On Growth, Stubbornness, and Working On a Memoir for (something like) Ten Years

Me, shortly after I arrived in China and Tibet in 1999, at Namtso Lake in Tibet.

Sometimes I feel ashamed when people ask if I’m still working on the same book. Yes, for almost a decade now I’ve been working on a memoir, SEARCHING FOR THE HEART RADICAL, with some periods away from it in between. Most of the chapters originated during my time in grad school from 2004-2006, although many of the seeds of those pieces had already been planted during the years I lived and wrote in China from 1999-2002. And in some respects, you might say I’ve been working on this book since the day I was born.

This book has taught me a ton—about the process of writing and about myself. I have grown so much as a writer over these years that I have felt compelled to go back and rewrite most of the pieces, again and again and again. And because it’s a book about discovering myself during my twenties—and I started writing it while still in my twenties—it’s also a book whose deeper meaning has been elusive and unfolding as I’ve grown as a person.

If I could do it all over again, I’m not sure what, if anything, I would do differently. Initially, I wrote almost every chapter as a piece that could stand alone. They came out that way, and this also made it easier to submit stuff to writing group critiques or literary magazines. Eventually though, and perhaps even from the beginning, I knew I was writing a book. I then spent many years stringing the pieces together, agonizing about whether to call it a “collection of essays” or a “memoir”, submitting it to agents and later small presses, getting sick of it, putting it down for months or years at a time, losing faith in it, and then finally dusting it off, sitting down and becoming obsessed with it all over again.

It’s been a labor of love. Of dogged stubbornness. Of moments filled with doubt (this writing is crappy and self-absorbed), and moments filled with pride (this is a great book that will speak to many!). Yet finally, what’s pushed me on is simply the knowledge that, no matter how many people the book ultimately reaches, I must get it out there, share it, find closure, move on.

In retrospect, it would have been a whole lot easier to have conceived of it as a whole memoir from the get-go, and mapped it out as such, not having to later convert all the original stand-alone pieces. But, that’s not the way my process went. I needed the writing practice, and I needed to let it unfold organically, to just let it become what it would become. I never imagined that it would take me almost ten years to finally get to the point where I feel like the book is cohesive and whole, and where I’ve finally accessed the necessary perspective that I needed in order to infuse the book with a more seasoned perspective.

I never was good at having an elevator speech, and maybe this should have been my clue that I still hadn’t honed what it was about, at core. “My book is about my travels between China and America in my twenties,” I’d say (but it’s not a travel book). “My book is about growing up half-Chinese, and searching for my cultural and spiritual identity,” (true, but kind of vague). “My book is about my longing for language, love, and belonging” (closer, but more vague). Fine, then, my book is about me, I’d say, only sort of kidding. It was all of the above. And then some. Which was it? Was it trying to be too many things? Did I need to lose the threads about Buddhism and Tibet, and focus more on the cultural identity theme, about growing up bilingual, then living in China and entering a relationship with a Chinese man?

Now, anyone who’s taken a course in memoir can tell you that memoir is not autobiography. Memoir is not the entire story of your life; memoir is a story from your life. So pick one theme, one particular thread, and tell that story well. Leave out lots of other important stories and details if they don’t serve the one story at hand. Trust that there will be other books in you; that you can tell the other stories elsewhere. Find your focus.

For a while, I feared I was not heeding this basic advice. I feared I was holding on too tightly to wanting to tell ALL of my story--  my coming of age, self-discovery, spiritual-heart-opening, obsession with language and China, longing for intimacy, and searching for home story. But when I tried to cut out the pieces about my obsession with Tibet and my initial spiritual awakening, it still wasn’t working. Now there were gaps in chronology I was trying to disguise, and, moreover, there were gaps in adequately expressing what was really going on inside of me, on the most intimate level.

My readers/editors wanted it to be a cohesive, linear whole, not a collection of linked pieces, because the blueprint of my story was already there. What was missing was a deeper, seasoned thread of reflection to stitch it all together. Don’t get me wrong, there was plenty of “telling” in the manuscript, maybe too much. But this reflection still belonged to each piece alone and didn’t yet do much in the way of making the pieces speak to each other as a whole. And ironically, the book itself is about wanting to feel whole.

Finally, about a year ago (after taking an awesome workshop with Lydia Yuknavitch on finding your core metaphors), I was inspired to break out the dusty manuscript again (after a mostly motherhood-driven, three-year hiatus), and write a new piece/introduction called “Mirror Face.” In this piece, I went back to one of my original metaphors, first unearthed in a piece I wrote in 1997 for my first college creative writing class. It was a piece about vision, mirrors, reflections, identity and self-consciousness. It’s central metaphor began with me, as a child, looking in a mirror and hating the way my two eyes did not match—the way one of my eyes was creaseless, like a Chinese eye, and the other eye had a fold, like a Westerner’s. It was a piece about how I saw and judged myself, and in turn feared others saw and judged me.

There it was. A new beginning to my book. A new beginning that had existed all along, but that for some reason I’d failed to see belonged. And from this new (old) beginning, I suddenly saw the entire book framed anew. It wasn’t that the theme of cultural identity wasn’t already prominent in almost every chapter, but it had never been introduced in quite the same way. Something about sharing my childhood vulnerability and speaking directly to my desire to overcome my early seeds of self-consciousness, was crucial in informing the linear story at  hand about living in China, and my longing to find a spiritual path and to become fluent in Chinese as an adult. Something about that one central metaphor helped me to tie it all together better, and see and love the book anew. And with a new beginning, I was better able to determine which pieces needed to stay or go, and to write a new ending that helped the book come full circle.

So here I am. Still editing the epilogue and waiting to get feedback from my copyeditor/friend, before we start the process of designing, creating and self-publishing the book. Sometimes I still get hit with pangs of, maybe I should try one last time to get a publisher, after all, the book’s a new and improved animal now, but something about time and motherhood has infused my life with a more urgent perspective. I am ready to get this book out in the world NOW. I do not want to wait again for months to hear back from agents, and even if I got one quickly this time, it could take years more for the agent to place the book, if they even could. And then, after that, another couple years before it would come out. That could be another five years of my life! No, thank you. I have other projects on the backburner, including another book I've already started and received funding to work on, and projects that (I hope) will not take me as long to complete as this one.

