky, embraced a graceful yet sudden welcome. Little did I know, he would not wait for a dim-lite night.

I was asked by my mid-wives to consume a healthy dose of Vitamin C, for he had ruptured the first seal early. Off to the Co-Op we went, all the while, Govinda(who we referred to as Shani, of the Navagraha, then) breaking his way through blood and womb. Allowing my senses to fall from reality, an endearing acceptance of pain I had willingly developed by the forth pregnancy, I paraded on.

Waddling from aisle to aisle and back home took quite a while. A ridiculously bumpy ride in Hildagard, our 1969 Volkswagen bus, was the escape Govinda anticipated. Under the light of the golden sphere, my flesh, quickly becoming a servant to pain. An invitation from the night's sky, Govinda would leave his cloudy ocean behind to devour a hearty brew of oxygen and hue. Senselessly drunk on a melange of milky midnight, mother, and moon.

I nudged him to stay and swim a bit longer, not knowing that his blood belonged to the moon. And Mani must have his way. So, there he came under the glittering ball in the sky. I closed my eyes, painfully shut, accepting his mulberry bottom in my right palm. And in that moment, I was immediately conscious of who he was, the bringer of a full night's glow.

His papa insisted on holding him bare under the Samhain sky, listening to Autumn's cry. I watched and danced against cold concrete on achy nude feet. Aaron, always humming a whisper to Jah when his newest son is born; Govinda, a silent Hare; me, accepting the shallow howl from a distant breeze; the Full Moon, placing a spell: every twenty-eight days, the moon thirsty boy and his herd of the many who are hungry and free, must come out and play.

Dance in the light of the Moon, Govinda Hare!

Sunday Scribblings: Superhero(ine)

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is superhero or heroine.

As much as I love Batman: his dark dilemmas, his dusky disguise, and his dreadful ego, and I realize that much praise should go to his creator, Bob Kane, I'll have to admit, the real superhero in one of my favorite graphic novels is Sam Kieth. I don't usually discover new comics at the library, but when I came across Batman: Secrets a couple of years ago, I had also discovered who would become one of my most admired illustrators and writers.

As writer and artist, Sam Kieth has placed Batman inside of a dark tunnel where his most beloved nemesis, Joker, waits and watches as Bruce revisits some of his most strange and dreary childhood secrets.

Sam himself seems to have a clear grasp on images of strange. His faces are always lenghty, hair and chin showing some sense of liquid. He has a way of illustrating Joker's sinister smile, his hellbent eyes and bloodthirsty lips. "Bang" and "wham" and crimson streaks and very nice girls in polka-dot dresses. Mr. Kieth has an incredible eye when it comes to lay-outs. He cuts and he pieces, one stringy scribble on top of another. His idea of interlude in this trade, are dark pages of debate between Batman and Joker while they are "...trapped in the same hell together, on opposite sides."

There is the anniversary of the Apollo Moon Landing, the idea of live satellite broadcast television, media and its lustful thrill-ride on the expense of others dismay, a young Bruce Wayne, the Joker with a story to share, and a creeping secret, a single shell and the feeling of feathers and the smell of foul.

It is full of a lot of Joker's "Ha, ha, ha's!" and all of Batman's suppressed rage. And as always with Gotham's Dark Knight, never a redeptive feeling.

Sunday Scribblings: Mess

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is mess.

If this is not true testament of how mankind has diseased itself, I don't know what else is.

Our insatiable thirst has left so many peoples of the world displaced and hungry and riddled with war. And we continue to ask for more.

An ocean that has defied a beginning and an end. Its existence stretches far beyond our minuscule capabilities and our simple thoughts, yet we have skillfully mastered a way to clog and burden and stain.

Is it too much to ask for urgency? How can we hold a corporation accountable for a mishap of this multitude?

There is more to this place than us.

Blood and our lustful thirst for war, this desire to drill, constantly initiating unjust sanctions, Earth and her silent call, our pathetic idea of a 'left' who denies the necessary progressive leap onward. And most importantly, our water and Her air and yet, another filthy mess.

Sunday Scribblings: Mantra

The Sunday Scribblings prompt for this week is mantra.

गु रंग हा

When I gave birth to my first son, Siddhartha, I was a mess. The hospital made sure that I went home with as much distance from him as possible. When I became pregnant with Sahaj, I cried, laying next to Aaron in our bungalow-style apartment, for months. Within the eighth month, I called Amy. Her name was passed along to me by a clinic run by midwives and they referred to her and Susan as Full-Circle Midwifery. I've never forgotten about what they have shared with me. When I first spoke with Amy she told me that they would find me and help guide baby anywhere, a rented room, outdoors, if it had to be. They would come anywhere to make sure that I wasn't a mess.

I remember when Amy walked in. Her footsteps were small and her smile, lasting and sweet. I watched her set up. Her movements were subtle and I didn't realize that it was time for the new one to come, when Amy had arrived. She looked over at me a few times, there was a touch and a few slow sighs, never an interruption.

I remember my midwife, as near as she could be, the comfort of this type of distance, and I remember her listening. There was a mantra that day: Gu rang ha. And she listened to me breathe in gu ranga, as I took in Brahma and she listened to me exhale ha, as I vaporized Shiva. I didn't hold on to the mala that was given to me; my hands were held by Aaron, his breath was larger than mine and his eyes were so close to me. I saw everything in green that day.

