Labor of Love

A "Whole" New Year

During a New Year’s Eve conversation, my sister and I got to talking about wholeness.  “Do you feel whole?” she asked me.  My impulse was to say no.  The self critical part of myself—magnified by motherhood—responded that there were so many things missing from my life…so much work to be done.  Wholeness isn’t something I associate with my life, not now.

 

“I feel whole,” she said.  “I really do.”

 

A few days later, I reflected on our exchange.  There was something niggling about what I had said.  Was I uncomfortable with the idea that my life is a work-in-progress?  [Surely not.  As a thirty-something, shouldn’t I want my life to be a work-in- progress rather than already complete?]  So then, what was it?

 

During a long walk on the beach, with Ayla asleep in the stroller, her face tilted up towards the sun, I understood that I had answered the wrong question.  “Do you feel whole?” was the question not “Does your life feel whole?”  And so, as I watched pelicans nose-dive into the ocean to catch their breakfast, I asked myself the question one more time.   In a perfect world, my personal film editor would have cued a clip covering all of the most important moments of 2009—ending with the words, “Do you feel whole?”  And instantly, I would have known the real answer.  But this year, I couldn’t rewind past Christmas Day.

 

On Christmas morning, just after my daughter and niece had dumped out their stockings and ripped apart their gifts, I had a serious fight with my father—the first in many, many years.  My version of the story is that he acted out, in front of family and friends (and grandchildren), and I called him out on the inappropriateness of his behavior.  Instead of making concessions for him because of his age, I believed he ought to be held to a higher standard.  In my mind, aging isn’t an appropriate excuse for behaving badly—and I resent that our culture encourages us to turn a blind eye when our parents and grandparents act out.  Shouldn’t it be just the opposite?  Shouldn’t our elders’ teach us what it means to live with grace, wisdom and maturity? 

 

The conflict with my father revolved around an old habit pattern—an irritating thing that he’s done countless times, over many decades, that nonetheless hurts the people he loves most.  Some might say that it’s too late for him to change.  But that’s not true either.  Modern neuroscience has taught us that the brain has a natural elasticity—an ability to change—that doesn’t diminish over time.  Our brain is absolutely capable of changing thought patterns, routines, and behaviors, even when we’re 80 or 90 years old.  It may require some extra effort but it’s always possible to rewire our neural circuitry in order to think and live differently.

 

As I faced off with one of the most powerful people in my life, I observed myself closely.  When the conflict emerged, I clearly communicated the line I felt my father had crossed.  I stayed within my personal boundaries—that is, I didn’t say mean things or do things that I might later regret.  I found a means to calm myself down afterwards.  I also made sure to protect Ayla from the disagreement.  When the heat of the conflict subsided, my mind started making unfair associations (“He acts like my child, not my parent”) and drawing unnecessary conclusions (“Our family will never be normal”).  But like a good traffic cop, I stopped my brain in its tracks and redirected it to a more truthful place.  And when the fight was over, I let it go.  After a day, I managed to find my smile and put it to good use for the rest of the vacation.

 

As it turns out, I didn’t need to look back on all of 2009 to answer the poignant question put to me on New Year’s Eve.  The answer was right there—smack in the middle of our family feud.  Do I feel whole? Well, yes I do.  To me, wholeness isn’t about having the perfect life.  It’s about having the inner resources to handle all of the twists and curves on the journey of life.  For the first time in my life, I am absolutely certain that no matter what sort of tragedy strikes, I know that I can, and will, find my way back to happiness.

 

Tonight, as I packed up our suitcases, I realized that this vacation was mildly disastrous—between the fight with my father, the unseasonably cold weather in Florida and the numerous other snafus along the way, I should be horribly disappointed.  Last year, I would have been horribly disappointed.  But this is a “whole” New Year.  And I’m ever so happy that it, and I, have arrived.

My Theory on Post Partum Depression

There is an interesting post on Motherlode, the New York Times Parenting blog, about what they have named "post-postpartum depression."  The piece was inspired by a cover story in Working Mother magazine about working moms who feel depressed many months or even years after giving birth. 

I had a strong, instinctive response to the post.  I know that post-partum depression is real.  I’m sure that there is such a thing as post-post partum depression too.  But I think a real issue is that we’re not allowed to need or want time to adjust to life as a parent.

Here is the comment that I posted:

I think an important issue is that women underestimate the significance of their transition from a woman to a mother. It is the most profound transformation that most of us will undergo in our lifetimes. To think that it would affect us for a few months or even a year is a great disservice to women.  We need lots of rest, support and time to fully embody motherhood.