But you never know. Maybe I am just one of those slow writers who writes long books and takes a long time to understand what she is truly writing. It doesn’t matter. I trust now that these things just have to take their course. You can be as disciplined about your writing and self-imposed deadlines as you want, but you can’t force the process, the timing, or the way in which your book’s core insights choose to be revealed.

Who knows, maybe I had to become a mother first, to shift my life so radically that I could finally see my whole younger searching period with new insight. Maybe it has nothing to do with any given age (e.g. the fact that I’ve been writing about my twenties and now I’m in my late thirties), but more to do with specific changes that happen in a person’s life that suddenly catapult our perspective into a whole new realm.

In any case, I now plan to self-publish. I will proudly join the ranks of the DIY culture, and do everything I can to create a beautiful, professional product and get it into the hands of as many people as I can. Because this book is important to me. And because I believe it is good. And while sometimes the best advice may very well be to let go of something and move on, there are other times when you can’t bear to do this, and you just have to keep trusting that there is more at stake here, something that you need to see all the way through.

Me, before leaving China in 2002, looking out over the monk's quarters at Labarang Monastery in Xiahe, Gansu Province.

Still On The Fence: More Thoughts on Life Balance and Having Number Two

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything here again. I have excuses, yes, I’ve been busy. Working on my manuscript, teaching workshops, pitching classes, doing housework, engulfed in family life, and so on. I’ve started posts for this blog, but not finished them as more pressing deadlines take over. And my perfectionist tendencies always keep me from just rattling off a few random paragraphs. That’s not really my forte, anyway. I’m an essayist at heart, not a blogger.

           

But in any case, I still regularly feel the need to purge the crusty layers that build up, to vent, to muse, and to locate my center of gravity beyond all the thoughts and tangents: to locate what, at core, has been going on. So, here goes.

First off, I finished another round of Writing Motherhood in October, and am now wrapping up a round of Writing Your Birth Story. Both have been good; and both have taught me how I might refine the experience, for the participants and for myself. Namely, I still want to make the workshops longer. One month always goes by too fast, but then I worry that less people will sign up if it’s longer—because of the time commitment, the money, and thus the greater element of risk involved. But I crave the opportunity to go deeper into the writing process and the community that we form each session, and that can only come from more time together. So next March, I will offer a six-week, in-person Motherhood workshop series that taps into craft, in addition to the usual free-writing and focus on process. And sometime in the late spring, another (mostly) online Birth Story workshop. Stay tuned.

Another thing I’ve been weighing still is whether I want to have another child. Some days, it feels obvious, if only because I can’t yet let go of the underlying longing to know what it would be like to go through the experience of motherhood “all over again”, yet on a new level. To imagine getting to know another child of mine, to go through a similar process of discovery and bonding, but also, to know that this child will be a completely different person than Cedar. How would this feel to go through motherhood again, yet this time a bit more seasoned, and with a different child? A part of me can’t stand to not find out.

There is something deeply fascinating to me about the whole unfolding process of motherhood, despite all the sleep deprivation and angst at not having enough time to myself. Motherhood has offered the ultimate paradox for my creative life, in that while I’ve been constantly struggling to get more time to write and teach, I also have never felt this over-brimming with projects and ideas of things to write about. Almost three years in now, and motherhood, more than ever, still feels like such a rich, unmined territory to tap. Whole stages of mother-child-father-universe relationships have gone by, that I simply haven’t had the time to capture by pen. And so if I do go through motherhood again, maybe I’ll get a second chance to approach these topics all over again. Granted, from a new layer of insight.

But then, my devil’s advocate pipes in, I will also be even more busy, and catapulted back into the early days with hardly any time to myself. Instead, now, my “breaks” will consist of time that I am “only” with the baby, while Cedar is in school or with others. It might be years before I regain the equilibrium I have finally gained now, the space where it actually feels possible to mother, to write, to publish, and to teach—to do a bit of everything I want to do to feel satisfied inside. Instead, I will have to go back to a period of “just mothering” (as if that isn’t intense enough by itself), with a little scribbling and reading on the side. Teaching will be put on hold for a while, because as much as I love it, some basic minimum amount of writing needs to come first for me. And publishing? This blog will have to continue to suffice.

Any big publishing goals I have will need to happen before another baby comes. This much feels clear. That’s why the last time I was expecting, I made a final push to send out my manuscript to small presses. That’s why I haven’t done much of anything with my book for two years, until finally late this summer I took the plunge and paid someone to read the whole thing and give me feedback, to will myself into seeing it and loving it and being motivated to work on it from a fresh perspective.

I wrote a new introduction and epilogue, drawing out certain themes, reframing the ‘arc’ of the book anew. I actually feel like it is good again, worthy of the work it will take to get it out there, worthy of the money I plan to spend to make it look professional (assuming I self-publish, the current plan). Worthy of the energy it will take to launch my own book tour, to market, to update my blog or make a new website, and to get myself excited about a project that is so old, all over again. I am motivated. I want to do this. I want to birth this labor of love of mine, this coming of age memoir, this project through which I’ve learned so much (and would like to have some closure around, please).

But the deadline keeps getting pushed forward. Because I have so little concentrated time to focus. I did have two and a half full days alone to work a few weeks ago (when my husband brought Cedar to his Grandma’s for the weekend) and I accomplished more in a couple days than I would for many months in the usual piece-meal way that I must work. I need more of those intensive working chunks. I am not planning any classes for December-February, with the hope that I will finish the book and start in on the publishing process then. But then I have been saying this—that I’m “almost done”—for a long time. And if I didn’t know myself better, I’d start to doubt in my own resolve. Only I know each time I say it, it’s that much more closer to true. And I know how much work I’ve already put in, and I know how close it is. And so I know, I must do this. I must put it out there into the world. And this must happen soon, certainly before any pregnancy or new baby could enter my life. This much is clear.

Writing will always be like another child to me, another child I need to take care of and take into account any time I’m considering adding something new to my life: how will this child be affected? Will I still be able to care for this child in a way that feels satisfying? Will this child be somehow left behind? These are not trivial questions to me.

