Two: 10.26.2013

The second time I encountered birth I was two years old. That year, my sister wedged her way into the world while I was hushed and entertained by a familiar woman, but I don't remember. The third time, the sounds scared me and the baby was slick and sloppy, covered in mucus: I was sure there was something wrong with her. I was nine years old, and she was my parents' third girl.

I had already made plans with my best friend: we were to be herbalists and midwives together. But those schemes faded when we moved cross country and my relationship with her ended rather abruptly (putting pen to paper wasn't my thing yet.) In my teens and early twenties I forgot about wombs and motherwort as I made room for more sensible dreams like building a house and becoming a cardiologist or writer.

It's been two years since I could really call myself in my "early twenties." Plans come and go, and certain things stay the same: the creation of family moves to the forefront. I had forgotten of my herbal-midwifery dreams until a few months ago, when my feed started to fill with news of birth and breastfeeding and babies. A gift of a midwifery magazine broke me open and the warm fluid of possibility washed over me. I am moving towards my thirties more swiftly than the Canada geese flying towards Georgia and I can do anything. The braxton hicks of this remembered passion startled me again and again - should I consider midwifery school, become a doula, attend a birth as an adult first? Should I consider nurse-midwifery? What if I doula'd in a prison, coaching and advocating for soft births for incarcerated women and families?

As I prepare my body for a pregnancy (don't start knitting, y'all: I'm still years out), my heart slowly builds the tissues and ribs of a career to be birthed someday. A sweet career, all slick and slippery and covered in mucous, with all kinds of heartache and muscle spasms, and surrounded by familiar faces.

Two 10.24.2013

1979

I was born on the first day of spring. In Plattsburgh, NY, though, it is only spring by definition.

1981

I was walking, talking, and asserting my independence with a voracious use of “no”. This is a phase I never grew out of.

1983

I went to preschool in the Philippines. After lunch, we all held hands and sang “It's a Small World” in a courtyard lined with banana trees.

1985

I learned to snap my fingers. My teacher taught me to lick them for maximum pop.

1987

By the time I was 8, my dad had re-married and I had gained a little sister. We spent the entire summer riding our bikes in the blistering Alabama heat and eating Otter Pops for lunch.

1989

Every Wednesday after school, I walked 5 blocks out of my way to lurk the library book sale. I never had money to buy, but my heart raced thinking about the smell of the musty stacks of Reader's Digests.

1991

A pregnant doe was hit by a car outside my house shortly before Thanksgiving. I never ate meat again.

1993

I fell in love for the first time with my neighbor's cousin. We almost kissed once... then the phone rang.

1995

Friendships, photography, and music. These are the reasons I survived high school.

1997

The night before graduation, as I headed out the door to a Converge show, my mom said “don't come home with a black eye!”. So, I came home with two.

1999

I spent the last months of the year preparing for the imminent apocalypse. I still have a sub-zero sleeping bag tucked away in my closet.

2001

My brother and I broke the lease on our Madison Ave apartment, gave away everything we owned, and hitchhiked south. I have never been more rich than those months when I had nothing.

2003

I volunteered as an escort at an abortion clinic, trying my best to create a sense of safety amidst the chaos of Bible Belt protesters. That same year, Paul Hill was executed in Florida for murdering a doctor at that clinic.

2005

When Pippi came into my life, I wasn't looking for a cat. So, naturally, we became inseparable.

2007

I skipped my high school reunion to eat pizza and watch movies in my underwear. No regrets.

2009

I let my guard down enough to fall in love with someone who lived on the other side of the country; a kind of love that was intoxicating and decadent. Then my heart got obliterated.

2011

Extreme workplace violence and a devastating hurricane tagged-teamed to punch my town in the gut. I used these tragedies as a catalyst to get the hell out of there.

2013

When this year began, I was overwhelmed with the fear of not having it all figured out. As this year ends, it's the only thing that comforts me.

Two: 10.22.2013

One, two.....

I focused on my breathing. Slowly in, slowly out. If I could control that, hopefully my mind would follow.

Three, four....

Counting sometimes calmed me. The rhythmic sound of the numbers. Up to ten and back to one. Divert my attention away from my racing pulse.

Five, six....

I wouldn't always feel this way. It would pass, leaving my body as quickly as it began. This is temporary, this is harmless.

Seven, eight....

Another wave hit me. Washing over me and making it hard to take a breath.

Nine, ten....

Breathe. I should breathe. In slowly, hold, release. If I could control that hopefully my heart would follow.

Ten, nine....

I didn't know how much more I could take. Fear was starting to take a stronger hold than I could fight off.

Eight, seven....

I closed my eyes and silently begged. I begged for strength, serenity. I begged for this to pass, to feel normal again.

Six, five....

How much longer could my body sustain this state? I was exhausted and shaky.

Four, three....

I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. I diverted my attention away from my head and into my feet. Slowly feeling every ounce of my body starting to relax.

Two, one....

I focused on my breathing. Slowly in, slowly out. If I could control that, hopefully my mind would follow.

Two: 10.21.13

Twice

Twice in my life

I have been in shock

and carried myself home.

The first after a collision

on a back road in Guatemala—

the mirror in the bathroom

held the familiar blue of tiles,

my eyes, my shirt; the stain

dried brown over my left breast;

the blood on my arms

not

my own.

The second came

after she told me

what he did

to the red-haired girl.

We sat on the bed cross-legged, empty

tea mugs bracing open

the arrowhead space

between our thighs and calves.

“There's something I need

to tell you,” she grabbed my hand,

pressed it to her sternum—

our heartbeats, suddenly wild, collided

at the crux of my elbow,

“it's about your ex.”

I believed her

account, passed down

from the girl who lived

it

only months before.

the blood

not

my own.

*This piece has previously appeared in Issue 2 of Broad! Magazine

Two: 10.20.2013

For pairs
And for pairings

Of care
And for caring

To share
And of sharing

To endear
And be endearing

To be fair,
Continue faring

To be there
And be bearing.

But for me
And for you

(My one plus
Your one)

We are One
Made from Two.