Faith, Hurricanes, and Childbirth: Taking Refuge in the Unknown

"Faith is taking refuge in the Unknown."

~Adyashanti

I listened to a podcast this morning and had to pause it when I heard this quote. Like many birth professionals, listening takes on a few different forms: personal and "how does this relate to birth." It is as if I have different ears and processing centers in my brain where everything flows through and is diverted into the appropriate sphere of importance. I am well past giving birth; my youngest is fourteen. Regardless, the diverter sends most content through both filters even when it does not seem to be birth related. 

This morning's podcast was no exception. When I heard the above quote, I couldn't help but think of the four pillars of birth as I teach about them in my childbirth classes: Love, Faith, Doubt, and Determination. For various reasons, Faith has always been one of the harder ones of these four to understand. You see, faith brings to mind religious belief or even a system of religious beliefs. As such, how does it work for those who are nonreligious or atheists? Does that pillar not apply to people who don't believe in God? On the contrary, I think it is still highly relevant. 

Which would then lead me to another definition of Faith: trust. But this too doesn't sit quite right for me. Perhaps my aversion to the word trust is based on the mantra-like phrase going around the birth community, "trust birth." To me, the idea that all you have to do to have the birth you want is to trust in it happening, misses so much. Nope, trust also didn't fulfill my need to more deeply understand Faith. 

But this Adyashanti quote moves me closer to how I feel about Faith. Let me break it down. 

Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines refuge as, "shelter or protection from danger or distress." Shelter or protection from the danger, not removal of the danger. There is a huge difference here and brings to mind my experience of living through Hurricane Iniki on Kaua'i back in 1992. During that incredibly powerful category 4 hurricane, I remember being sheltered from the storm. Several of us hunkered down in a semi-basement room in the home of a dear friend. Outside, the storm raged, RAGED, around us. We could hear it howling and whistling through cracks and crevices in the house. We could feel it in the form of water around our ankles as rain poured in through slat windows. And, we were OK. We were in the storm, but not in the way the hikers stranded on the Na Pali trail were IN it! We had shelter and protection. And it was scary, threatening, and hair-raising. We were sheltered from the hurricane, but that didn't mean the hurricane suddenly didn't exist. To be sheltered in birth does not imply the removal of all obstacles, nor does it mean the effects of the storm raging around you won't leave you up to your ankles in water.  

What does "unknown" mean? Using unknown in a noun form refers to all that we cannot understand, know, or control; it is the realm of mystery, the sacred, and the holy in all its forms. Birth fits firmly within the realm of "the unknown." Much is unknowable in labor, birth and parenthood. Control is illusory. Birth is like what my backpacking instructor taught me about Sierra Nevada weather; "the only thing predictable about mountain weather is that it is unpredictable." The unknown is not only not known, it is unknowable. Weather, like birth, is a force governed by nature and as such, is not predictable nor controllable.

I learned this first hand in that hurricane. Iniki was one hell of a storm. The roof of the house I was in did eventually blow off toward the end of the storm. Those of us sheltering in that basement room had to act resourcefully and responsively to the new situation of our shelter. After the storm passed, we turned the garage into a makeshift sleeping quarter for our motley group of hurricane riders. We didn't know everything there was to know about hurricanes before the storm made landfall. Much of what we learned we learned through experience. We became resourceful in response to our needs in the moment rather than following a specific plan...we were already blown off course. 

And we were ultimately, totally and completely OK. We had faith. We took refuge in the unknown. We found shelter in the midst of Nature. 

For many, faith is easily understood and deeply felt. It runs through their being as an ever-present thread in tapestry of their lives, be it religious, spiritual or both. For me, Adyashanti's definition of faith, brings closer another understanding of what Faith as a pillar in birth might mean. 

Faith is taking shelter within the storm of all that is unpredictable and unknowable. It is a form of trust, not that nothing unexpected will happen, but in knowing you can make it through regardless of the size of the storm.  

The protection offered by this type of faith relies upon an innate or trained knowing in our own OK-ness. Many of us charge into difficult situations with mantras like "I am strong" and "I am powerful." And yet, we often face moments when we don't feel strong or powerful. What is true of us even when we don't feel strong and powerful? Faith reminds us--even in moments when our belief in ourselves (or even God) is tested--that all is ultimately OK. 

