It is done. She is buried. In a big old tree. In a snow covered field. Surrounded by bunnies and moles. And I have cried. And the big old tree has held me. Suggested where I sit on his big old root structure in order to see the view I have buried her in.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Tree," he replies.
"Thank you Tree."
I know I will return here many times throughout my life. Not only because it is her burial place, but because of the kindness and quiet contemplation space that Tree offers.
She will be warm now.
---
I return and smoke three cigarettes straight off.
I have laid her pebble in her garden of spring bulbs.
I have lit her candle in my bedroom window.
It is done.
---
I am going to see Granny this evening.
I went to see her before the termination and was struck by the fact that four generations of what turned out to be women were in the same room.
This time there will be only three.
I'm not sure how I feel about that.
It is simply truth.
I want another cigarette.
I am going to have to watch that this pull does not succeed past today.
Tree I have found out is an ash.
But I'm not sure I don't prefer Tree's answer when I asked him.
"What kind of tree are you Tree?"
"Big old tree," he replied.
Monday, 27 February 2012
Friday, 24 February 2012
The Abortion Chronicles: Part 7: The Perfect Place
I have found the perfect spot under a big old cavernous witching tree. And the tree welcomed me and my request. And encouraged me to sit a while surrounded by its big old mossy energy. And I waivered and wobbled and wept, and he held me there. Understanding and love seeping into me, into my tired bones. And I clarified that he knew I had chosen to take this child's life. And still he welcomed me. "The death of a child is still the death of a child," he says. "May you be visited by many living robins," I whisper to him as I take my leave. "Know you are welcome to return," he says. "I will look after your little one."
And what greater monument to a life cut short than that of a big old tree already having seen so many generations come and go?
Every day my body feels a little bit stronger. A little more solid. A little less fragile.
And I wonder at my body's speed of recovery.
And I worry that my mind will forget just as quickly.
It too has a remarkable capacity to heal its wounds to the outside world.
And for once I don't want it to.
I want it to heal from the inside out.
Not the "usual" way around where the scars form on the outside and fester from within.
This can't be it.
Can it?
We shall see.
And then I remember that I have found her place to return to the earth. The comfort and relief of such a fact is astounding.
I will be able to lay her down in the soft soil to be lovingly held by a mighty tree
until nothing but the living remain. And this is why something has shifted.
6th February 2012
And what greater monument to a life cut short than that of a big old tree already having seen so many generations come and go?
Every day my body feels a little bit stronger. A little more solid. A little less fragile.
And I wonder at my body's speed of recovery.
And I worry that my mind will forget just as quickly.
It too has a remarkable capacity to heal its wounds to the outside world.
And for once I don't want it to.
I want it to heal from the inside out.
Not the "usual" way around where the scars form on the outside and fester from within.
This can't be it.
Can it?
We shall see.
And then I remember that I have found her place to return to the earth. The comfort and relief of such a fact is astounding.
I will be able to lay her down in the soft soil to be lovingly held by a mighty tree
until nothing but the living remain. And this is why something has shifted.
6th February 2012
Tha Abortion Chronicles: Part 6. Continuing ...
My journey with this is continuing. And I find I am ready again to write the next part.
5th February 2012
I am finding that I am struggling to bring myself to bury her remains. I had reasoned that this was one of the peculiarities of grief, and besides, I'm not allowed to dig yet. Today however, sitting outside having a cigarette, slowly becoming a living snowman, watching pure white perfect-for-skiing snow fall down, fingers of one hand freezing I realized the unspoken reason behind the reluctance.
I don't want her to be cold.
I don't want her to be cold.
And the irrationality and the power of this thought wind me and bring instant tears.
I don't want her to be cold.
Inside her sturdy cardboard box she is wrapped in a sealed biodegradable bag, securely bundled with bio-hazard tape. I wrap this bundle up carefully in one of my cotton handkerchiefs and return her gently to her box.
I have to do this soon. Tomorrow if I can get through the earth. Because bio-degradable packaging has a habit of well, degrading.
And still I don't want her to be cold.
5th February 2012
I am finding that I am struggling to bring myself to bury her remains. I had reasoned that this was one of the peculiarities of grief, and besides, I'm not allowed to dig yet. Today however, sitting outside having a cigarette, slowly becoming a living snowman, watching pure white perfect-for-skiing snow fall down, fingers of one hand freezing I realized the unspoken reason behind the reluctance.
I don't want her to be cold.
I don't want her to be cold.
And the irrationality and the power of this thought wind me and bring instant tears.
I don't want her to be cold.
