The day the red hen became broody was the day I thought I might be pregnant. Two sisters in earth’s garden creating life under the light of the full buck moon. My red moon baby, my spinmother child. Her light illuminated and withdrew, I did not bleed. There had been many messages through the women around me for months beforehand, women who were sensitive to spirits. The messages were saying the same thing - “I am coming, mama. I know my name. This time, instead of reading lines you must count the moons, like all the women who came before you.”
I have two older children and I cooked the roast that day while imagining what it might be like with a baby. Remember, I told myself sternly. You have it easy now. At first they are in the sling, close to your heart. When they are older they can sit in the high chair and play with the wooden spoons and you will pray they don’t get fed up before you are done. I shared with my husband my inner experience and he said “yes, but I’ll be there to help too.”
It was then that I realised I was talking like a general preparing his troops for war, because everything I know about motherhood I learned in the trenches. “Nobody is coming” was my inner monologue in those days. “Nobody is coming and that’s okay”. Because it has to be. I pay for those years now of course, with chronic symptoms that flare and vitality that needs to be carefully distributed.
I spent the next day with a secret smile on my face and with cries of joy saw that after the heavy rains had come the meadowsweet. “Meadowsweet, likes wet feet” I sang like a mantra on my way back from the postbox. Last year the meadowsweet had stirred and held me through all the conflicting feelings of becoming a bride, and this year it was midwifing the fear and hope of new life. Or was it the fear of my own calling that was becoming louder every day and harder to ignore? Plants were the first doulas, everything else came after.
In my heart, I know what seeds I am planting in the womb. I know the intentions I am nurturing. Maybe the sun was too bright that day, I thought that maybe my body was already tired from a little growing life, my head began to pound and I was so worried the pain heralded bleeding.
Meadowsweet with its scent like almonds and honey, the holy herb of St Hildegard of Bingen. Modern headache tablets are white and bitter from trying to isolate and synthesise the one ingredient to alleviate pain. Meadowsweet shows us that our sweetness lies in our complexity, our holiness is in our wholeness, any attempt to reduce our magic to one ingredient will leave a sour taste indeed. The removal of our pain will never be instantaneous and is never the ultimate goal, but we can ease it with the gifts that our mother provides, can allow the plants to soften us into it. Then we can share it with the world as our own unique medicine. Not synthesised, but raw and real.
We are women in labour, birthing our creations into the world. Where are we afraid to surrender and release? Where are we afraid to dip our toes incase we get wet feet?
I wish sometimes my past wasn’t so complex. I wish my journey as a mother had been less dark. Life, like radical innocence, bursts from the riverbanks in a white froth of meadowsweet. Like the crashing of the waves on the shore, renewing and washing away anything that is not love.
Migraines take you to another dimension, a plunge into the shadow world, every time a small death. The pain persisted. My fingers began to crack. I shivered, cold in my bones. I knew, like women always know. The hen deserted her eggs and my husband gathered them for us to eat. They call it phantom brooding, a practice for the real thing. Six days after expected, as I drummed for a woman on the other side of the world and initiated her into her womb healing path, the gates of my womb opened.
I remain, as ever, a servant of the mystery.
And so it is.
