Luna, now almost 3, has been talking about Otto a lot lately. She sees his picture. She knows that her baby sister was just in my belly, and that she grew, and we were so excited to see her, and then she came out.
And she sees Otto's picture, and says, "I can't WAIT to meet Otto!" I don't know her mind, but I guess she is thinking that he is the next baby that will join our family. I don't want to tell her that he was already here, and that he is not coming back. Because I want him to come back too. And I like the thought she is thinking. Part of me, deep in my consciousness still goes, "well, maybe..."
She will include him sometimes in a list of the family with fun things she wants to do, like going to the park or the zoo to see the Heffalumps. She'll say, "and mommy will go, and daddy will go, and Zoe will go and Otto will go!" She knows how we love him, she sees it in how we talk, in pictures of him. And I love her inclusion of him, because that is always how it feels to me. I have three children. And one of them is a boy.
I've told her that Otto died, and that he is in heaven, and that he loves her, and is always with her. And I wish I knew what all of that means. But the words are a way to start. The words "died" and "heaven" are still strange for me too. I say them and let my consciousness bleed out like watercolor on paper, reaching out toward a meaning slowly, slowly, waiting for one. She doesn't know what those words mean either. But maybe she knows more than I do.
Today was the real heart stopper.
She said, "Soon, Otto will come out and see us. But right now he is in heaven, in your belly."
I'm not pregnant and don't mean to be pregnant. But the thought that heaven includes my womb, includes my deepest, sweetest connection with him, includes even he cord that brought his nourishment and probably his death, is so heart-filling. Because sometimes it feels like, when he left, he became again this beautiful spirit, and that in that transition my mothering him doesn't matter as much. People all say he was a big soul, he IS a big soul, and without his little body anymore, is he still my Otto?
This vision of the womb, of my baby in heaven, in that deep, dark mothering space of the universe, deeper even, softer than the universe, and that maybe my womb is carrying part of that space right here, and that Otto will always be fed from that, always be loved by me, by this mother, in that space, is so wonderful.
After hearing Luna say that, and when both girls were napping today, I looked at his beautiful picture, while resting on the couch, and his face looked so peaceful, even almost smiling. It doesn't always affect me that way. But today it did. And I will take that as a YES. He is mine, he is here, and he is in the center of all love.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Three Children
My darling ones.
I want to love each of them as though they were my only.
Have all of my time and heart for them alone.
And yet that is not how it works! And I suppose that is what a family is. I want to hold baby Zoë and smell her cheeks, feel their firm, milky fatness as I kiss into them, stare at her, talk to her, hear her talking back, make her laugh, show her things, walk her around, just be with her all day. Know her completely.
And I want to hold Luna all day, hold her hand, walk with her, run with her, read her all the stories she wants, make her favorite foods, hear all of her songs and all of her ideas, get her dressed and brush her hair, love her, be there for her, never say "not right now."
I want to know my Otto, I want to help him grow up, I want to talk to him in the sky, lay on the grass and look up at the birds flying over our little patch of land, watch the sun light the top of the trees, wait for hummingbirds, cry and think and let my mind be still as I watch the sky change, hear the crickets come, see the stars, and feel how deeply they go into the universe.
My heart grows bigger with each child, more and more love comes in, but time doesn't expand and I don't have all my time for each of them. And It's training for life. They will never have every need met, and we need to learn how to deal with that. But they know they are loved. They know we are trying!
I heard a good line in a movie last night and I want to try to remember it. From the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. It went something like this: " the only failure is the failure to try. And success is measured by how well you take disappointment."
This seemed right to me. And inspiring. My beautiful love, Otto, left and it broke our hearts. And we are not the only ones to have such a huge loss. All over the world, people grieve such dear things. To have disappointment and to still love, is such a key thing in life. To have disappointment but not give up on everything. Especially myself.
I feel so lucky, in some glowing moments, to feel so much love. I will be nursing Zoë in the rocker, and hearing Luna reading her books in her room, and looking at Otto's picture on the window sill and hear Ryan in the kitchen washing up, and feel so full. In the small messy house and the old kitchen, who cares? If you have all the nicest cabinets in the world, but have not love...
I am learning to love all of them in the 24 hours we get, and to soak up all my moments and to know that they will only be little for a short while, and we will always look back on these crazy, tired times with aching to have them again.
I want to love each of them as though they were my only.
Have all of my time and heart for them alone.
And yet that is not how it works! And I suppose that is what a family is. I want to hold baby Zoë and smell her cheeks, feel their firm, milky fatness as I kiss into them, stare at her, talk to her, hear her talking back, make her laugh, show her things, walk her around, just be with her all day. Know her completely.
