Pregnancy, Birth, Death, and Life: Reflections on Mother's Day

You are over a year old, and last year was the worst in my life, but you were with me.

To my son

—

“The miracle of birth.” This phrase, so commonplace as to be ignored. How many times did I hear the phrase and ignore it, before I gave birth?

You and I experienced this miracle together, my love. More than one miracle: Pregnancy, birth, the beginning of your life… and all the while I knew that I chose to bring you here, despite everything terrible about this world: I wanted you here. And I feel that you wanted to come.

Yes, there are physical components, which echo the spiritual. Your body built itself within my own out of materials we can observe, such as cells. We document this process using ultrasounds, microscopes, all kinds of tests. Schoolkids read textbooks describing pregnancy. There exist in-depth internet videos that anyone can watch for free. This process has happened billions of times, is happening many times every day. It is quotidian and banal. Every person walking the Earth is a product of this process. 

There was so much I didn’t understand about pregnancy and birth before I did them myself — including the bit where it’s all a miracle. How do I describe a miracle so normal, so frequent, we forget it is a miracle?

—

Around the end of the pregnancy, one thought kept coming to me again and again. It was a thought I had trouble explaining to anyone, but it felt important, like it showed a critical aspect of reality. Here’s the thought: No one who ever gave birth has first experienced death.

Women die in the process of childbirth all the time, of course — another thing humanity is accustomed to. What I am saying is that, leading up to the birth, we generally do not comprehend the end of the journey we’re on. And yet in giving birth we bring new people onto the journey, anyway.

Death is something I’ll teach you about, my love. So will the world. The world will teach you in its own way, as the world teaches me.

At some point you will absorb the framework of “events in our lives as lessons:” The idea being that every event in our life is a lesson. I’ve leaned on this framework, life-events-as-lessons, in recent years. This framework has its uses and its problems. I am pretty good at applying this framework, and sometimes I over-apply it. But I think it’s also important to understand meaninglessness, that some things in this world are just meaningless.

You are over a year old, and last year was the worst in my life — but you were with me. I wish our first year together had not been so terrible — aside from your presence, which is the best thing. But I learned about meaning and meaninglessness, so there’s that. Lessons!

I try to maintain perspective. Some women give birth on battlefields, in war zones. Some women are cut to pieces while giving birth. These things are very far away from me right now, and from you. Right now, you are holding yourself on tiptoe at the table beside me, watching me type, and saying “hi” in an adorable voice, and it’s a sunny warm day, flowers everywhere, and earlier today I took you to the park, and I love you so much. Meanwhile, there are people, animals, all kinds of beings, in agony every day. This world can be so cruel. I have thought about that a lot, and I think about it more now that you’re here.

It mattered less to me that the world could be so cruel, before I needed to protect you.

I love you, my son. I love you so much. My love for you is not a lesson I have to learn. Nor can it be analyzed to pieces. I’m not sure that mother love means anything at all. I love you so much. I just do. It just is.

No woman who ever gave birth has died beforehand. We all know death awaits us in this world, yet we don’t know what it is. We bring our children here without knowing the whole story. I bore you deliberately, my love, yet I brought you here without knowing what awaits us at the end.

I had faith that this is a good place to be.

I had faith.

—

There’s a folktale that appears in the Thousand and One Nights (though it likely predates Scheherezade’s frame story). It’s called “The Appointment in Samarra.” Here is how I like to retell the tale: 

Once upon a time, there was a prosperous merchant. One day the merchant was on his way to Baghdad, and he came upon an occult omen: A fortune-teller in the street, perhaps; or maybe he had a dream. This omen foretold that the merchant would die upon reaching his destination.

The merchant took this omen seriously. He switched his destination completely. He decided to go to Samarra instead, which was in a different direction. In order to reorient his path, the merchant performed logistics as only a merchant can. He sold his cargo at a great loss, reasoning that the loss would be worth it if he kept his life. He switched to a cargo that could be sold in Samarra. He gave up the money he’d committed to the trip to Baghdad, and he bought a last-minute ticket to Samarra.

