21 years ago, my new doctor prescribed a summer off to get in touch with my “feminine side.”
I had no idea what that meant, but I was desperate enough to step outside my own understanding.
In misery.
Later she suggested that I take a break from full-time work.
I tried that too.
And still, I did not get pregnant.
What I did get was community: A town called Marlboro. My first pair of Birkenstocks. A taste for hummus. An invitation to a women’s circle. A practice called yoga. An inkling to garden. A return to the slower cycles of nature.
By the New Year, I missed my period; and by the last day of summer school, I was ready to deliver.
What came through me was a boy. Two of them. Five years apart.
What came to me was the reclamation of the feminine:
in softer ways of knowing.
in a gentler orientation toward my days.
in the fierce clarity that comes from inside.
in the strong tide that washes away that which is no longer needed.
20 years later, I’m still discovering Her.
In me.
Around me.
Beside me.
In ALL things.
(note: just as I prepare to publish this piece, a spider drops down in front of my face)
Two Owls Calling 