So, here I am. It is almost December. Christmas is coming, gift giving, photo-organizing, tree buying, family gatherings. This all takes energy, time. Somehow I must be diligent in making sure that my few afternoons a week to myself don’t get completely sucked into this frenzy, alongside the usual housework, bills, chores, and correspondence. Somehow I need to dive back into the manuscript revisions, set clear small goals, personal deadlines.

Somehow I must also find a way to exercise more, to prioritize health, for this has fallen by the wayside over the last year, and I know how important it is to my overall well-being. (Although as I think about how my future ‘breaks’ would probably consist now of times when I just have the baby to care for, I console myself by remembering that at least during that baby stage you can pop them in a stroller and go on lots of walks. At least I got more exercise back then. And drank less wine, too.)

When I try to imagine what else about that stage would feel “easier” now that I can compare it to the toddler stage, I feel fairly steadied for the challenges. After all, we’ve already had our share of dietary, sleep, and behavior challenges—what are the chances that the next baby would be even more challenging? Certainly possible (and this thought fills me with both fear and humility), but not that likely (at least I hope, or pray).

Ah, so apparently I’m back at the topic of: to procreate again or not to procreate. Well, I’ve already decided that it would be hugely stressful, financially risky, and too time-consuming to try to build an addition before another baby came, so I’ve already (sort of) made peace with how we could add another child into our one bedroom, 850 square foot arrangement, by putting the baby’s crib (and yes, our baby is getting a crib this time) into the living room next to our bed.

It would be crowded. Our evenings would be subdued (assuming the baby eventually wakes from noise, as most babies do). And our marital life may, yet again, suffer. But, oh, the ultimate joy! (Right?) Oh, the joy of having a larger family to grow old with. Oh, these early years will go fast, right? Yeah, I don’t know. I’m still on the fence as I’ve said. Just trying to feel out if it is indeed do-able and, most of all, right. Do-able? Yes. Where there’s a will there’s a way. But, is it right for us? That is the bigger question.

So, no home remodel yet (although at the rate our appliances are dying, we’ll at least get an all-around updated kitchen by then). I’m also looking into other preschool options for Cedar so that he could be in school more than the three mornings a week that co-op preschool (which we love) will entail next year. We can afford that, I think, though I have yet to do any math. So that leaves the publishing goals, the teaching, the writing… the weaning and toilet-training goals too (both of which keep getting put off for now, for lack of interest, or resolve). A lot still needs to happen before I want to remove my IUD.

My husband and I would also need to have a good budgeting talk, a sound financial plan laid out, as well as a plan as to how we plan to prioritize marital peace, connection, communication, and overall sanity. And that means: regular date nights (or afternoons); even once a month will do (obviously we haven’t set a high precedent here). And a new agreement forged between us as to what degree of personal time it is realistic to expect—for me, to write (and do everything else I do to maintain our household). And for him, namely, to fish. Because that is his passion, his religion, his connection to nature, his exercise, his primary release, and I get that.

Sure, I’ve spent plenty of time over the last couple years begrudging his desire to go fishing (Again? Haven’t you gone enough already?), with a lot of back and forth negotiation (You can go every other weekend for the day, if I get to go write for a few hours every weekend. Fair enough?) But then there were the long weekend trips out to the Olympic peninsula which began to take their toll (Most parents of young children are lucky if they get to go on one long weekend, bachelor style trip with their buddies a year, much less four!). Until we finally reached the place where nursing had decreased enough that I could leave Cedar for longer stretches, and reached a wonderful, almost equitable agreement called tit-for-tat: you get a weekend, I get a weekend.

I say ‘almost’ equitable because his “weekends away” have typically consisted of about three full days, whereas mine are more like one point five. But it’s hard to complain about this when for almost two years, the longest time to myself I ever got was something like four hours to go to the spa. And so, in my ongoing quest for shared parenting equity (tit-for-tat, if you will), I’ve now proposed that we count “days” versus weekends, because I still mostly feel like I end up with the short end of the stick. I believe my husband begrudgingly agreed (translation: grunted). And so now, I’m fine with him going away fishing for a weekend, as long as I get my time to write in exchange. I need it, and now more than ever. I have serious goals. Limited time. The decision to have or not have a child may hinge on this factor!

Anyway, the irony of course is that even if we manage to finally come to a place of “total equity” regarding parenting duties, if another child were to come into the picture, this equation would no doubt get thrown back out again for another year at least. (And I don’t expect to get “back pay”, so to speak, because somehow that would just be way too demanding of me and the expected maternal sacrifices.) Maybe the next baby won’t nurse or co-sleep for as long, and won’t be as dependent on the boob to go to sleep. Maybe we’ll consciously decide to make it easier on ourselves, and especially on me, not following quite such an attachment parenting model (not that I ever set out to be an “attachment parent”, mind you; we just made the choices that felt right at the time).

Don’t get me wrong, I stand behind the parenting choices we’ve thus far made, for the most part, and for this particular baby, with this particular temperament. But there are things I will probably do differently. I tell myself. Of course, the true test will be what actually happens when we are in the thick of it. And there is a sense of adventure and an exciting challenge inherent in this imagining… mixed in with impending fear and dread. In moments though, there is an overwhelming optimism, that says, in the end, how could we ever regret it!? But in some ways, this sentiment is naïve, for I’m sure some parents actually do regret having another, on some level, but this is not a socially acceptable sentiment so you don’t hear about it.

But still. It is exciting, you must admit, the whole baby-imagining, baby-making, birthing process. It’s high drama. It’s life and death from its most peaked and illuminating vistas. And it’s also a bit like… falling… into an abyss. First and foremost. Before you slowly climb your way out again, and before you are so worn down and seasoned that you are finally able to enjoy the view from each stage and even in the midst of each new challenge; where you are so humbled by the whole life-altering experience of parenthood, that you’ve stopped waiting around for those promises of the future plateaus, and you truly are just along for the ride. Or something like that. Doesn’t it get easier as they say, even as it gets harder, with two? Don’t you experience even more of a degree of ego destruction, humility, and self-surrender? And isn’t that ultimately a good thing?

Hmm… I’m not completely convincing myself, although I am trying. I truly do see both sides. The amazing and awesome, and the terrifying and terrible. Parenting is at heart a paradoxical experience. It’s rough. There’s no escaping this, no matter how “easy” or “hard” of a baby you had. Parenting is hard on marriage, on your body, on your personal goals or dreams, on maintaining your former idea of yourself. And yet, it is also so hands-down incredible and amazing. To watch a child grow. To be so intricately tied to their experience of this earth. To laugh with them, dance with them, nurture them. To see the world anew through their eyes.