Finally, when he reached Samarra, the merchant began to relax. And then he saw Death. 

“Death!” he said. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Baghdad!”

“Baghdad!” said Death. “But that makes no sense. How could I possibly be in Baghdad when I have an appointment in Samarra, tonight, with you?”

—

I realize that many women do not consent to having children; many are forced to do it. After I gave birth, this thought became nearly unfathomable to me in its horror. A woman — a woman like me — I, myself — could be physically forced to do this, against her will. It is an awful perversion of this miracle, and yet it happens, has happened, so many times, to so many women in this world. So many times, we have been chattel to bear children for men we do not love, men we often hate, under threat of violence. And sometimes in the process we lose our lives.

Many “non-violent” versions of this violence exist as well. Examples include poverty, state control, and lies. Some of those, I have experienced.

I ache with this knowledge: It would be so much better to bear a child in a place with no cruelty, in a place of truth. To raise children surrounded by immaculate trust. Is it possible to match the sacredness of this miracle with a perfectly safe and sacred home? Would that be Paradise?

I also realize that many women cannot bear their own biological children, or they choose not to. I have no desire to deride that, nor to suggest that women are lesser if they do not have biological children.

And yet there is something powerful about the feminine that is expressed in pregnancy. What is this power — a power that physically weakens us, that hurts us so deeply, that can cost us our lives? This power that we can be forced or tricked into using?

This profound process, by which every single human comes into being, was oddly unknown to me before I did it. I have similar questions about much of The Feminine. How can women be so visible and yet so silent? In this day and age, how can so much of our experience remain unspoken?

Pregnancy and birth are the most profoundly feminine things I have ever done. This included my disorienting sense of helplessness, as well as the realization that you were even more helpless, that you depended on me. You depended on me for everything in the womb, you, who will most likely grow into a man. You who I will love helplessly, forever.

—

When I was pregnant, I felt a lot of grief and fear. Often, I then felt guilty for feeling grief and fear. I knew that you, deep within my body, must be affected. Studies show that the stress I felt, while pregnant, was not just bad for me; it was also bad for you.

I felt responsible for being in the situation wherein I was so frightened while pregnant. I used to shut the door to my room and cry, and say to you, when I was pregnant, say to you within my body: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. And it felt like I could hear you say back: Don’t worry, Mama.

I’ve done a lot of so-called “spiritual practice,” I guess. I’ve meditated and done rituals, stuff like that. Occasionally I cross-check what I am doing with existing spiritual traditions. And thus — is this a metaphor? — I named you for the name I felt you “telling” me in the womb. Later, I learned that there are traditional spiritual practices in some cultures, wherein a mother “asks” an unborn baby what name they want. I invoked this naming practice before knowing that other mothers use it too.

During my pregnancy, I had a lot of conversations with other mothers that were unlike any conversations I’d had before. Women of all stripes said to me: “Do you ever feel like you’re talking to the baby in your womb?”

Many women who said this are uninterested in spirituality. They do not study religion or ritual. Certainly, they are “not into any of that stuff.” I spoke to mothers who apologized for themselves in advance. They suggested, shamefaced, that maybe it sounded “crazy.”

Not all mothers experience this. But I heard it many times:

“This might sound crazy, but… Do you ever feel like you’re talking to the baby in your womb?”

“It doesn’t sound crazy,” I would say.

Oh, my son. If we spoke together, how was it happening? It is undeniable that an unspoken conversation occurred: The nutrients that I ate fed you as well, within my body, after I ate them; fluids were in a cyclic exchange. These are all well-documented parts of the process. These things happened for sure. These things are not words. Nevertheless, I remember words, my love.