And I want to hold Luna all day, hold her hand, walk with her, run with her, read her all the stories she wants, make her favorite foods, hear all of her songs and all of her ideas, get her dressed and brush her hair, love her, be there for her, never say "not right now."
I want to know my Otto, I want to help him grow up, I want to talk to him in the sky, lay on the grass and look up at the birds flying over our little patch of land, watch the sun light the top of the trees, wait for hummingbirds, cry and think and let my mind be still as I watch the sky change, hear the crickets come, see the stars, and feel how deeply they go into the universe.
My heart grows bigger with each child, more and more love comes in, but time doesn't expand and I don't have all my time for each of them. And It's training for life. They will never have every need met, and we need to learn how to deal with that. But they know they are loved. They know we are trying!
I heard a good line in a movie last night and I want to try to remember it. From the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. It went something like this: " the only failure is the failure to try. And success is measured by how well you take disappointment."
This seemed right to me. And inspiring. My beautiful love, Otto, left and it broke our hearts. And we are not the only ones to have such a huge loss. All over the world, people grieve such dear things. To have disappointment and to still love, is such a key thing in life. To have disappointment but not give up on everything. Especially myself.
I feel so lucky, in some glowing moments, to feel so much love. I will be nursing Zoë in the rocker, and hearing Luna reading her books in her room, and looking at Otto's picture on the window sill and hear Ryan in the kitchen washing up, and feel so full. In the small messy house and the old kitchen, who cares? If you have all the nicest cabinets in the world, but have not love...
I am learning to love all of them in the 24 hours we get, and to soak up all my moments and to know that they will only be little for a short while, and we will always look back on these crazy, tired times with aching to have them again.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Sitting in my chair at night. Sounds of water running through pipes, the gurgle of the washer, diapers, lullabies from the iPod in the baby's room, a dog barks, crickets. The weight of my new baby Still fresh in my arms. This is what I dreamed of, this moment, the year He was gone. My heart is full with my girls. And still, since otto's birthday this year I feel the hole of him. The boyness missing.
And I feel the completeness of our family, the tired, sweet, desperate funny fullness of us, the weight and love
And I feel the completeness of our family, the tired, sweet, desperate funny fullness of us, the weight and love
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
The Night Before
Another cycle.
We are here again, the night before you died.
Your dad and I sit in the living room, not wanting to go to bed, feeling like we don't want tomorrow to come again, don't want it to be true again. You died.
Four years later I still sit here and feel the shock of it. What a beautiful boy you are. In your body you were so full of light, so radiating love. How we love you still.
And every year for this week it feels like we get you back in many ways. Part of me feels like I will get to hold you again, we get visits from you in different forms. Loved ones are visited by hummingbirds, we feel you come near to us. You are always near but the veil is thin this week. And then I think of all the cycles we will go through without you and life feels so long.
This year I hold your baby sister on your anniversary, 6 weeks old on your heaven day. I am so in love with her, amazed by her, grounded by her. I feel like I get to hold you again through her, and in this way the pain is eased. And yet she makes me feel all we gave up with you, the extreme thing that was asked of us, the impossible thing, of loving our beautiful son so much and then letting him die. Letting his warm, soft sweet body become cold. Letting his spirit leave. Helping him with this.
I remember this strangeness when my Grammy was dying. She was in her late 80's, a proper time to die, and I held her feet under the covers, and they were warm, they were the feet of a person, not an old person, just lovely, warm feet. And it was so strange to know that they would grow cold and her blood would stop running and stop being her feet. It is so strange to me, death. That change. That shift from life and spirit in the body to the body just being, I don't know, what is it then? Cold and beloved still. But not the same.
Oh, my son, this is so hard still. We still love you so tremendously. And I don't want you to leave. You already left, but still, I don't want it to happen. I don't want this. But it is ours. How can this be our story? The story of the son who died? But it is who we are now.
I think you are happy now, you are fine, you know our love, and the pain is mostly on our side. I am glad you are happy. I am glad you love your sisters. I long for a time, out of time, when we are all together, loving freely without longing.
I am writing this under the tree where we held you, four years ago, on the lawn, on that beautiful afternoon, and you felt the air, warm, and the slight breeze, and heard the hummingbird talking above us, the light filtered through this big tree's leaves, the height of summer. We were each other's, completely. To know such love, I know we are so lucky.
And my son, I love you. I will love you forever. You have my heart, and I am devoted to you as your mama. Help us through this night, it is so hard to accept it. It is so precious to remember. What an intimacy, that crossing.