Sometimes I wonder though how much of this desire to have another baby is tied up in societal norms. If the majority of mothers around me weren’t having number two, or planning on it, if I were in the minority for considering another one, would it be easier then to let go of the lingering desire and embrace the sanity of just one; i.e. the quicker return of my equilibrium, creative life, and quality time with my husband? It’s worth pondering. There is something of the fear of “missing out” at play here. Not wanting to miss out. The clock is ticking, it’s now or never, so just go for it!

And then, a friend recently mused that after she had her third child (who incidentally was a “surprise”), she definitely no longer had that feeling of baby lust around infants she’d still had before number three came along. None whatsoever. And so that makes me consider: would the lingering baby lust still be there, even if it weren’t meant to be? Will I somehow just “know” at some point that I want to do it, or will I have to make the harder choice (in some ways), of deciding “no,” and in turn letting go of whatever lingering visions I might have had of a larger family or round two of motherhood anew?

Why does it feel like deciding not to have another child would leave me with more questions and potential regret, than deciding to have one? I think it’s because the decision to have one is proactive, decisive, and once I decide something big like that, I stand behind my instincts that led me there. Whereas the decision not to do something can feel more passive (even if it isn’t a passive decision, but deliberately thought out); still, it can feel like something you just “let happen” by letting “time slip or opportunities slip away from you”.

Perhaps this is also tied up in how our culture values “doing” more than “not doing”. More is better. And “not doing” is often seen as laziness or fear, whereas more “doing” is usually applauded and admired, at least from a distance (wow—look at how much that person is accomplishing!), even if it drives one to emotional, physical, or spiritual fatigue.

Hmm… this is an interesting discussion, Anne. But now I must go and pick up my child. I am sure these thoughts will be continued in a future post, (sadly, yet realistically) months down the road. Until then, dear readers, thank you for indulging me. And feel free to share with me more thoughts on your experiences with having number two. I’m definitely still on the fence. Sticking with just one at times can feel pretty sweet. 

Especially this little one.

Guest Post: A Family-Centered Cesarean Birth by Stacy S. Hirsch

A few years ago I had the honor to work with a friend on her birth story. I asked Stacy if I could post her story on my blog, with the hope that it might inspire some of you to write your own stories. A version of Stacy's story was also published in Midwifery Today. 

A Family-Centered Cesarean Birth

by Stacy Hirsch

I was 34 weeks pregnant when we learned our little one was breech. An ultrasound confirmed the positioning and showed a nuchal cord (a cord around the neck). I had never worried about the possibility of a breech baby and in that moment the nuchal cord sounded more alarming to me. Our midwife assured me that many babies have the cord around their neck at some point during the pregnancy and this typically does not present any complications. The larger, more pertinent issue didn’t register for me immediately; I didn’t know enough to know that if our baby didn’t flip we were unlikely to have a vaginal birth.  

     We had chosen a midwife for our prenatal care and we had always planned to have a home birth. For me, home is where I reconnect with myself. It is the place where I can easily let my mind rest and where I can feel my body vibrate at a softer frequency. Having a home birth meant being surrounded by warmth, history, familiarity and love. It meant having our child born into an environment full of intention. The idea of not having a home birth was at first devastating. It seemed so unfair. To feel the vision I held for our birth slip away was incredibly painful. Unpeeling the layers of this disappointment took time.  

     I had already purchased a majority of my home birth supplies and they were neatly organized and labeled in brown paper bags. I was beginning to envision myself giving birth in our home and I eagerly began designing each detail for the event. The birth tub was ordered and I even planned the snacks I would have for our midwife and her assistant: hummus, herbed cheeses, hearty breads, fruit and vegetables slices, olives, nuts and seeds. All of my favorite finger foods that could easily be prepared ahead of time without a lot of fretting. The home would be warm, inviting and full of welcoming hearts, and the nourishing food would ensure my supportive team would have the strength to go the distance with me.

     I soon learned that in our region, as in many other parts of the United States, there really weren't many options for vaginal breech delivery. Providers typically view a breech presentation as having a great enough risk to necessitate a cesarean birth. Our midwife knew that it was possible and safe to deliver a breech baby vaginally but did not have the expertise to do so. We considered trying to find someone trained in breech delivery, even if we needed to travel to another state. It wasn’t difficult to find stories on the internet of women delivering their breech babies vaginally. I imagined these women as strong, rebellious, heroic, articulate and confident. They lived their lives with a silent certainty and they always achieved their goals no matter how big the fight. I envied these women.  

     My life is full of blessings, yet I am also a worrier. At times I posses all of the attributes I imagined these other women having but I often need a little extra support to overcome the fear that passes through my mind. I wanted my doctor or midwife to have training in breech vaginal delivery. I wanted the system to agree that it was a safe and sane choice. I wanted to know I was doing everything I could to give our daughter the very best start in life. I wanted to eliminate doubt and worry. The idea of choosing a vaginal breech delivery and then having a negative outcome was difficult for me to consider. It seemed like a choice with too much risk and not enough support.  

     We were concerned about the breech presentation but optimistic that with a little more time our baby would flip. We did our research and tried everything to gently encourage her to make the journey 'head down'. Our efforts included chiropractic techniques, homeopathy, acupuncture with needles and moxabustion, craniosacral therapy, hypnosis, counseling, swimming, biking, inversions/pelvic tilt, Rebozo, coaxing, vibrations and a bright light low on the pelvis, online prayer groups of various denominations, laughter, tears and finally an external cephalic version (ECV) performed under medical supervision at a hospital thirty miles from our home. An ECV is a procedure where the obstetrician manually attempts to rotate the fetus into the proper position while the mom and baby’s vitals are monitored. It is a relatively short procedure and, in our case, was unsuccessful.  

     We tried to hold it all lightly as we ultimately put our trust in our daughter, knowing that birth was a natural process and if she could flip, she would. With each appointment or technique I would go through a range of emotions. Part of me felt certain whatever I was doing in that moment was going to work and another part of me was slightly afraid of how it would feel to have this little creature flip-flop 180 degrees in my belly. Each day was a dance. Some days I felt I was the lead partner but on most days all I could do was follow.  