Inside her sturdy cardboard box she is wrapped in a sealed biodegradable bag, securely bundled with bio-hazard tape. I wrap this bundle up carefully in one of my cotton handkerchiefs and return her gently to her box.
I have to do this soon. Tomorrow if I can get through the earth. Because bio-degradable packaging has a habit of well, degrading.
And still I don't want her to be cold.
Sunday, 19 February 2012
To Be Continued ...
I find tonight, as I sit down to type up the next Chronicle, I do not want to.
I just spent 2 days planting 500 trees. New, living trees. And I want to remain with the living for a while longer. These days past have been a joy. A joy of life and living and new life and new friends and old friends and the Earth. We made the world a little better. We made each other's lives a little better for that time we were together.
And it has brought with it momentum. Momentum to move. To shift. To forge ahead. To start living the best possible life NOW.
The spring is upon us.
I just spent 2 days planting 500 trees. New, living trees. And I want to remain with the living for a while longer. These days past have been a joy. A joy of life and living and new life and new friends and old friends and the Earth. We made the world a little better. We made each other's lives a little better for that time we were together.
And it has brought with it momentum. Momentum to move. To shift. To forge ahead. To start living the best possible life NOW.
The spring is upon us.
Sunday, 12 February 2012
The Abortion Chronicles Part 5
My body feels ragged.
My womb like a deflated balloon.
Cramping gently as it tries to pull itself back into shape.
Sporadically coughing up blood clots of varying sizes to be caught in my big mattress pads.
Naturally called to rubbing my tummy in small circles I remember why I feel this way.
The image of a tiny human resting in the palm of my hand flashes in my mind.
And I want her to have moved. To have shuddered. To have rested her hand on my finger tip. To have had more. More time with her. And I long to rush to the box and open up her bio-hazard packaging and hold her.
And my mind wonders if there is some way of preserving her? If maybe I could get hold of some formaldehyde? So that I could spend more time with her? Hold her again when I needed.
And another part of my mind is telling me "this is a little unhinged ..." and the Buddha story comes to me: "Bring me a mustard seed from a house that has not experienced loss, and I will bring your child back to life." Paraphrased a little ...
And she is not there. It is simply her tiny fragile body. And that body that so valiantly grew deserves to be allowed to return to the earth, so that she may complete her cycle on this Earth at this time.
And there's something about returning her cold fragile body to the warmth and darkness of another womb. Wrapping her in a blanket of soil that she might never be cold again. That she might be held and loved by the greatest mother of them all. And be allowed in her own way, to fulfil the role of mother in giving life to something else.
This was my choice. No matter how much I am angry at or want to blame the father, I cannot.
This was my choice.
This is the way it was to be.
I know and trust the voice that showed me.
The right way is not always the high ground.
I find it interesting that I add that bit as if in response to some attack. There has been no attack.
I still feel grief. My choice or no, it was the end of a life. One that I would have could have shared my life with. (Or had mine taken over by.)
It's like two side of me fighting: the one that disapproves of the decision and thinks, nay asserts that I have no right to feel sad; and the side that is present to it all. The side that took no painkillers. The one that refuses to do anything that involved anaesthetic.
The side that disapproves is telling me that that was actually its decision as a form of punishment. The one that is present laughs and says thank you: that it was glad to be fully present. That my child deserved it to be a "fully present" event.
And I agree. I honour my child by being fully present to its birthing, to its happening, to its death.
And it's true. No matter what anyone else says - including you Oh disapproving me - I have done the best I could. And I will continue to do the best I can in what is and was a hard hard situation.
And then the image of her flashes through my mind and I want to hold her again.
4th February 2012
My womb like a deflated balloon.
Cramping gently as it tries to pull itself back into shape.
Sporadically coughing up blood clots of varying sizes to be caught in my big mattress pads.
Naturally called to rubbing my tummy in small circles I remember why I feel this way.
The image of a tiny human resting in the palm of my hand flashes in my mind.
And I want her to have moved. To have shuddered. To have rested her hand on my finger tip. To have had more. More time with her. And I long to rush to the box and open up her bio-hazard packaging and hold her.
And my mind wonders if there is some way of preserving her? If maybe I could get hold of some formaldehyde? So that I could spend more time with her? Hold her again when I needed.
And another part of my mind is telling me "this is a little unhinged ..." and the Buddha story comes to me: "Bring me a mustard seed from a house that has not experienced loss, and I will bring your child back to life." Paraphrased a little ...