—

Towards the end of my pregnancy, I ran across a 2020 article in the New York Times about the changes wrought by pregnancy and birth. Our society being what it is, the article frames these in bloodless scientific terms. According to the article, the primary change for mothers happens to our “theory of mind:”

[W]omen who had recently given birth had such pronounced biological changes in their brains that a computer algorithm could separate the new mothers from those who had never given birth… your pregnant or new-mom brain may reallocate resources to the parts of the brain that control “theory of mind,” which allows you to figure out what someone else wants and needs. Dr. Hoekzema says these same areas of the brain also lit up when mothers looked at their infants… “I’ve never seen anything like these changes,” Dr. Hoekzema said.

Another article, The Wall Street Journal, 2024:

Researchers don’t yet know why a woman’s brain structure changes, but based on animal studies, they believe the modifications are instrumental in establishing a bond between a mother-to-be and her infant… Although less is known about the changes in the human brain, other studies have revealed that the remodeling happens in areas important for social cognition, and the changes correspond with increased parental attachment. 

“Reallocating resources to the parts of the brain that control ‘theory of mind’ ” — also “remodeling in areas important for social cognition.” Right.

Here’s how I would describe what happened to me during pregnancy and birth. First, my general motivation increased (I was not unmotivated before). Second, my logistical task management skills (previously decent) became excellent. And third, my spiritual and interpersonal sensitivity went through the roof. (This sensitivity was not negligible, before.)

Even if I had never given birth, pregnancy changed me. Pregnancy would have been a miraculous journey of its own. For me, this was a miracle both because it brought you here, to be in the world, and because of what it deepened and created and re-created, within me.

—

I sometimes experience periods of meditating a lot, and diving deeply into symbolism, prayer. Much of my pregnancy was like this. I prayed and prayed.

I felt that I was showing you prayer, you who grew in my womb. You, within me, experienced those prayers, with me, countless times.

If God is the world, then maybe communicating with the entire world is the same as communicating with God. Or some say God is in the details. Does this mean details can be translated into word from God? Which metaphors and meanings would apply? How would one confirm that one had heard and understood?

How could any message possibly be translated between something as vast and great as the world — translated to us? This was a core question that sharpened my interest in symbolism, years ago.

Let’s imagine, for example, that God is a shepherd. How does that help me understand? The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want… He restoreth my soul, he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. “God as shepherd” is a beautiful metaphor, with great depth. It also contains implications for ownership and control. I hope that the prayer is not defined by those.

Another prayer I pray comes from a spiritual teacher named Thorn Coyle, who prays to the Star Goddess. Flow into my life, and may I be open to that flow. May I step wisely and well, love with joy and passion, may I recognize you in everything I encounter…

—

There came a time in my pregnancy when I felt you were ready to be born. It was months before your expected birth date: I’m ready to come, Mama.

I felt surprised and uncertain about how to respond. Premature birth is generally not good for the baby’s health and longevity. Additionally, there were many preparations I had not yet made, here in this world. Not yet, my love, I pleaded, which seemed to be accepted.

A month or two after that moment, I attended a Winter Solstice party. It was a big party with Roman-themed costumes. I was well into my third trimester and sleeping a lot, so I didn’t stay late. I wore a loose pleated floor-length gown over my obvious pregnancy.

One room at the party contained people dressed as Roman gods. It had good chairs, so I went to rest in that room during a lull in the festivities. There I encountered a young woman whose costume included a glowing moon resting at her midsection, located where her womb would be if she were pregnant.

We talked a long time.

The Moon is a symbol of the unconscious and unknown territory. During recent years, for me, the Moon has seemed a symbol for creating a new reality. The Moon can also express the principle of the Eclipse: That things can contain their opposites.

The next day my water broke. It still was not your expected due date, but you were coming, now.

—

Every birth story is a story. This was another thing I didn’t get until I did it myself. Childbirth can be a journey, a battlefield. For lucky mothers, it’s relatively safe and loving. Of course, even when it’s safe and loving, it’s also dangerous and frightening.