     Trying all of these techniques and connecting with all of these wonderful healers had a secondary effect. They were all women, all mothers and they all became an important part of our birth. They helped me to see that birth was not a single act. They reminded me that our birth experience began many months prior to finding out our daughter was breech. They opened my eyes to the larger process of birth. They also helped me to realize that this was my baby’s birth as much as mine. This was the first but it would likely not be the last time my daughter and I would have differing opinions about how to proceed through a life event. I could give up and settle for what the system had to offer us or I could let go, regroup and create the birth we wanted for our daughter within the system. 

     As the weeks disappeared, and our due date rapidly approached, a medically necessary cesarean seemed unavoidable. I had heard stories of women traumatized by their birth experience, and I was determined that this would not be me no matter what obstacles we faced. We needed to be informed. We decided to research our options for creating a cesarean birth that would honor both mother and child and allow us to not stray too far from our original intention. Our midwife was very supportive and helped us sort through all of the new information. She connected us with a midwife-friendly obstetrician in our region and a facility that would allow us some latitude in our birth choices. She also encouraged us to draft a birth plan. We went online and found a white paper on family-centered cesarean birth from the International Cesarean Awareness Network. Using the paper as guidance, along with other resources, we crafted a birth plan that offered us the best chance of giving our daughter the gentlest birth possible given the circumstances.    

     Version one of the birth plan sounded something like this: “I really wanted a home birth and I am only here because the system says this is where I need to be but there is a chance she will flip once we arrive at the hospital, and if that is the case, I want to leave so we can birth our daughter naturally in our home.” Version one also outlined a plan for a vaginal hospital birth and included a smaller section for a non-emergency cesarean due to the breech presentation. I was still struggling to let go. I didn’t fully identify with women who choose cesarean or even hospital births but I also had to let go of identifying myself as someone who was having a home birth. I felt very alone. I saw these sides and I didn’t belong to either.

     A few days after we drafted version one, and after a few more days of processing, I was ready to revise the plan and mostly let go of the hope we would have a vaginal home birth. As I began to accept the cesarean, I was able to see more clearly what was possible. Our requests became more specific and I was able to differentiate which pieces I could and could not create. It began to feel I could still have most of what I wanted for our baby: gentle hands to welcome her into the world, being surrounded by loved ones, never leaving our side, nursing soon after delivery, no shots or pokes or vaccines, not even a bath. It was all possible if we used our imagination. I, on the other hand, would be undergoing major surgery. I was worried a bit but I was a mother now and mothers do whatever they need to in order to ensure the health and well-being of their child. I was healthy and fortunate to have lots of support. I would be fine. 

     Our next step was to discuss our plan with the birth team. My husband called the obstetrician, anesthesiologist, and charge nurse. With each conversation we carefully reviewed the details of our plan, learned more about what to expect from the upcoming process and made compromises as needed. Success! We had a green light for those items most important to us. In addition to the father being in the operating room we were granted permission to have our midwife present. I was to be administered an epidural, but requested not to have additional antibiotics or pain medications. I wanted to be awake and coherent so I could fully experience the birth of my baby. We were allowed to take pictures and video, my arms were not to be tied down, and we asked that extraneous conversation be limited during the birth. Initially, we also asked to have the lights lowered at the time of birth so the environment would feel a little warmer and less shocking for our new baby. But in the end we let this go when it seemed their version of dim was not much different from regular lighting. We had also hoped that our baby might be delivered onto my chest and even begin nursing while the sutures were being placed, but with the surgical drape and the protocols for keeping the environment clean and sterile this was not possible.  

     Picking a date for the cesarean birth was a bit surreal. How do you choose a date for your baby to arrive when you want to honor the natural process? From our research we knew that contractions, and subsequent labor, induced a release of stress hormones in mother and baby.  This was seen as beneficial to the new baby as an early survival technique and impetus into the external world. It was our hope that the little one would experience some of the benefits of those contractions. After conferring with our midwife, our obstetrician was amenable to a 42 week gestation. Knowing we couldn’t go too much past 42 weeks helped us to narrow the window and we selected a date, July ninth. Although I never went into labor, the last week was full of gentle contractions.  

     On the day we went to the hospital my contractions were more frequent and more intense. Our daughter seemed to be letting us know she was ready. I don’t remember much about the actual drive to the hospital. We arranged for my mother to stay at a nearby hotel and we prepared food for her to bring to us for each meal. The three of us arrived at the hospital and completed the necessary paperwork. Shortly after they showed me to the pre-op room, our midwife arrived. Our delivery team came to our room and we reviewed the birth plan one last time to ensure all voices had been heard. The stage was set and our little one was about to make her big debut.  

     As I lay in the operating room, life simplified for a moment. My husband and I had been on a rollercoaster for the past eight weeks. Now our only job was to welcome our daughter into the world. Time had been our friend, allowing us to lay the groundwork for the type of birth we both wanted when our original plans were no longer an option. All of my awareness was focused on being present; I didn’t want to miss a moment of this life-changing event. I was nervous, excited and deeply grateful for the support of my husband. He would be the one to first touch and hold our baby. He would be our advocate if necessary. I needed him to be where I couldn’t. I trusted him to take care of us as we navigated this new territory. 

     As the obstetrician gently guided our baby into the world, the anesthesiologist held my head up so that I could watch her little red bottom emerge from me. Once our baby’s head was out the doctor quickly unwrapped the umbilical cord from around her neck and body and gently held her upside down for the natural removal of mucus from her air passages. (Typically, this piece is done with suctioning.) Within moments there was a tiny cry followed by several more substantial cries. She was here, she was healthy and we were all happy. The cord pulsed while the proud papa held our baby and the Apgar scores were assessed. The nurse brought warm blankets and a hat. My husband cut the cord once it stopped pulsing and carried our baby to me and placed her next to my face. She gently suckled on our fingers and on my husband’s nose while the doctor stitched me up. She was so at peace in our arms, patiently waiting to nurse. Our midwife took beautiful pictures and video of our first moments as a family. Forty minutes later we were in our hospital room and our daughter was latched to my breast. The charge nurse for the neonatal nursery said to our midwife, “You know, there really isn’t any reason why all cesarean births couldn’t be like this one.” Hearing this made us feel something even larger could come from our daughter’s birth.