A parent in one of my classes recently summed this concept up artistically and beautifully...

"We are okay; I am okay."

art credit: anonymous 

On This Day...Sharing Birth Stories

Fourteen years ago today I was precisely 40 weeks pregnant with our second child. Yep, it was my estimated due date. It was also the day after we had new sod go in our newly landscaped backyard. Frustrating the avid gardener in me, the landscapers did not "tamp down" the new grass, helping the roots to connect with the soil below. 

This was not acceptable and off we went to the equipment rental company...my mom, my full belly, and I. There, I rented a metal roller, the kind you fill with water and then roll it across the grass to help tamp it down and smooth out any unnecessary pockets. The men at the rental store asked if there was someone at home who would be doing this for me. To which I answered, "No, I plan to do it myself." Aghast, he asked when I was due. With cheer in my voice, I said, "Today."

Somehow that day, I did manage to get the 250+ lb roller out of my minivan and roll the grass! Thankfully, I have photographs to prove it as I can hardly believe it myself. That night, I sat exhausted in my favorite chair after putting our toddler to bed and proudly proclaimed my gratitude that I had not gone into labor. I was beat!

It's sort of funny how those things go, large proclamation to the Universe and then...yep! Our son was born just after midnight that evening.

But this is where sharing my birth story (in this manner at least) ends. What happened between that proclamation of exhaustion and our baby's arrival just after midnight is sacred, special, and remarkably, transformatively, intimate. How might I communicate just what happened that night and all that occurred inside my soul during those hours? To do so would be to invite you into a part of my being I share with only a few of my most beloveds. Birth, to me, is a lot like your most transformative and intimate sexual experiences. Not that birth is sexual itself (although it can be). Rather, I mean this is in terms of who I let in, with whom I share these moments, their profound sacredness and in how inconceivably difficult they are to translate in ways that allow others to enter the moment with me.

And so for me I share the story of tamping the grass, I share the story of our older son meeting our new baby for the first time, I share the humor of his being born just a few minutes "late," but what occurred within those bookends, those moments are for me, my family, and our intimate circle with whom we carefully and selectively choose to share them.

Few hold the strict stance on sharing their birth stories that I have, nor do they need to. 

Each birthing person gets to decide for themselves how they share or don't share their unique story. 

It is, after all, theirs to do with as they please!

I have found that new parents who share their stories in thoughtfully selected, supportive and even therapeutic environments, often find that the act of telling their story supports them on the path of healing and integration. Therapeutic and healing story-sharing is most effective when there is little to no concern for how the story will be received. In other words, helpful birth story sharing thrives where the values of acceptance, non-judgment, and empathy are foundational. 

As a birth professional,  I apply a "do not share" standard to how I hold the stories of births I attend. I may reveal a snippet of a birth story in my teaching or writing, always with a specific learning objective and without any names or features that could be identifiable. I have my intimate group of trusted colleagues where I can go to process my experience, what happened, what I did and didn't do, where I felt strong or powerless, where I wish I'd done things differently, what I can learn and grow, and where I shone brightly in my personal genius (that we each have). Birth is powerful. We all need sacred circles within which we can be witnessed, but that is far different from processing publicly on social media.

I am on call to doula for a birth as I type this. This mother's estimated due date was yesterday. It is no wonder that I reflect upon my own labor 14 years ago as I await the call that could come at any moment. The phone will ring and I will drop everything to support a couple as they step across the threshold that will transform them from couple to family. 

If I am fortunate enough to be there to share in this experience, I will hold it as a profound gift, a shared intimacy, a few moments of magic woven together in a unique and privately shared rite of passage.  As such, the story of their birth will be theirs alone to share if, when, and how they desire. 

Things Don't Always Go as Planned

For the last three months I have been eagerly awaiting June 4th, the day I would get to welcome a group of birth worker sisters to my workshop space and home for a sisterhood retreat and sleepover. Together and individually we prepared for our time together: gathered necessary items, planned our time, prepared the space, bought and prepared nourishing and less nourishing food items to help us get through and celebrate this time together, made plans with our families for our time away from them, and journeyed from our homes to the location where this much anticipated event would occur. We gathered together in Topanga Canyon on Saturday morning with smiles and excited anticipation of our time together.

Everything was in place, just as we expected. Well, almost.

