Here at the Center for Sacred Window Studies, we share voices from many perspectives and backgrounds. We believe that the sacred weeks post birth, and the experience of humanity is experienced in countless ways. We learn by listening to one another and honoring our stories. The views and opinions of our writers do not necessarily reflect the mission, viewpoints or opinions of the Center for Sacred Window Studies.
Sharing Birth Stories — Essential for Healing
I think about stories a lot.
In particular, I think about the stories that can be so hard to tell and so hard to hear. The telling of stories and the sharing of feelings are what creates space for healing to happen. We all recognize the vulnerability of birth, of parenting, of putting someone else’s needs before our own. When birth is combined with processing trauma and healing from seemingly irreparable damage, the work of opening, healing, and sharing becomes even more vital.
We honor your stories.
We hold space for you to hurt and to heal.
Thank you for sharing your story.
— Christine
Trigger warning: this post contains sensitive content relating to sexual violence.
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I wrote this poem in March of 2013, just three months postpartum after the birth of my first born son. I was in the depths of healing from the trauma of a sexual assault which had created my pregnancy. I was also coming to terms with the stark reality that I had placed my son for adoption. While it was an open adoption and truly the right decision for everyone at the time, it was still the deepest heartbreak I have ever experienced and continue to experience now 7 years later.
This poem offers a glimpse into the moment directly after the hospital door closed, and captures the feeling of my newborn going farther and farther away.
Hatched & Gone
All she could remember
was the echoes of his cries
as he went down that hallway
Cries like the whistling winds
of winter storms…
And she clung to that closed door
like a brown crippling apple
hanging onto a tree
with its last bit of hope
She desired for his happiness
his safety
And though she heard him cry
She worried now for her happiness
her safety.
Her womb empty-
Like a cracked open eggshell
-Crushed.
Shreds of his scent hung on her breast
in the stead of his breath on her chest
Blue-
Like soft wispy feathers
he’d left behind.
The nurse offered her a drink of water
Water to dilute the sorrow
-the ache.
But water is just water
Until you pour it into something
and it takes on its shape
Puddles
Ponds
Bottles
& ice cube trays.
When that water slid down her throat
-it took her form-
Angry water.
Tears.
Evaporating joy.
Empty.
Gone-
like a summer that flew by too fast
Like a bird she never got the chance to identify
Maybe she was a bad birdwatcher
or a bad timekeeper
or a bad mother.
Yet she fed him full of milk
The way that robins fill their young
with worms in the spring.
She’d never been through a season like this before.
So cold
Chilling-
Like a breeze just strong enough
to raise bumps on her arms.
Feeling the need to wrap herself in something
-Anything
a leaf
a blanket
a canopy
bedsheets.
This felt like she’d abandoned her nest-
or that she’d come back
Ready to feed him again-
nipple to open mouth-
worm to open beak
except – –
he would be gone
Like he’d left the branches of her arms
too soon.
The way his voice. . .
traveled to her . . .
like he was hungry
or tired
or just-
That he missed her.
Taking his first flight
shaky wings- pounding heart
Falling-
With unfamiliar hands to pick him up again.
Useless
Useless now we’re these hands of hers
like a garden with no seeds
-no weeds
just harvested plants she was STILL trying to water.
Her eyelashes
like the holes of a rusty watering can
Tired-
from the salt
and the pain
And the not knowing how things would turn out-
how he would turn out-
as she turned him out
into the world
Loose
On a rolling hospital cart
with nothing to keep him warm
but the blanket she had knitted for him-
Stitch by stitch
Like the nest she had built for him
Twig by twig.
Empty
and fallen to the spongy ground
for someone else to raise.
Her heartbeat
echoed in her body.
Alone- his movements absent
from keeping her company.
And…
All she could remember
was the echoes of his cries
as he went down that hallway
Cries like the whistling winds
of winter storms…
And she clung to that closed door
like a brown crippling apple
hanging onto a tree
with its last bit of hope.
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By: Harriet Spalding
copyright 2013
Conscious Postpartum Caregiver Program
Inspired by Ayurvedic Principles
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