And she is not there. It is simply her tiny fragile body. And that body that so valiantly grew deserves to be allowed to return to the earth, so that she may complete her cycle on this Earth at this time.
And there's something about returning her cold fragile body to the warmth and darkness of another womb. Wrapping her in a blanket of soil that she might never be cold again. That she might be held and loved by the greatest mother of them all. And be allowed in her own way, to fulfil the role of mother in giving life to something else.
This was my choice. No matter how much I am angry at or want to blame the father, I cannot.
This was my choice.
This is the way it was to be.
I know and trust the voice that showed me.
The right way is not always the high ground.
I find it interesting that I add that bit as if in response to some attack. There has been no attack.
I still feel grief. My choice or no, it was the end of a life. One that I would have could have shared my life with. (Or had mine taken over by.)
It's like two side of me fighting: the one that disapproves of the decision and thinks, nay asserts that I have no right to feel sad; and the side that is present to it all. The side that took no painkillers. The one that refuses to do anything that involved anaesthetic.
The side that disapproves is telling me that that was actually its decision as a form of punishment. The one that is present laughs and says thank you: that it was glad to be fully present. That my child deserved it to be a "fully present" event.
And I agree. I honour my child by being fully present to its birthing, to its happening, to its death.
And it's true. No matter what anyone else says - including you Oh disapproving me - I have done the best I could. And I will continue to do the best I can in what is and was a hard hard situation.
And then the image of her flashes through my mind and I want to hold her again.
4th February 2012
Thursday, 9 February 2012
The Abortion Chronicles Part 4
16 hours.
16 hours to birth 14 weeks of baby.
And I held her in my hand.
Cold and lifeless and recognisably human.
And asked her forgiveness.
Please forgive me little Robin.
Please forgive me for what I have done.
Her hand was palm to palm with mine.
Her other in my mother's expression of contemplation.
48 hours ago, if I had prodded my tummy, she would have flinched.
Now she is in a box on my bedside waiting for the Earth to envelop her.
From one womb born, to another returned.
I have planted snowdrops and English bluebells and an Iris named George under my mother's cherry tree, and made a pebble out of clay with her name and date on it. The clay, unfired, will melt away gently with the seasons until only the living remain.
And I am aggrieved that she is not living.
And that is the consequence of my decision.
And I somehow think I have no right to cry (which I am), or feel so so sad (which I do), or feel okay (which I did). And my head tells my I have no right to feel anything. Except shame. Shame is acceptable.
Which is nonsense because I'm bleeding heavily after three months of not; my tummy has gone from feeling firm to feeling squodgy again; I'm awash with hormone trying to figure out what's going on. And I'm not carrying life any more. I feel very very empty and very very alone.
The second consciousness is missing. The fuzzy blip that was touching the edge of my consciousness is no longer there. And the missing is greater than the awareness was. And this is how it was with the two miscarriages. My raisin and my kidney bean.
And this was my choice and my choice alone.
And that fuzzy blip touching the edge of my consciousness would not have remained so. It would have become a labour and a birthing story and a baby and a child. One that I am not equipped to look after at the moment.
So I killed it instead.
And now I am going to go away and cry some more. Excuse me please.
3rd February 2012
16 hours to birth 14 weeks of baby.
And I held her in my hand.
Cold and lifeless and recognisably human.
And asked her forgiveness.
Please forgive me little Robin.
Please forgive me for what I have done.
Her hand was palm to palm with mine.
Her other in my mother's expression of contemplation.
48 hours ago, if I had prodded my tummy, she would have flinched.
Now she is in a box on my bedside waiting for the Earth to envelop her.
From one womb born, to another returned.
I have planted snowdrops and English bluebells and an Iris named George under my mother's cherry tree, and made a pebble out of clay with her name and date on it. The clay, unfired, will melt away gently with the seasons until only the living remain.
And I am aggrieved that she is not living.
And that is the consequence of my decision.
And I somehow think I have no right to cry (which I am), or feel so so sad (which I do), or feel okay (which I did). And my head tells my I have no right to feel anything. Except shame. Shame is acceptable.
Which is nonsense because I'm bleeding heavily after three months of not; my tummy has gone from feeling firm to feeling squodgy again; I'm awash with hormone trying to figure out what's going on. And I'm not carrying life any more. I feel very very empty and very very alone.
The second consciousness is missing. The fuzzy blip that was touching the edge of my consciousness is no longer there. And the missing is greater than the awareness was. And this is how it was with the two miscarriages. My raisin and my kidney bean.
And this was my choice and my choice alone.