We got a note a week or so before our event from one of our sisters letting us know that she could no longer join us due to a health issue. Then another emailed the night before that she too could not join us as it just wouldn't work with her new family and another mama couldn't swing it along with a recent move and recovery from having sick kids. The morning of our special weekend, another mama emailed she just couldn't do it with everything else happening in her life. From 13, we were down to 9.

The 9 of us there, gathered, joined together, dropped in, and readied ourselves for our much anticipated retreat. Collectively, we created an altar and shared our intentions, moved our bodies, grounded on the land, and embraced the energy of sisterhood. This was going to be just as we intended! AMAZING!

Our collectively created schedule of events included movement, rebozo work, discussion/exploration of archetypes, fire circle ritual and singing, belly binding, and an overview of my dissertation (per request of the group). These were our scheduled modules. We also had many open times for swimming, talking, eating and the chance to share a glass of wine together in person rather than via social media, the thought of which inspired the weekend to begin with! You might say, we had a two page, carefully constructed, birth plan for our weekend.

And, as is often the case, the Universe had other plans.

At about 4:30 on Saturday, in the midst of our discussion about archetypes, my neighbor burst into our space with the announcement that there was a fire.

Did I mention we were in Topanga?

We stepped outside the bubble of our workshop womb to see a large billow of smoke rising across the ridge in front of us. Living in a dry chaparral environment known for its flammability, fire is both familiar and terrifying.

And did I mention we were a group of BIRTH workers gathered together for this event...women both skilled and experienced in managing high stress situations with unpredictable outcomes?

Yeah. That's who walked out and faced this unwished for addition to our highly anticipated birth...I mean retreat.

The next hour was spent educating ourselves on the severity of this unwished for situation. What do we know? Where is it? What are the current concerns? What if we wait an hour? Are there other things we could try first? How are we feeling about this situation? What does my/our intuition say to do or not do?

Knowing what I know about fire, Topanga, and emergency services and access to information in times such as these, I tag-teamed my phone and computer, put on the TV and gathered my neighbors who had lost internet access when the fire began (they have a different service provider than I do). We set up command central in my living room and waited.

The birth workers also waited, as they are so good at doing. They went on with the afternoon knowing at any moment the next best thing to do might be to pack up and leave, but for now, we did not need to pull the plug entirely, rather simply adjust. Like in birth, time would give us more information and more experience with which to guide our next move.

Like we often have to do in labor, I gave myself a comfortable boundary within which to relax and wait: if any area in Topanga was put on mandatory evacuation orders or my area was given voluntary evacuation orders, we would call the retreat complete. No one wanted to. We had done so MUCH to get HERE to this moment. Our dreams and expectations were grand! In none of them did a major fire event enter the fantasy.

Time passed. The retreat group swam in the pool and enjoyed each other's company, with their stuff packed in case it became time to go. I stayed active in my living room command center. The moment came. A few fire zones near mine were ordered to evacuate.

I pulled the plug.

It was no longer time to wait or to look for alternatives. The time had come for greater action. As the sun began to set, we closed our retreat, not with the ceremony planned for the next day, but with a certain amount of haste and motion. We gathered for a group photo on the deck overlooking the smoke plume and said goodbye.

We had to walk our talk. We had to practice doing the next best thing. We had to walk our labyrinth of excitement turned disappointment not as a metaphor, but as real life. Yes, it was "just" a retreat, but the excitement and disappointment was no less real. We got to practice holding both emotions tenderly within our hands and hearts.

The doulas left and my shit got very very real. The letting go intensified as I went around my home looking for things I couldn't live without...treasures, photos, heirlooms and what I could leave to potentially burn...what to hold onto and what to release, even reluctantly.

Ash from the fire on the back windshield of my car. 

I had to help my teenage sons do the same. Boys who have lived in the same place their entire lives, young men who have gathered treasures and crap that now fills their shelves and some of which touches their hearts deeply. They too had to decided what to take and what to leave with the possibility, albeit unlikely but felt no less real, of never seeing any of it again.
My husband came home and we loaded our cars with boxes of photos we've been meaning to digitize for the last several years and other important items. Left behind were some surprises: my doll collection from my childhood, my box of high school mementos, my wedding dress. It was an exercise in forced clarity.