If we lost a spouse or a job or had to be moved to another part of the world, we wouldn’t expect to bounce back in a few months. Nor should we be expected to become mothers after we give birth. The transition takes years—and there are plenty of tears, that can be cleansing and cathartic—along the way.

Thoughts? Comments? Did any of you feel like mothers right away? How long did it take for you to process the experience of becoming a mother?

[By the way, this artist, Vas, and her song Refuge, is the most beautiful song I've ever listened to.  It has helped me find my center, even when I've felt extremely lost.]

 

Labor Playlist: The Story of my "Labor Trance" Dance

I’ve danced in the hot desert while watching 3-story sculptures burn to the ground.  I’ve been to raves where I danced amidst towering sand dunes.  I’ve danced in the wilderness.  On a mountaintop.  By the sea. I’ve attended parties where I was blindfolded and “free-danced” all night.  And yet, nothing scared me more than the doing the “Labor Trance” dance.

Entering the “Labor Trance” is something that nearly every woman experiences.  Billions have done it.  And it overwhelmingly leads to the birth of a healthy baby.  And yet, the prospect of going in labor—entering this unknown realm that promises physical pain and gut-wrenching screams—is enough to make any woman wish that her baby would find another way out.

Contending with the act of birth is so difficult because we have to surrender to a greater force.  When labor starts, we cannot stop it.  Sure, we can slow it down—with our fears and anxiety—but only for a short time.  We can’t make it go away. Once the process is set in motion, our only choice is to give in, to flow with it…to agree to go wherever it takes us.  Once our contractions become regular, we have to succumb to entering a “Labor Trance” and staying in this strange, otherworldly realm until our baby is born. 

Once I begrudgingly accepted the necessity of labor, I knew that music would play a big role in the experience. What else could I rely on to make the experience a trifle less scary? Music seemed to offer a soothing balm to all of my third-trimester fears. But when I sat down to create a Labor Playlist, I was absolutely baffled.  Would electronic beats, played softly, do the trick? Or should I play lullabies to calm my baby?  Or maybe music sung in a different language—world music from Zimbabwe or Tahiti?  Then I thought I should go the ancestral route and play Indian chants (and perhaps call upon the spirits of my grandmother who had birthed 12 children!)  It’s easy to forget about Zen—but wouldn’t bamboo flutes and soft chimes be gentle enough to ease a new babe into the world?

After much deliberation, I settled for western musicians playing Indian-inspired mantra and Zen.  Snatam Kaur. Krishna Das.  Deva Premal.  Caitlin.  Jane Winther.  Dean Evenson.  The instruments were otherworldly: singing bowls, the santoor, delicate flutes, and the harmonium.   During early labor, the music helped me find my center and regulate my breathing and stay in the present moment.  But as the contractions grew in intensity, my carefully selected playlist, ceased to matter. 

In the end, it was the sound of my baby’s heartbeat, the rhythm of my contractions and my primal moans that became the only soundtrack of note.  It turns out, we make our own music during labor.  It is created spontaneously, with every contraction, we find a new way to release the pain with sound.

And when I had sounded every note on the scale, from guttural grunts to high pitched squeals, Ayla crowned.  This time, I held my breath.  Silence.  I pushed once more and her tiny body slithered out of me.  I held my breath again.  Another beat of silence.  Then Ayla took her first breath.  The sound of life—my firstborn baby’s life—turned out to be the sweetest song I’d ever heard. 

Taz's Labor Playlist

Movements by Blue Sky Black Death

Drolma La by Morgan Doctor

Ek Ong Kar by Snatam Kaur Khalsa

Comptine d'un autre été by Yann Tiersen (from the Amelie soundtrack)

Is it Love? by Wah!

He Ma Durga by Donna De Lory

Paradise by Vieux Farka Toure

Spirit of Water by Dean Evenson

Tracks 1 and 2 from the Jala Compilation by Shiva Rea

Hanuman Chaleesa by Krishna Das

Pachelbel Serenade by Michael Maxwell

I Found a Reason by Cat Power

Sushila Raman and Vas are two female vocalists whose otherworldly music worked at various points during labor

Labor of Love: The First Birth

When I quit my design job in New York City to start up a non-profit organization for homeless children and youth, little did I know that I was embarking on an act of creation that was not unlike childbirth.  

It was 2004.  New York City was still reeling from the aftermath of 9/11.  We were still at war.  The election was just around the corner and it seemed that Americans were still divided along red/blue lines.   The mood in the country was somber.  I had just returned from coaching a group of homeless youth at a local shelter and was dining with my dear friend Adam Bucko.  Over spicy curry and rice, we hatched a plan to jolt us out of our extended funk.  We would do something bold that brought people together to be creative and to serve humanity, we cried out!