Thank you for all the ways you love us. I pray my heart will open to them, and not be shut in self pity or depression. Although that is part of this at this stage for me. I love you, I love you, I love you. I send you a million kisses, up to the stars, I remember your sweet smell, your soft hair, your hands and feet and belly. I kiss them all over.
Love,
your mama
We are here again, the night before you died.
Your dad and I sit in the living room, not wanting to go to bed, feeling like we don't want tomorrow to come again, don't want it to be true again. You died.
Four years later I still sit here and feel the shock of it. What a beautiful boy you are. In your body you were so full of light, so radiating love. How we love you still.
And every year for this week it feels like we get you back in many ways. Part of me feels like I will get to hold you again, we get visits from you in different forms. Loved ones are visited by hummingbirds, we feel you come near to us. You are always near but the veil is thin this week. And then I think of all the cycles we will go through without you and life feels so long.
This year I hold your baby sister on your anniversary, 6 weeks old on your heaven day. I am so in love with her, amazed by her, grounded by her. I feel like I get to hold you again through her, and in this way the pain is eased. And yet she makes me feel all we gave up with you, the extreme thing that was asked of us, the impossible thing, of loving our beautiful son so much and then letting him die. Letting his warm, soft sweet body become cold. Letting his spirit leave. Helping him with this.
I remember this strangeness when my Grammy was dying. She was in her late 80's, a proper time to die, and I held her feet under the covers, and they were warm, they were the feet of a person, not an old person, just lovely, warm feet. And it was so strange to know that they would grow cold and her blood would stop running and stop being her feet. It is so strange to me, death. That change. That shift from life and spirit in the body to the body just being, I don't know, what is it then? Cold and beloved still. But not the same.
Oh, my son, this is so hard still. We still love you so tremendously. And I don't want you to leave. You already left, but still, I don't want it to happen. I don't want this. But it is ours. How can this be our story? The story of the son who died? But it is who we are now.
I think you are happy now, you are fine, you know our love, and the pain is mostly on our side. I am glad you are happy. I am glad you love your sisters. I long for a time, out of time, when we are all together, loving freely without longing.
I am writing this under the tree where we held you, four years ago, on the lawn, on that beautiful afternoon, and you felt the air, warm, and the slight breeze, and heard the hummingbird talking above us, the light filtered through this big tree's leaves, the height of summer. We were each other's, completely. To know such love, I know we are so lucky.
And my son, I love you. I will love you forever. You have my heart, and I am devoted to you as your mama. Help us through this night, it is so hard to accept it. It is so precious to remember. What an intimacy, that crossing.
Thank you for all the ways you love us. I pray my heart will open to them, and not be shut in self pity or depression. Although that is part of this at this stage for me. I love you, I love you, I love you. I send you a million kisses, up to the stars, I remember your sweet smell, your soft hair, your hands and feet and belly. I kiss them all over.
Love,
your mama
Thursday, July 5, 2012
First Outfit
38 weeks. Baby sister on the way. I think of you so much, and miss you so. Thinking of what her first outfit will be, I remember the one I packed for you. A beautiful soft yellow onesie with a blue bunny, from Italy when my mom was traveling. It's tail was a real cotton tail. I loved running my hand over it because it was so soft.
And the first time you wore it was in the NICU, the night we learned you were not going to make it. We held you all afternoon and night, skin to skin, and a blankie over your back. I went to bed at midnight to get some sleep, but couldn't sleep, I just lay in the bed shaking and missing you and feeling so cold. So at 3am I got up and went in to see you. The nurse, her name was Kay, was holding you, wrapped in a blanket and reading a magazine. I loved that she took you in her arms during her shift, not letting a moment go by when you weren't held and loved. (the 5 days before was a cooling treatment where we couldn't hold him.)
She had dressed you in the lovely yellow onesie. I was a little jealous, since I hadn't put an outfit on you, but I loved that she was treating you like a beautiful, real and wonderful baby and wanted you to feel the soft and the love of those who chose it for you. She handed you to me, and I took off the blankie, and took off your onesie, because I wanted to just hold you against my skin, your warmth and my warmth. I never got used to you wearing clothes, you were just a naked boy for me.
She left us alone.
And we rocked in the glider, and fell asleep, and I felt my heart get warm again, and I stopped shaking, and I just loved you. I smelled your hair and kissed you and soaked up every moment, and watched the dawn come over the city of San Francisco, that amazing view we had from that room. The light slowly creeping in, time still happening, the planet still moving, even though I would have done anything to stop it and just keep holding you.
At 6 am I walked so slowly back to my room, so tired, and so full of love and the peace that it brings, I could sleep after being filled with those hours of closeness, knowing I had held you as much as I could, and you had felt my heart beating. My milk leaking on you, all over my shirt. I walked back to my room, ragged and full of light, devastated and complete, not caring who saw me or how I looked, how I must have looked.
