“All forms of birth—physical, intellectual, spiritual or emotional—bring one to the depths. The power to give birth originates in the creative life spirit birthing all, the seen and the unseen.”
Birth.
The starting.
The bringing into the world.
Birth means here is something that wasn’t here before.
Birth means labor. Means work. Means pushing when it might feel safer to stay put.
Birth cannot stay put. It comes with intention and focus and force. It comes because it must.
I have never birthed a baby. But a baby is not the only thing that is birthed. Ideas, relationships, poems, pieces of one’s mind on the page. It’s not the same, but it’s not nothing. Words can come with a thunder that cannot be quieted.
This week I pulled Birth from the angel cards that sit in a small ceramic bowl my husband made. I remember seeing the bowl the first time I was in his apartment, telling him I liked it. I made that, he said, and I probably fell a little bit in love right then. Probably saw a little bit of all that he would build, all the ways he would hold me.
This week is our two year wedding anniversary, where we stood under an oak tree and he promised to have and to hold me forever (and I think foot rubs were in there as well). Where I said I was thankful he was my partner in all the adventures that lie ahead.
This summer will mark two years since we left LA. Leaving LA meant more than leaving a city. It meant leaving my family, my birth place, the skies I knew by heart. It meant leaving friends, not seeing new babies, being a plane ride not a freeway drive away. It meant leaving my job of eight years as a high school English teacher. It meant not knowing what was next.
It meant admitting I wanted more. Wanted different. Wanted something I dared not say.
Freedom.
Freedom to explore my own writing. To help others explore theirs. To move beyond the walls of the classroom.
To help bring more creative voices into the world.
So we left.
We drove across the country with our two cats and a houseplant that we almost killed in the Austin heat. We drove to our new house in our new city. We drove with a lot of hope and with very little idea of what our new lives would look like.
The last two years have looked like this: love and guilt and writing and not writing and tears and trees and poetry and wants and shame and Netflix and new friends and birdsong and airplane rides and changed plans and unknowns and therapy and hurting and cuddles and cat puke and healing and life.
This transition from the known to the unknown has been painful and imperfect. Without the label of “teacher” and the monthly pay check, I struggled with my worth, with my purpose, with how I want to show up in this world. I still do. I am thankful every day for a partner who holds me, who holds my dreams, who holds space for the beautiful mess of my creative life.
This week I pulled Birth and I smiled because I’m finally seeing the clearing after all this fog, finally starting to show up to the idea of being seen in the world, being of service in a new way, finally shaping a new container for my work.
I pull angel cards in twos, in hopes of some clarity (or a second chance at the answer I want).
I asked, What do I need to know right now? The second card I pulled was blank.
Blank means unwritten. Means you’re in charge. Means you already know.
Blank means no one is going to give me a roadmap to what’s next. To what this creative life looks like.
Blank means freedom.
How terrifying.
How beautiful.
How perfect for this moment of pushing myself and my work out into this world.