     We stayed at the hospital for two days. As part of our birth plan we also drafted a section on infant care. We requested our baby never leave our side and, that all routine exams be delayed until after we had time to bond with our child; we did not give permission to bathe her, use eye ointments, vaccinations or injections of any kind; and we informed them that our baby was only to receive breast milk and no formula. We brought a small lamp from home so our room could remain dimly lit and my mother brought us nutritious food for each meal. We asked for our privacy and did not consent to examinations that had more to do with hospital policy than with our health. The staff was very accommodating even when it seemed we had taken them out of their comfort zone.  

     I am filled with gratitude when I recall our amazing journey and everything it took to bring our daughter into this world. I will never forget the intention and care provided by everyone involved. I thank our midwife for supporting us and the vision we held for our birth through lots of change and uncertainty. Having been through this experience I strongly believe that every parent should have access to resources that empower them to create the type of birth they want for themselves and their child no matter what circumstances. I believe that those who facilitate birth —midwives, physicians, nurses —play a critical role in making this happen by cultivating trust and meaningful working relationships with one another at every level.  At 34 weeks we didn’t have time to change the system for our birth. We didn’t have time to advocate that every obstetrician and midwife have training in delivering breech babies vaginally. What we did have time to do was to work with our team to create the most beautiful experience possible for our family.  

Bio:

Stacy Hirsch lives in Olympia, WA with her beautifully curious 3-year old, talented husband and overly indulgent cat that never passes up a warm sauna. She is an Integrative Health Coach, Founder of Two the Root and Co-owner of Beyond Medicine, An Integrative Wellness Clinic. Check out more of her work at TwotheRoot.com.

Here's what Stacy had to say about her writing process:

"I knew early on that I wanted to write the story of my birth. I wanted it for myself, for my daughter and to connect with expecting moms who might face a similar experience in their pregnancy and birth. Writing gave me a way to process the disconnects of my journey and create a fluid, seamless understanding of my experience. It gave me closure and at the same time opened a whole new world of possibilities.

Working with Anne was a tremendous gift. She skillfully stepped into one of the most intimate moments of my life and held it with tenderness and integrity. Anne's insight offered me the opportunity to try on new perspectives that I may not have seen without her help. She was a sounding board - a mirror to reflect my own thoughts, feelings and words so I could go deeper. Even now, years later, I am filled with warmth and gratitude for the experience. It changed me as a person and I believe it changed me as a mother."

Writing Your Birth Story: June Online Workshop

Have you always wanted to write your child’s birth story, but are worried that too much time has passed or that you won’t be able to do it justice? Or have you simply lacked the time or focus to sit down and write it?

Procrastinate no more! In this four-week workshop, you will gather online with a small group of women and support each other in writing your birth stories. Maybe you simply want to remember and preserve the story of what happened for yourself; maybe you have lingering questions or layers of understanding that you still need to unearth and process about your experience; or maybe you want to create a polished personal essay that you can share with others. Whatever your intentions are, whatever your experience with writing is, and whether you gave birth five months or five years ago, this workshop is for you!

First we will read about and discuss the process of writing, and more specifically how this applies to the process of writing your birth story. Then we will free-write from prompts about our birthing experiences to help us stir up our memories and explore the different layers, themes, and questions that may reside within our stories. By week three, you will have written and submitted a draft of your birth story to the group. Anne will respond with extensive feedback for each person, asking questions and providing suggestions for ways in which you could further explore your story if you should so choose. Workshop participants will also be required to read and respond to at least one other woman’s birth story, following Anne's guidelines for ways to give respectful and constructive feedback.

By the end of our time together, you will have: written and received feedback on a draft of your birth story; gained insight into stages of the writing process from free-writing to revision; and emerged with a deeper understanding of your birthing experience’s significance to you. 

DETAILS:

When: Sunday, June 3^rd – Sunday, July 1^st, 2012.

Cost: $120 Sliding scale available- please inquire.

To Register: Please email Anne at: alkellor@gmail.com and confirm how you would like to pay. (Personal check, cash, or Paypal.) Receipt of payment necessary to hold your spot.

Format: We will use googlegroups to post our documents and manage our discussion threads. Group size will range from 3 – 6 women.

Questions: Please don’t hesitate to ask! Email Anne: alkellor@gmail.com


Here's what one mother had to say about working with Anne on her birth story:

"I knew early on that I wanted to write the story of my birth. I wanted it for myself, for my daughter and to connect with expecting moms who might face a similar experience in their pregnancy and birth. Writing gave me a way to process the disconnects of my journey and create a fluid, seamless understanding of my experience. It gave me closure and at the same time opened a whole new world of possibilities.

Working with Anne was a tremendous gift. She skillfully stepped into one of the most intimate moments of my life and held it with tenderness and integrity. Anne's insight offered me the opportunity to try on new perspectives that I may not have seen without her help. She was a sounding board - a mirror to reflect my own thoughts, feelings and words so I could go deeper. Even now, years later, I am filled with warmth and gratitude for the experience. It changed me as a person and I believe it changed me as a mother." - Stacy Hirsch

Unsure whether you want to write your birth story, or what kind of story you might have to tell? Check out my old blog post that reflects on how many different versions of one person's birth story exist. So much depends on when we tell our story (how much distance and perspective we have); how we tell it (what aspect of the story might we choose to focus on), and what our intentions are for telling it (What is our ultimate purpose here? Who is our audience? What do we seek to understand?).

Bleh-brain, Toddler Whining, and Poop

I'm having one of those 'mom aspiring to still be a writer' moments where I have a limited amount of time to tackle one of several writing projects (one of which is updating this blog); I'm hungry, tired, need to prep dinner, and have a ton of other little things I could do (Internet, networky, business-like things that I often don't feel like doing when I collapse on the sofa at the end of the night). 

1.5 hours of my break has already gone by, and all I've done is: stuff potato chips and cheese-its (or the organic natural version anyway) down my throat, make two cups of green tea (and still feeling sleepy), send out a couple posts about my upcoming workshop (please, register, you know you want to, I'll make it cheaper, please?), flit about on the PEPS leader site searching for appropriate resources for my group, stare at the fragments of a new piece I have brewing, and type out a frazzled "what to do free-write" before wandering to the bathroom to trim my nails. 