I talk to you now, knowing you are with me, and ask for your help as I wait for this baby. Wait to hold her in my arms, trying not to go crazy with the waiting and hoping for safety. Crying for you, crying for her. Waiting for the first breath again. Facing the huge mystery, the huge black, warm universe of giving birth, giving everything over, being taken over, letting go, and then...life. A cry. Love.
The yellow onesie is in your special box, so every anniversary we can take it out and run our hands over it and remember you, when you wore it in our bed at home, and for your service with our family when you had just died. It is so precious. We love you so much, little boy. So so much.
And the first time you wore it was in the NICU, the night we learned you were not going to make it. We held you all afternoon and night, skin to skin, and a blankie over your back. I went to bed at midnight to get some sleep, but couldn't sleep, I just lay in the bed shaking and missing you and feeling so cold. So at 3am I got up and went in to see you. The nurse, her name was Kay, was holding you, wrapped in a blanket and reading a magazine. I loved that she took you in her arms during her shift, not letting a moment go by when you weren't held and loved. (the 5 days before was a cooling treatment where we couldn't hold him.)
She had dressed you in the lovely yellow onesie. I was a little jealous, since I hadn't put an outfit on you, but I loved that she was treating you like a beautiful, real and wonderful baby and wanted you to feel the soft and the love of those who chose it for you. She handed you to me, and I took off the blankie, and took off your onesie, because I wanted to just hold you against my skin, your warmth and my warmth. I never got used to you wearing clothes, you were just a naked boy for me.
She left us alone.
And we rocked in the glider, and fell asleep, and I felt my heart get warm again, and I stopped shaking, and I just loved you. I smelled your hair and kissed you and soaked up every moment, and watched the dawn come over the city of San Francisco, that amazing view we had from that room. The light slowly creeping in, time still happening, the planet still moving, even though I would have done anything to stop it and just keep holding you.
At 6 am I walked so slowly back to my room, so tired, and so full of love and the peace that it brings, I could sleep after being filled with those hours of closeness, knowing I had held you as much as I could, and you had felt my heart beating. My milk leaking on you, all over my shirt. I walked back to my room, ragged and full of light, devastated and complete, not caring who saw me or how I looked, how I must have looked.
I talk to you now, knowing you are with me, and ask for your help as I wait for this baby. Wait to hold her in my arms, trying not to go crazy with the waiting and hoping for safety. Crying for you, crying for her. Waiting for the first breath again. Facing the huge mystery, the huge black, warm universe of giving birth, giving everything over, being taken over, letting go, and then...life. A cry. Love.
The yellow onesie is in your special box, so every anniversary we can take it out and run our hands over it and remember you, when you wore it in our bed at home, and for your service with our family when you had just died. It is so precious. We love you so much, little boy. So so much.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Hello darling boy. I know it has been so long since I've written. Our talks more happen when I have a moment to look at your picture, by our bed with candle and sage, or when I am outside by your big tree, or anytime that I just miss you so much.
And since I just got back from recording an album about all the love you've given us, all we've learned, how our hearts have been molded by you, and this music is coming together with so much tenderness and ringing and beauty, that your dad and I are just sort of in heartache from it. Brings back a lot, brings us back to the time when you were here and died, and that is just overwhelming. We love you so much, and always will, I am so happy to be singing to you, and that people will get to hear this, and I hope, be comforted. I hope they hear that loving is still worth everything.
I'm remembering these little moments. The shape of your forehead. How much I tried to memorize it before I had to give you away. I remember that feeling of just loving your shapes so much. I miss you so much. I wish I still had my boy here. It does hurt. But your love has made my life better and I always want to learn to freely love moments, to be filled with contentment more than fear. To learn to just be here.
Thank you for your love, my darling.
And since I just got back from recording an album about all the love you've given us, all we've learned, how our hearts have been molded by you, and this music is coming together with so much tenderness and ringing and beauty, that your dad and I are just sort of in heartache from it. Brings back a lot, brings us back to the time when you were here and died, and that is just overwhelming. We love you so much, and always will, I am so happy to be singing to you, and that people will get to hear this, and I hope, be comforted. I hope they hear that loving is still worth everything.
I'm remembering these little moments. The shape of your forehead. How much I tried to memorize it before I had to give you away. I remember that feeling of just loving your shapes so much. I miss you so much. I wish I still had my boy here. It does hurt. But your love has made my life better and I always want to learn to freely love moments, to be filled with contentment more than fear. To learn to just be here.
Thank you for your love, my darling.
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