Little Sahaj came and it was something as simple as life could be. And there were many salty tears and a stream of sweet whispers. There was this midwife, Amy, and her delicate glow. The way that she sighed when she closed her eyes with me. There was the happiest man in the world, grassy, he was an emerald forest for me. There was that baby, he was hardly there; so quite and clean, for months, he would be. Only through ra, could he be.

There were mudras and bandhas and plenty of bhakti. There were beads, not as many as one hundred and eight, but just enough to breathe in. There was a mantra and a world that became forever infinite to me.

Tribe

We went to the Whole Earth Festival in Davis recently and, as always, it was sublime. Wicked drum beats, Zeke the clown, bunches of happy old hippies, friends, the girls in flowing skirts and dancing bellies, the ones that we call 'family', colorful children, the smell of smokey dreams, beautiful people, and mid-wives.

Dad and Govinda in the drum circle.

My mid-wife Tosi, mystic and amazing. Listening to the sound of me, ever so delicately. Her presence is necessary, on another occasion.

Tosi, a comfortable me, radiant Rachel, and someone new.

The Universe clearly lied; there were no more to come. Yet, with each lucent breath, laying under a sun-spotted sky, I listened to the familiar sound of another. A mermaid laugh, my nacreous pearl; you are lucid in trance, iridescent in soap with glossy butterfly wings. I can hear the trident god, under the sea, shaking the shell and making lightening spring.

I spent the first couple of months silently wishing you away; I had nothing let to give. My silent good-nights were really goodbyes. You stayed; you did nothing more than grow. Invading my space and sending my senses through another maze. I spent those days sitting in my shell and when I did speak, it was nothing but a yell. Your brothers knew nothing of you then, so they made little sense of what I would say. You've continued to swim, gather, and grow.

It was Mother's Day weekend when I laid on a tiny quilt at a noisy college campus, Tosi and Rachel and Amy and Tricia, where I found it impossible to resist any part of you. Especially your sound, the ocean and your wave. No more moments of strayed faith.

A sweet little thing I captured this year at Whole Earth.

A tiny tribute to Che, whose change was not extreme.

Where faith was not buried and only in tribe life was free.

A small someone will don it soon. 'Viva la revolucion' with us, little one.

It seems to be the same tradition for us. Me: tired eyes, stumbling feet, and bellyful. Aaron: holding on, dreaming of someone new, that mellow man, becoming a new father again and again.

Under the sun, lit by the moon, in the haze of our days, that moment will come; welcome to Tribe, our newest darling one.

Sunday Scribblings: Recipe

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is recipe.

टाइम तो यात!

It was simple and fresh

and green.

And yellow and orange

and red. Ayurvedic, indeed.

Rice, always sticky in this house. Chutney, it's tomato tonight. Vegan, with plenty of protein. Mustard greens and mustard seeds. Garlic, ginger, onion, whole. Haldi, masala, and the necessary garnish, cilantro. A cozy night and a blessed meal. Mama's roots and healthy brews.

Thank you Sunday Scribblings for this delicious prompt!

Bon appetit!

Sunday Scribblings: Dinner

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is dinner.



I didn't think that a bottle of wine could make this any easier. Maybe two.

"A Cabernet Franc form Bordeaux would be great . And we've already decided. We'll start with an order of Mussels Marinara and then an order of your Chicken Sorentino. The same for the lady." Alex barely gave the waiter an opportunity to glance at me. I hated having to eat chicken when we went out.

The waiter collected our menus. Alex looked up at me, his eyes were still dreamy. "Well." He rubbed his palms together as though he couldn't wait to dive in. "Well. This, this is nice." I couldn't help stuttering; I felt feverish from the heat of romantic attempt.

"Two years together, Dev." He made my nickname so masculine. Why couldn't he add the i to the end and call me goddess?

The waiter delivered our bottle. I was almost too flushed to drink.

We sat together and sipped slowly. A small grove of lights decorated the outdoor patio. A Roman fountain splashed out in the center of the courtyard. It reminded me of the Fountain of Moses, of Rome; a place of such dedication and beauty at once and of tragedy and decay at its end.

I starred across the setting. He carried on about our two years together; our 24 months; our 730 days together, it felt so long to me. I was still amazed by the fact that my silence never bothered him; how the stillness agitated my senses, incredibly. How some people slip so easily into the delusion of love while others hunger for sensibility and a way out.

I sipped and then I gulped. I couldn't believe that he wasn't waiting for the dessert opportunity. His words carried him to a desperate gaze. I held it with him. I knew what was coming. He would present a tiny leathered box with a gem at the front, a magical stone would sit underneath a pillow of velvety cloth. My existence would become eternally sealed, a fate of chicken dinners, annual Thanksgiving football, and his family. I had anticipated that this anniversary would end in vow.

I couldn't hold on to a laugh. He asked what was so funny. My head was dizzy enough to tell him the truth. I had already missed this opportunity a few times. I held on to the heat from the Cab and from my excitement.

As I sat across from his smoky fantasy-filled eyes I waited for my moment of freedom. There was nothing to interrupt us but the sensitive voices of dreamy eyed couples and the serene state of Rome surrounding us. I would cry for him tonight.