As we drove away after our Topanga zone was put on "voluntary evacuation" orders (a decision we made to role model being conservative in terms of safety and to support our emergency responders in making a tough situation as easy as possible for them). We had everything that mattered...our pets, our photos, a few special treasures, some heirlooms, and each other.

Oh, and at the last minute, my son grabbed a few chocolate bars left by my birth worker sisters intended for our retreat, and now soul food for retreating evacuees.

Things don't always go as expected. We plan, we prepare, we organize, we ready ourselves and others for the big event. AND then, we have to let go, practice being with what is, showing up for the moment, surrendering what needs to be surrendered, doing the next best thing, mourning the loss of what we had held with such excitement, and gathering clarity about what really matters.

Mentoring works both ways

Last night was class #6. That's the grand finale, filled with lots of great experiences to send the parents off ready for the adventure of childbirth and new parenthood. I've been doing this a long time, almost 13 years now, and you could say that for the most part I can push the play button on many processes and they spew forth, more or less, pretty well.

Of course it is my desire to be the "empty cup" ready to respond to whatever presents itself, to be open to the unexpected, and curious about what each individual brings on that particular evening. I'm certainly not perfect and I can unconsciously slip into rote mode. Rote in a Birthing From Within class is far from boring or dull. The only one who really knows I'm on rote is me. The hardest class to do in a rote manner is the last class as it demands a lot.

Which brings me back to last night. I had a pretty good idea what I'd do for our final class as I have a more or less favorite way to end a series. We had a few things to finish up...we had to get Inanna off the "hook" for one and initiating a group of Birth Warriors is almost a must do for me in class 6. But what turned the whole plan on its head was the entrance of one of the couples WITH their newborn!

They hadn't told any of us that they had given birth since class 5 and walked into class with their beautiful new baby. We were all stunned, floored, excited, and wowed! It was fun, but also posed a difficult challenge in terms of holding the space. If I stayed on rote mode, the excitement of the expectant parents and the joy of the new parents would be like a large wave ready to sweep the beach of all it's magical castles. The potential to spiral down into a recounting of the birth story play by play, was very high. We all wanted to hear it, but I am also not a fan of play by play birth stories.

I want to hear about deeper things, like how they were transformed, what awed them about themselves and each other, what surprised them, how he coped and what he did when he couldn't take away her pain, and what she did when she didn't think she could go on. To me, these questions teach, these explorations mentor, these sharings inspire the wide-eyed parents facing the unknown better than any play by play. I had none of them planned. I had no idea that the first hour of class would be spent simultaneously mentoring brand new parents as they navigate the first days postpartum and making sure that doing so (in the public forum of the final class of a childbirth preparation series) deepened the true preparation of the yet-to-birth parents. You could say, I was on the edge of my backjack the whole time. Rote...that flew out the window.

I LOVE when that happens and it is one of the reasons why I'm still mentoring classes now that my own children are nearly grown and long after my interest in birth has lost its initial glow. Not only does this work stretch and deepen the parents and their readiness for the rite of passage of birth...but this work helps me grow...it takes me to my edges, forces me to be fresh and to continually open. This is work as spiritual practice. It is deeply humbling and challenging. For both I am profoundly grateful. It was a very fun class!

The Labor of Dissertation Writing

It seems fitting to be writing my dissertation on birth. Yes, I’ve been working in the field of childbirth in one way or another since 1999, but that’s not to what I’m referring. No, this is far more metaphorical in nature. In fact, there is no single metaphor more fitting for the journey of dissertation writing than labor and hopefully, although I am far from that part of the experience, birth as well.

For the last several years I have been in sweet anticipation of this part of my graduate school process. You might say the three years of course work were a bit like the early years of marriage, some hard work, but a lot of growth and pleasure in the journey too. Those years were in preparation for this, the dissertation.

Like all good mothers, I took the prep course and learned all about the process, learned that it may not go exactly as I expected, that it might have difficult moments and how exciting it would be to have the end result, a new baby, I mean, new book-like-dissertation-thingy to ooh and ahh over and feel an overwhelming amount of pride…that and a whole new identity too. When a woman has a baby for the first time she gets the new moniker of Mother. With the birth of a dissertation the student becomes Doctor.