I'm narrowing in on only having an hour left. I don't think I have it in me to tackle that piece-- it feels too big, too important, too much requiring a certain energetic space to go there, a space that I cannot go to if I know I'll have to leave it again soon (I know, this is the excuse that all people use when they are time-crunched, and I know it IS possible to just CUT THROUGH and begin writing anyway, but every so often we are allowed to indulge in this excuse and just say, frack it, not today). 

I contemplated just giving up on all things "productive" and going to have some "fun" in this last hour alone before picking up my son, but then I asked myself, what would I do? For me, especially these days, "fun" means writing for the blog or doing something that feels worthy of giving my precious break to. "Wasting time" does not sound like fun to me. I would read a book if I had one I was really into, but I don't, so even that feels like a diversion and not an activity that will bring waves of indulgent pleasure. And so... I decided that I WOULD just sit down and blog, never-mind that I don't have an all-important TOPIC that I'm dieing to write about, never-mind that I might bore you (sorry), because when it comes down to it, it's been too long since I've written here, and ultimately, it is me I need to keep this here blog up for, profound and greatly-read entry or NOT.

Some of the more involved topics that I've considered writing about lately (but that I don't have the energy or will for now) include: still breastfeeding Cedar, who is nearing age two; watching Cedar grow into a boy, the subtle yet profound shifts that surprise and delight me each day, but also give me a tinge of sadness as I realize how fast it will go; and writing about this awesome writing workshop I attended last weekend that helped me remember and tap into the power of metaphor.  

For some reason, it's still really hard for me to just sit down and blog a few paragraphs. I guess I am just that kind of wordy writer. Or else I still fear that if I post something random and not super meaningful to me, that some person will only read that post and judge my writing as that. Bleh. I'm considering whether this current bleh-fest is even gonna make it to the Internet as it is.

Do I have ANYTHING profound to say today? My son is teething and has been keeping me awake more (again) than usual. He has been especially into his "milk". I still love breastfeeding him, but I have to say, the whiny-tired-toddler voice demanding his milk is not the part I enjoy. Actually, I've been pointing out to him lately what it means to "whine." "Are you whining?" I'll ask him when he gets that eh-eh-eh thing going. He knows what this means now, so it will stop him and he will get this sly smile. "Can mama whine too?" I tease. "Eh eh eh!" I copy him. He grins. "Now, can Cedar whine?" And he whines some more, this time our private joke. I'm trying to teach him to "use his words", in preschool speak. And he's getting it, and getting more and more words to actually use all the time. Like he can say, "Help." (But of course, usually says it in that whiny voice). And so I'm teaching him to say, "Please", simply because it sounds better to the ear, and it's a part of our cultural lexicon that he should know if he doesn't want to annoy people, but that said, it still strikes me as kind of meaningless at this point. It's just teaching him an extra sound or syllable to latch on the end of his demands. I suppose that eventually he'll understand that it is what is expected of him, and that it can help him get his way, but it won't necessarily teach him to feel more respectful or polite. 

Anyway, we're just introducing certain concepts now that we'll be able to better explain and make more meaningful later when he can be that much more aware of emotions-- his own, and other peoples.  We are also paving the way for potty training, which I'm not in a hurry to do, but now that he is more aware that he is pooping when he is pooping, and now that he can actually squeeze out a fart on demand (and laugh with us afterward; family fart humor preparation is already well-established), we figure it's a good time to start talking to him about what is happening, and what will eventually happen when he gets to go on a potty, too. 

Step one: actually show him his poop. I avoided doing this up until now, because I feared it might lead to an inconvenient curiosity with looking at (or even touching?) his poop. Better to not let him see the strange globs that come out of him, or to know what we are wiping from him every day? Well, up until now, I figured so much. But now I have shown him, and now every time he wants to "See? See?" And I hold up the poopy diaper to show him, and he smiles and says, "Cedee..." his name for himself. Proudly, as if to say, yup, that's my poop!

Speaking of poop, at the writing workshop I went to last weekend, I was supposed to write a metaphor about how I was feeling that day, and I picked the color yellow, more for it's feeling of optimism and energy than anything. I did NOT expect to then start writing about poop, mustard yellow breastfed baby poop to be exact, and to consider how this might be an even more apt metaphor for my day, or some part of my life. I'll let your imaginations run wild here... but let me just say that I still see it as a positive metaphor and not a dank, yucky, stinky one, for as mothers of newborns can testify-- breastmilk poop does not hardly smell at all, relatively speaking. But I'll stop here, since I'm not in the mood to go too deep into any one topic here for now, it seems. You'll just have to wait till next time, perhaps, to read my full-on poop metaphor.

And now, the cat is demanding to be fed. I have half an hour left, so I guess I'll go please my family and prep dinner. Till next time, dear readers, bear with me.

Mother, Uninterrupted: A List of Things I Want to Do During My First Weekend Alone Since Giving Birth

My weekend alone has officially begun. Cedar and his baba are off to stay with Grandma in Olympia, and I have the good part of two days and one night to do ANYTHING I WANT. UNINTERRUPTED. Without a ticking clock at my back counting down the minutes until I will need to be on duty again (at least not yet, anyway). And so what WILL I do exactly? The choices are abundant. I know I will not get to do everything on my list, but I will be satisfied if I manage to accomplish a key few. Here are the possibilities:

1. Clean. Okay, this obviously should not belong on this list, much less be at the very top, but it must be mentioned (especially since it is the first thing I proceeded to do once they walked out the door). I did the dishes, wiped down the counters, took out the garbage, swept the kitchen floor, picked up clothes, put away toys, wiped off the dining room table, organized some mail, and made the bed. All in a normal day’s work. It only took me 45 minutes probably. And worth every minute. I cannot relax, much less settle into a weekend of writing and personal indulgence in the midst of a messy house. I am not a perfectionist (there are layers of grime beneath all my surface cleaning), but I DO enjoy uncluttered surfaces. And the beauty in this cleaning session today is that: IT WILL NOT IMMEDIATELY GET MESSY AGAIN. For the rest of the weekend, I will only need to pick up after myself—and since I am generally a fairly neat person and do not throw my food nor dirty underwear (well, okay, sometimes underwear) on the floor, that means that I will not need to clean again for two days.
2.  Halfway into my cleaning session, I turned on some music. Angus and Julia Stone is my most recent beloved discovery. I will continue to remember to listen to music all weekend long, and really listen, not just have it on in the background in short bursts and starts.
3. I WILL WRITE. This requires the use of capitals, for it is the most important goal on my list. I will write this short blog post, and then I will work on my Epilogue and Introduction and line editing for my Searching for the Heart Radical manuscript which I am slowly gaining on, inching towards completion with a capital C. And then I will plan for my Writing Motherhood workshops. Sink into the syllabus again and finalize some choices for prompts. (Although lesson planning is very different than writing, I will keep it under the same category here because it draws from the same creative energy and sustained focus of presence that my writing needs). I will attempt to do all of this in two or three good sessions. Right now, maybe tonight, and definitely for the better part of tomorrow morning and afternoon. The idea that I can actually sink in for more than 2-3 hours is absolutely delectable. I’ve gotten so used to working in short hurried bursts that I have almost forgotten what it feels like to work for an entire day (or 5-6 hours, which is about what I used to consider a “full day” of writing before the brain would burn out and need to go outside and move the body).
4. I will drink coffee. I have stopped drinking coffee again because it still gives Cedar gas, even though I seem to have forgotten this fact for several months (because I’ve needed my coffee … which leads to more gas and poor sleep… which leads to a heightened need for coffee… in an endless cycle). Well, I finally went off it again and lo and behold, Cedar’s been sleeping way better! But today, I will drink it again. And it should help my foggy brain that indulged in a bit too much wine last night, knowing I’d have the ability to sleep in today (thank you, dear husband), or even take a nap!
5. I WILL SLEEP WHENEVER I WANT, UNINTERRUPTED. This also needs the use of capitals. I have not had an undisturbed night of sleep since my early days of pregnancy. Yes. You heard me right, it’s been about two years now. And although Cedar’s night wakings are less frequent and disturbing than they used to be, I still cannot emphasize enough how crazy strange wonderful it will be to actually sleep all night long without waking (if this even happens; perhaps my body is so programmed to wake now that I still will). Yet even if I still wake, I am quite sure I will get a good night’s rest and wake with a near euphoric feeling in the morning-- whenever my body deems appropriate. (But hopefully not too late so I can still make good use of the early morning hours to write).
6. I will shower and shit, uninterrupted. Um, there is not much more that needs to be said about this. Moms, you understand.
7. I will go outside and enjoy the sunshine and our yard. Maybe rake up the last of the leaves (that are currently killing our moss), relishing in this simple, hearty chore that I used to quite enjoy, but that I don’t so much now because when it’s a choice between chores and everything else that there is never enough time for, it is hard to be all zen and enjoy chores. And it is extra nice that we happen to be having this warm, sunny weather in February! In Seattle! Right after a snow storm. Inspiring gentle feelings of mild, sweet euphoria to rise inside...
8. Perhaps I will call one of my dear friends whom I have not been able to have a proper uninterrupted conversation with in way too long. But if I don’t, I know they will understand, because enjoying my time alone is going to trump any desire to be social.
9. I will stay up as late as I want, and do whatever I want at night, and make as much noise as I want. This might look something like: an open bottle of wine, blasting music, lit candles, and me ripping out pictures from National Geographics for a collage (which probably won’t get glued down for many weeks or months, but that’s okay, because the ripping out stage is an important one, that is: simply feeling which images resonate within, right now, for whatever reason, without analyzing or discriminating. Then later, you can sift through them, weed out the weaker ones, and start to arrange them on a page. They will begin to speak to each other of their own accord; there is no need to try and influence or dictate).
10. OR, perhaps I will be tired at my usual 10 or 10:30 and decide instead to just crawl in bed with a book. Did you hear that? CRAWL IN BED WITH A BOOK. Another long abandoned primal pleasure that I have not gotten to indulge in since I was pregnant (and truly, not much since getting married since my husband used to always complain about the light). It just so happens that I’m sinking into a good love story novel right now too. Ahh… in many ways this choice feels even more sinfully delicious and subversive than the idea of drinking wine and making art.
11. I’m not sure if this time will fly by really fast (because, let’s be real, it’s only a day and a half, and truly, I deserve a week of this kind of retreat). But I suspect that because of the way I have been living—that is, in perpetual service to another, “instantly interruptible, responsive, and responsible" as Adrienne Rich once put it, and with a dogged, yet often disappointing determination to carve out for myself the basic minimum of time and space that I need to feed my soul, my passions, my mind—because of how hard I work, and how much I have sacrificed in the name of motherhood and unspeakable crazy love for my son, I suspect that I WILL ENJOY EVERY SINGLE MOMENT OF THIS TIME ALONE. That I will not be able to do otherwise, even if waves of melancholy come over me, because this gift of this weekend truly is that overdue and appreciated.
12. And as I write this now, still listening to Angus and Julia Stone, I already feel those first stirrings of tears that very likely will be released this weekend. Because tears have always been a natural part of my cycle, but since becoming a mother, I do not have the time to sink into that part of myself enough to cry, it seems. And I wager there are some tears in there that are long overdue. Tears of gratitude, tears of self-compassion, tears of reckoning, and tears of prayer.

If I allow myself the gift of crying, you can bet that I will also be crying for my baby, for my son, for my huge huge love for him, AND for my huge huge gratitude to have this time apart from him, if only so I can experience my love for him from another perspective. That is-- from the perspective of also honoring how much of myself I have offered to him, how much of myself I have poured into him, how much of myself I have let go of, re-birthed, and allowed to be molded and reshaped by this transformational experience called motherhood.

Motherhood is a blessing, and yes, it is a sacrifice. It is a hero’s journey, a path of responsibility, resilience, and passion like no other. It is hands down the hardest AND the most amazing-illuminating-rewarding thing I’ve ever done.

So here’s to motherhood, here’s to me, and here’s to ALL of the mothers out there, working their asses off and deserving a whole lot more recognition and rest than we get.

Mothers: may you keep asking for those elusive yet so deserved pockets of time and space that you NEED-- whether it be a moment to breathe at the end of the day, or your own personal weekend retreat. And everyone else: may you bow down and conspire to aid in this task. May you remember to honor your mother.