La bella luna

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

I love the moon and I still haven’t lost my fascination with it, still seek it in the sky, and always feel better for seeing it. As a girl, I especially loved when the full moon would shine onto my bed pillow and I could sleep in the moonlight. Riding in the back seat of the car, I would silently talk to the moon as it followed us home.

The man in the moon never made sense to me and I don’t think I’m alone --  not with so many moon goddesses so beautifully named:  Selene, Jezanna, Britomartis, Chang-O, Hina, Artemis, Quilla, Diana, Kaguya-hime, Ix Chel. I never really thought of the moon as a deity, but more as a gift from a deity to ease fears in the dark, a night light hung in the sky to better see the beauty of the world, reminding us that we are loved.

I birthed both my children on a full moon. Now, decades later, I can still remember the feeling as my first labor began:  the sobering realization that there was no reverse, no way back, no stopping, only going forward until we were done, on the other side of it, and changed. It didn’t feel so much like being out of control, more acknowledging that I was following into unknown territory, led by my laboring body.

I’ve never been surfing, but the metaphor is apt:  stay on top of the wave to not let it overwhelm, to avoid wipeout. Really, riding a contraction with one’s breathing is not any more unlikely than riding 8-foot waves on a surfboard. But I was lucky; my labors were short. It’s easier to surf successfully for five straight hours than for 20.

At the critical point of pushing the baby out, I felt another energy assisting me. I later could only describe it as a state of grace. Different from the endorphin rush, the relief, the utter joy of birthing a child, this grace energy seemed another wavelength and of an origin outside myself. It felt like light -- not blinding sunlight, but cool, reflective moonlight.

When I held my daughter seconds after her birth, she looked straight into my eyes with an expression of deep concentration, and she was glowing with this very soft light. My son’s birth ran into some complications, but all resolved itself in the last few seconds. Again, the need to push was accompanied by what felt to be cosmic assistance that provided measured calm in the urgency of the moment.

As I held my son for the first time, he stretched an arm onto my neck and opened one eye to look at me. He’d had a rough trip; I told him he’d never have to make that difficult journey again. We rested together; he nursed and I felt him relax into sleep.

That evening, the moon was as full as can be, shining brightly in my window. I had a lot to tell it.