compressed

I’m bringing Lukas to bed. He is quiet in the dark next to me. I have some space to dream and so I look down at my belly and imagine the baby inside. I imagine his shape and how he is tucked into me. He is so big now. A stray foot keeps poking out the right side and I have to guide it back in. His back rises on the left now and I massage it gently down. How can there be space enough for this baby and for all that once occupied my belly? What has become of all those organs? How can they function properly in such cramped quarters?
Today I had an emotional melt down on the front porch of my friend’s house. There was no real reason except that I felt overcome with feelings. I sat on her porch in the large Adirondack chairs and watched the snow quietly fall. I could hear the party happening inside. There was laughing and the sounds of kids squealing and the rumble and murmur of upbeat conversation. I felt like I just wanted to stay outside and sit in my sobs. It felt so good to have some space where I could crash down in. Jorg was back from his trip. Friends were nearby. Lukas was in good hands and so I just sobbed until there was a bit of peace and a glimpse of me….a small window into my own private still pond inside. As I looked down at the lump that my belly had become I realized that, just as my organs have been pushed and pressed upon, so has my being. Parts of me have been crowded and compressed by these growing small children. And somehow I still function. Somehow I am still able to survive. Amazingly enough we mothers can mold our bodies into soft nests where life is created and formed and our beings inevitably follow. Through many shifts and bends we make space. There is no choice but to make space and feel the rush and clamor of new life flooding in.