Labouring with grief

I feel as though I have fallen inward in my search for understanding and acceptance.  I am present, because I force myself to be, to not let the moment fade away or disapear but my desire is to fade away myself.  There are no books that I have found that tell me how to negotiate the waves of grief while wiping a snotty nose and finding amusements for two year olds.  My moments of grief are stolen, hidden not because I am ashamed but simply because I do not have the luxury of time or place.  Knowing that soon I will be giving birth again, existing in that place where life and death are not separate, instills an urgency in my need to accept and move through my grief.  Yet, just like the work of labour, the work of grief has its own rhythm and its own path and forcing it to move to another’s sense of timing will do nothing but ensure more pain that serves no purpose.

The birth of my daughter, was also my rebirth.  It was my transformation.  Outwardly, there was no sign or symptom of this change but I had shifted sideways, and my body became heavier and my soul lighter.  I could see and hear more clearly and my heart became more open.  I still fall back to my old ways, where I forget what really matters and become caught up in my own ego.

I am afraid that my upcoming birthing journey is going to be overshadowed and intertwined with my journey of grief.  I am afraid of being in that space where life and death are one and the same while learning how to accept the death of my father.  I am frightened that I will not have the strength or the capacity to go through two transformations at the same time.  I am afraid that my child will be born swaddled in my grief.  I am afraid that my sorrow will taint their birth gift and become a shadow that follows them on their own journey.  I am afraid that I will try to control my labour rather than letting myself fall into it.

So I search.  I search for words of wisdom that help me understand.  I search for the quiet places within and outside of myself where I can just be.  I search for the sounds that bring peace and comfort.  I search for trust and I search for hope.

Swimming Sound Waves

Music has always been a larger part of my life than I would have thought possible for someone who doesn’t sing or play an instrument. I have always had an eclectic and varied relationship with music. For the most part I will listen to anything and everything. You are just as likely to find my voice twanging on some Dixie Chicks as it is snarling out a line from Audioslave. There are definitely some genres that I have been unable to incorporate into my life’s soundtrack but not because they are bad – they just don’t work for me.

My first tape was Cindi Lauper, quickly followed by Billy Joel and Michael Jackson. I used to wait patiently by the radio, tape cued for that one song to be played. My early mixed tapes were filled with songs caught in mid line. Later, I would have the luxury to access a collective library to create mini soundtracks. The last mix was the last break-up album. There is a line from a movie (Dog Park?) where the character is told that when he can listen to the break-up tape without crying then he will know he is over his ex.

I used to get dragged to noise shows above the Smash Gallery. I would inevitabley fall asleep on the couch. I guess my ear was not sophisticated enough to appreciate the music coming from the front. As a teenager, I spent a lot of time at the Commodore, getting into concerts with my fake id and paying $8 dollars if we had missed the opening act. There was also the Cruel Elephant good for a Punk show and then the variety of booze cans whose location if you asked me today I would not be able to place.

I often play a game with myself trying to create a soundtrack that would encapsulate the specific moment that I am in or a memory that I have. Like scents, an opening bar can propel me back to a specific place, time or person. I Touch Myself by the Divinyls conjures up an ex, a fitting song for a megalomaniac who wanted me to be at his beck and call – his trophy that he could bring out and show off on special occasions. Other songs immediately send an endorphin rush to my cells and if I close my eyes it is 2 am, I am sweaty, dancing and surrounded by a safety net of beats and bodies.

I have begun to introduce my daughter to music. She falls asleep best to Leonard Cohen and likes to play with her ball in time to Blur. I move around the house singing made up songs about what I am doing. Some of the songs are on repeat. I sing her songs that my mother sang to me. I sing her songs that I love, Summertime and Somebody. I listen to mum sing to her granddaughter some of the songs I remember from when I and my siblings were young, others have obviously been held in waiting to be shared only with her granddaughter.

A new melody is being overlayed my own. Together, for now, the two melodies will play together. As she grows older, they will pull apart and become movements to be played independently. I can not wait to hear her life’s symphony.