I guess all journeys that transform from one state of being to another; those intense enough to earn one a new title, are earned through trials. Like birth, dissertation writing seems to allow no short cuts. Yes, I have a woman from my cohort who seemed to have had the shortest labor on Earth and birthed a dissertation in only a few short months. She made it look easy, not unlike some of those birth stories heard when pregnant, the stories of a woman who birthed a ten pound baby in less than three hours with little to no pain. That, I think, is the dissertation labor I wanted!

And like birth, I didn’t get to decide what my dissertation process would be. I could pray, hope, pull tarot cards, wish, and dream and still, I would only get the journey that would be mine and only mine.

In labor (when it goes by the books that is), the early part is often the slowest. We’ve been taught that labor progress is measured in cervical dilation. Women go into labor and can feel contractions for hours, even days, before her cervix dilates at all. She can become fixated on the numbers. So too in dissertation writing have I become fixated on numbers, not dilation, but pages written. Like a laboring woman knows she needs to get to ten centimeters to be “complete” so too do I know that when I’m “complete” it will be in the 200 page range. Looking from here to there can cause a strong case of “labor math!”

My dissertation clock started last September. That means I’ve been “writing” for almost six of my 24-month prescribed period of labor. If it has taken me six months to only become 1 centimeter dilated, then how on earth will I ever make it to complete? This is the dilemma of labor math. One plus one does not equal two in labor nor in dissertation writing. I am hoping the early part of dissertation writing, the part from beginning of the clock starting to strong active writing where the flow comes and comes with little stalling and pages flow in creative zest, that that part, is a lot like early labor, the part of labor from the very beginning to active labor where things are moving along and difficult to stop or stall. For many women, it is a practice of patience to maneuver through early labor. It can feel incredibly difficult, challenging, painful, and imaging how it could possibly get more intense or last longer than it already has, is daunting. That’s where I am in my labor, this birth of a dissertation. Currently, I’m thinking some augmentation may be in order!

I am reminded of the “Four Pillars of Birth” as taught to me by one of my teachers. These are the four characteristics required for birth: Love, Doubt, Determination and Faith…together they hold up the structure of labor, each is a necessary part of the process. It is love that got me going along this path in the first place, love of the field of study (mythology and psychology), love of the topic unique to my dissertation, and love of the process of discovery both in the writing and in myself.

It is now doubt’s turn to show itself and it has come fully dressed to the party! If it were like labor, then it is time to rouse the sleeping forms of determination and faith. Which comes first is a mystery and unique to each labor. For some, determination is birthed simply by the arrival of doubt. Usually this would be me. My nickname as a baby was “Britta the Bulldozer” and one I earned, I hear, for my determination of spirit. But this time around determination is getting me to the desk and seated at the computer with few results.

It may be time to enlist faith. What does faith look like on this journey, today, now, on the labor road of dissertation writing? Maybe it’s faith in myself, faith in the process, faith in the rightness of the time it is taking thus far, faith in my doing this at all, and most significantly, faith that I can do this and ultimately will succeed.

I wrote on Facebook several weeks or even months ago that I felt better equipped to write a dissertation on how writing a dissertation is just like labor than I was to actually write the dissertation for which I have set out to write. This still feels true.

The work I have done thus far has been difficult to measure. I have few pages written to show my dilation and yet, I have been in labor for days already! Perhaps what I need to remember is that some of the work of labor is difficult to measure. Dilation (i.e. pages) is not the only quantifier. What about effacement? What about the baby engaging in the pelvis and dropping? What about the entirely amorphous psychological work that allows the whole process to ignite?

Yes, dissertation writing is a lot like giving birth. And, like those often-difficult moments of early labor there is not much to do, but keep on. You can augment labor with a bit of walking, nipple stimulation, herbs, sex or drugs, but until it is really necessary to do so, the best thing is to stay in the moment, “breathe, feel the earth and do nothing extra” (a favorite quote from my childbirth mentor, Pam England).

That’s where I’m am today, muddled with doubt, looking for faith and determination to show up and help get this labor started in earnest and most importantly, remembering all that I know about how labor works. I think I need a doula!

I’ve supported lots of women in labor and taught hundreds, if not thousands, more. If I remember to enact this metaphor, then this too is familiar territory. I’ve seen it. I’ve experienced it. I’ve known it. I’ve lived it.

One breath, one moment, be here, right here, now.

That is enough.