On my first day of labor I felt that I helped you cross a chasm. It made me think of the Valley of the Shadow of Death. I fell into a bout of painless contractions in an empty hospital room. My father — your grandfather — was in the hospital with me, but he had left the room temporarily. There were no staff present, so I was alone. The container was solid and clean. It felt like you were far away, and I went to show you the way, to ward off threats that might prevent you entering this world.

These early contractions wracked my body, but they did not hurt. I felt myself guard your passage, and I was afraid, but I was able to hold steady. Then the painless contractions subsided, and I fell into a restorative sleep. This gave me a sense of unearned confidence about what came next, but my confidence was soon displaced by pain.

I was in labor for a long time. (A lot of women do it for longer.) The next day the contractions started to hurt.

In this day and age, we have strikingly effective pain medicine. We’ve also gotten better at keeping women alive. In some ways, we are better at valuing women enough that we are kept alive. Yet I was afraid to use pain medicine. I was afraid of the risks to you. The risks are very small, but most mothers won’t want to risk their baby, even if it means less pain. There are also a few risks to the mother’s own body, from painkillers.

On the second day of labor, in my eighth hour of painful contractions, I sat crying and gasping in a hospital bathtub. A doula was pouring hot water on my back. Your grandfather was there, holding my hand. I was in labor, and it hurt, but they told me it wasn’t “active labor.” When was active labor going to start? How much worse was it going to get? I wanted it to start, so badly. I wanted you to come, and also I was terrified.

So I wept. I didn’t want to take the painkillers. At the same time, I didn’t know how long I would be in pain, and I expected the pain to get worse. Then I felt you, within my body: Mama, I don’t want to keep hurting you. I don’t want to be born in your pain. When you take the medicine I’ll come.

There is an ancient duality, a polarity, an eons-long compromise between men and women, between the masculine and the feminine. Sometimes compromise measures who endures, who works, who suffers, who gives in, who feels the pain. In many spiritual traditions, this is the very first duality, the first split, the first break, the first balance, and the first union. I wondered if you, my son, might help me understand a different balance. A different union.

When a technician came to hook me up for an epidural, I cried. I asked the nurses to help me pray Psalm 23. Then I kept praying silently, in my mind. I saw and felt many things in the hours that followed. The epidural took effect. And, almost immediately, you came.

You came forth as babies do, covered in my blood. It was incredibly difficult, but in that moment, the pain was negligible.

The Solstice was just before Christmas. Hence, you were born between a Solstice and Christmas. In the hospital afterwards, the night after, the cross flashed before my eyes. For the first time I looked deeply at the spaces between parts of the cross. I thought of how those spaces can themselves create the image of the cross. Later, a woman I didn’t know — she was certainly employed by the hospital; a nurse? a hospital midwife? — came to my room. She said to me, “You went to the place in the Universe where your baby’s soul was. You brought him here.” I had told no one of my experience of the chasm, that sense I had felt of bringing you here, but she clearly understood.

—

Over the weeks that I wrote this piece, I was texting intermittently with a beloved friend, reflecting on the myth of True Love. “I had my heart set on True Love from such a young age,” I wrote to him, “I feel the power and beauty and truth of that idea, and I also feel its delusion and impossibility... What are we reaching for when we connect with other people? What makes it worth trying so hard?”

“We are trying to achieve inarticulate hopes,” he wrote back, “things we can’t pin down and know explicitly ahead of time.”

At the Solstice party, just before you were born, I remember talking to the girl with a moon for a womb. We spoke of many things, the tensions and sadnesses and beauties that create our expectations of family. I barely remember all the words we said.

I think I tried to tell her about this idea, this question I was holding: No one who ever gave birth has died beforehand. Would I call this survival? Or is it more than that?

Maybe this is what I was trying to say: Bringing a child into this world is a profound act of faith.