And that fuzzy blip touching the edge of my consciousness would not have remained so. It would have become a labour and a birthing story and a baby and a child. One that I am not equipped to look after at the moment.
So I killed it instead.
And now I am going to go away and cry some more. Excuse me please.
3rd February 2012
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
The Abortion Chronicles Part 3: How I made my decision.
So here's how I made my decision:
I noted my initial reaction: Oh shit. Oh Bollocks. Oh for fucks sake. Crap.
(Trans: Oh shit: There's two lines not one; Oh bollocks: okay, that means I'm pregnant; Oh for fuck sake: Now!? Really!?; Crap: I have to tell the father.)
I listened to the father's opinion.
I spoke to my women companions and listened to their experiences.
I sat with my shock, fear, anger, shame, sorrow, grief, excitement, joy and indecision.
I asked myself what I needed in order to make a clean and clear decision about the future of the pregnancy.
I followed the answer.
I saw my doctor - accompanied by a kind and loving friend.
I attended a pregnancy clinic and had a scan - from which I kept the picture.
I read all their literature, and laid out the options: keep it and raise it by myself, put it up for adoption, or terminate the pregnancy.
I spoke to my parents, and listened to their advice and offers.
I spoke to an adopted friend about their experience, and to someone who had sat on an adoption panel.
I spoke to the father.
I listened to my own internal moral monologue: the sacredness of life, the circumstances of conception: namely I was on the pill at the time, which meant that it fought through barriers to be conceived, my idea of souls choosing their parents, can I be a killer?
I spread the options in front of me.
I eliminated adoption on the basis of self knowledge: If I carried this child to term, I would not be able to give it away.
I meditated and prayed and paid attention to my dreams.
I listened to my body's reaction: sick and tired and knotted up and feeling hijacked.
I divined using Tarot, I-Ching, Animal Cards, and my pendulum.
I spoke tot he wind and the sea.
I weighed up all the gathered evidence and listened for my small voice.
I felt for the magnetic pull of instinct that I know and trust.
And my decision was clear.
This is not my time to mother another.
And.
I will do this as much my way as possible.
I will schedule the appointment for 14 weeks to give my body time to let go naturally if it's going to - given my history.
That will also give my mind and emotions time to come to terms with it.
I choose the procedure that allows me to be conscious and present for the event - no compulsory anaesthetic or analgesic of any kind, so that neither my body or my consciousness are anaesthetized.
I choose to be fully present to what I am doing. To fully experience my decision.
I educate myself as to the procedure and what to expect: how big will the baby be? What do the pills do physiologically? How long will it take?
I ask my Mum to be with me.
I will be gentle with myself afterwards.
I will allow myself time to physically recover.
I will take my child home to bury so that some life may come of it.
I will plant snowdrops in its memory.
I dedicate my life and work to it.
1st February 2012 ~1am
I noted my initial reaction: Oh shit. Oh Bollocks. Oh for fucks sake. Crap.
(Trans: Oh shit: There's two lines not one; Oh bollocks: okay, that means I'm pregnant; Oh for fuck sake: Now!? Really!?; Crap: I have to tell the father.)
I listened to the father's opinion.
I spoke to my women companions and listened to their experiences.
I sat with my shock, fear, anger, shame, sorrow, grief, excitement, joy and indecision.
I asked myself what I needed in order to make a clean and clear decision about the future of the pregnancy.
I followed the answer.
I saw my doctor - accompanied by a kind and loving friend.
I attended a pregnancy clinic and had a scan - from which I kept the picture.
I read all their literature, and laid out the options: keep it and raise it by myself, put it up for adoption, or terminate the pregnancy.
I spoke to my parents, and listened to their advice and offers.
I spoke to an adopted friend about their experience, and to someone who had sat on an adoption panel.
I spoke to the father.
I listened to my own internal moral monologue: the sacredness of life, the circumstances of conception: namely I was on the pill at the time, which meant that it fought through barriers to be conceived, my idea of souls choosing their parents, can I be a killer?
I spread the options in front of me.
I eliminated adoption on the basis of self knowledge: If I carried this child to term, I would not be able to give it away.
I meditated and prayed and paid attention to my dreams.
I listened to my body's reaction: sick and tired and knotted up and feeling hijacked.
I divined using Tarot, I-Ching, Animal Cards, and my pendulum.
I spoke tot he wind and the sea.
I weighed up all the gathered evidence and listened for my small voice.
I felt for the magnetic pull of instinct that I know and trust.
And my decision was clear.
This is not my time to mother another.
And.
I will do this as much my way as possible.
I will schedule the appointment for 14 weeks to give my body time to let go naturally if it's going to - given my history.
That will also give my mind and emotions time to come to terms with it.
I choose the procedure that allows me to be conscious and present for the event - no compulsory anaesthetic or analgesic of any kind, so that neither my body or my consciousness are anaesthetized.
I choose to be fully present to what I am doing. To fully experience my decision.
I educate myself as to the procedure and what to expect: how big will the baby be? What do the pills do physiologically? How long will it take?
I ask my Mum to be with me.
I will be gentle with myself afterwards.
I will allow myself time to physically recover.
I will take my child home to bury so that some life may come of it.
I will plant snowdrops in its memory.
I dedicate my life and work to it.
1st February 2012 ~1am
Monday, 6 February 2012
The Abortion Chronicles Part 2
Bamboo tapping at my bedroom window.
Its message aided by the wind.
We're cold out here it whispers.
I'm cold in here I grinned.
We watch you every night resting,
We watch over you as you sleep.
We hear you every night talking,
Crying to the child you can't keep.
We see the pain that you're living.
We understand the decision you make.
We feel the life that you're leaving,
And we honour the course that you take.
Not all life is meant for surviving.
Not all lives are all they could be.
We see you continually striving,
To make better the world that you see.
Death is part of the cycle.
Death can be our call to arms.
The letting go is often the hard part,
Because holding on offers some charms.
But live the way that you have been.
We will be here when you get back.
Make sure that this death is for something.
And keep going: your life is on track.
Its message aided by the wind.
We're cold out here it whispers.
I'm cold in here I grinned.
We watch you every night resting,
We watch over you as you sleep.
We hear you every night talking,
Crying to the child you can't keep.
We see the pain that you're living.
We understand the decision you make.
We feel the life that you're leaving,
And we honour the course that you take.
Not all life is meant for surviving.
Not all lives are all they could be.
We see you continually striving,
To make better the world that you see.
Death is part of the cycle.
Death can be our call to arms.
The letting go is often the hard part,
Because holding on offers some charms.
But live the way that you have been.
We will be here when you get back.
Make sure that this death is for something.
And keep going: your life is on track.
Sunday, 5 February 2012
The Abortion Chronicles Part 1
So here we are. The eve of the deed.
Mum asleep next door purring softly through the wall.
The woman who birthed and raised me.
Here in my life to support once more.
As her own daughter takes the life of her grandchild.
And internally I feel ... like I'm holding myself upright.
Tight.
My mind is calm. Practical matters only.
No more moral arguments.
They are quiet. Have been quiet. Unless I poke at them deliberately - for reassurance that they're still there.
And even then their din only lasts a short while. And then they shut up.
And peace returns to my mind.
My heart has a fluttering of fear flirting with her edges.
It is simply fear of the unknown.
The format and logistics.
The physical sensation.
The how will my life adjust to this action?
The fear of falling into self destruction after the fact.
Will I keep my promise to my child of living this life fully?
And a quiet voice says lovingly, gently: "Yes."
And the quiet voice sings:
"I will be gentle with myself,
I will love myself,
I am a child of the universe,
Being born each moment."
And the quiet voice says "Trust."
And the quiet voice says "Live it."
And the quiet voice says "Forgive yourself."
And I hear her.
And fear flutters.
And I am not afraid of her flutterings.
This is my journey.
And fighting against it won't change it.
31st Jan 2012 ~1am
Mum asleep next door purring softly through the wall.
The woman who birthed and raised me.
Here in my life to support once more.
As her own daughter takes the life of her grandchild.
And internally I feel ... like I'm holding myself upright.
Tight.
My mind is calm. Practical matters only.
No more moral arguments.
They are quiet. Have been quiet. Unless I poke at them deliberately - for reassurance that they're still there.
And even then their din only lasts a short while. And then they shut up.
And peace returns to my mind.
My heart has a fluttering of fear flirting with her edges.
It is simply fear of the unknown.
The format and logistics.
The physical sensation.
The how will my life adjust to this action?
The fear of falling into self destruction after the fact.
Will I keep my promise to my child of living this life fully?
And a quiet voice says lovingly, gently: "Yes."
And the quiet voice sings:
"I will be gentle with myself,
I will love myself,
I am a child of the universe,
Being born each moment."
And the quiet voice says "Trust."
And the quiet voice says "Live it."
And the quiet voice says "Forgive yourself."
And I hear her.
And fear flutters.
And I am not afraid of her flutterings.
This is my journey.
And fighting against it won't change it.
31st Jan 2012 ~1am
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