Sometimes when considering the word of God, I wonder how to relate to God. God is sometimes described as a shepherd, but more often as a parent. In the web of religious traditions I was born into, this is often a male parent.

God could be a dangerous or frightening parent, and us helpless and dependent before an awesome being. God could be a fallible parent who is basically human, but more powerful than us, in the way I am your parent. Either way, if God is an authority, we might then petition God to get things we want. Or we might have the audacity to bind God by promises — perhaps including the “laws” of nature. We might believe we can demand things from reality, we might bargain with God or with the gods. How does love relate to our desperate pleas — to our bargains and demands? How does faith?

In recent years I have considered a different metaphor: God as a friend. If I spoke to God as a friend, even a friend who I love, then what is the translation or the exchange? Sometimes this feels clearer. What if I try praying to God of my inarticulate hopes, the way I might confess to a friend, rather than asking for something particular?

There are some relationships that must be what they are, and where the parties cannot all have what they want. You, my child, whom I love so impossibly much, I often protect from things beyond your ken, and this includes some things you want. For example, there are days you really want to get into a cupboard that contains cleaning chemicals. I baby-proof these cupboards, or I hold the doors closed, to prevent you from grabbing bottles of poison. Sometimes, you try to pry the door out of my fingers and you cry.

My mother — your grandmother — helps me a lot. Sometimes she and I discuss these moments in ironic tones.

I hear this often: “Your son [and other future children] will be the love of your life.” In some ways this seems clearly true.

There are many loves that this is not. There are loves this cannot be. Also, in some ways, I could not understand love until I loved you.

—

Did I die, like the merchant in Samarra, upon reaching my destination? I don’t know. It was a hell of a journey, but I’m probably not dead.

I want to write to you and about you. I was obsessed with romantic love for such a long time, my love. Romantic love and its paraphernalia: Love poetry, love letters, languages of love. Men gave me roses and lingerie, men wrote exultant or despairing poetry about me. My lovers, and sometimes my readers, flew me all over the world. I had the highs of romance, and oh, did I ever have the lows. I was a world-famous expert in sexuality and romance, and even then I often concluded I knew nothing at all. These things are so compelling, such great mysteries, and none of it holds a candle to how I feel about you. Why aren’t all the love letters in the world written by mothers to our children? Why didn’t I understand, before? But oh, how could I have understood?

The clichés are simple and true. It’s stereotypical to say: You’re growing so fast, or I can’t believe how fast the time has moved with you… It’s stereotypical to say: I didn’t know I could feel this way.

Some friends of mine used to refer to the “Parenting Singularity,” before we all had kids. We tried to plan how to accomplish this task while knowing that planning is nearly impossible. One thing about planning to be a parent is that you know that you’re going to change, and you don’t know how.

I did my best to plan for your arrival, my love. I promise I did my best.

Years ago, I remember standing at an art festival with a young female friend who asked to talk to me. She was struggling to decide whether she wanted children. By that point, my friends knew I was determined to have children, even though I hadn’t done it yet. So sometimes people would ask me about it. They would ask how I knew.

Like many people, my friend asked me why. I answered: “I understand that having children is one of the most profound experiences of love you can have. So if you are interested in the experience of love….”

I let the words stay in the air. She looked away from me, across the crowd of beautiful people around us, the beautiful art surrounding us. There were no children in that gorgeous brilliant crowd.

She said: “There are just so many things I want to do first.”

I did a lot of things before you came into my life, and I’m glad I did them. I have been given an extraordinary life. I have done so many things. And you are my favorite. This last year was terrible. But you were with me.

I was not lacking meaning in my life, before. I’ve been lucky enough to experience a lot of love. But you, my love, are the most meaningful, the most beloved person in my life.

•

—

May the benefit of these acts and all acts go to all beings everywhere. May the frightened cease to be afraid and those bound be freed. May the powerless find power and all beings seek to benefit each other. Peace.