Happy Mothers Day Hecate

As my offering to the world this mothers day, I'd like to acknowledge my genders ancestral shadow.  I have a feeling in my bones that it was us, the mothers, who equally chose to settle all those ages ago, and change our indigenous paths from nomadic and semi-nomadic to settlers.  It's a fair enough assumption to make, that we decided to stay in one spot and watch the stars, and set up great rock megalithic structures to tell the time and the seasons, to echo the smaller statues we were making at the time, little women with carvings denoting the seasons and the moons, as it corresponded to our moonblood.  

 

Picture from humanpast.net

So we settled.  A hard path in the early days, and one that once started, ate large tracts of land as it grew, sending top soil and seeds to the wind with agriculture.  A living system that required new land almost constantly, to move on from the land used up by crops.  With new land came the need for warriors, to advance town perimeters and then guard it.  And as sophisticated mammals, with our ancient learnings around birth and bonding, we practiced an early form of eugenics, to change the course of our species.  The Spartans used to throw their children to the ground after birth to create birth trauma, and thereby warriors, and the Mayans used to bury placentas on battlegrounds to produce the same.  Boy children in many cultures around the world were taken away from their family as apprentices, priests or warriors early, to create the suitable grounds of fear, betrayal and abandonment within young boys, to be shaped appropriately into what was required.  Not to mention endured often violent initiation or circumcision rituals, all to create the same beaten dog reaction, and ultimately warriors. 

Men and Women all over the world have experienced all sorts of top bottom heirarchies, with either sitting at the top regularly.  Viking and Celtic cultures had strong women as warriors and head people amongst many others.  We've had variously ranging horrific and beatific deities of both genders represented also.  In most of our indigenous religions, women and men shared the pantheon of the divine, in both their wondrous and traumatic incarnations.  

Hel-Goddess Of The Norse Underworld by xjessey at Deviantart

Yet today there seems to be a worldwide thread of pointing a finger to men, highlighting all the horrors potentially within them, whilst ignoring with deadly silence the three fingers pointing right back at us.  Even after rigid and long enduring conditioning by one cultural structure or another over my childhood, insisting on teaching me what was 'right' and 'wrong', which group I should judge against, and which group was better, while valiantly trying to 'educate' me about who were the 'safe' people to play with, I've prevailed by looking intently into every looking glass, rabbit hole, minority group, and experience possible, doing my best to lose judgement all the time.  I've visited most every minority group a white woman based in Australia can, in one way or another.  And learnt almost instantly that all preconceptions and judgements are usually wrong, when you face up with another human openly and honestly. 

I like to think that Currawong and I were born innately equal.  In every way.  No matter how often either one of us has endured an attempt at domination, we've refused to be dominated by any person or structure.  We have no masters, and no servants, we have peers.  We met as a recently lesbian feminist and a punk anarchist.......or a leminist and panarchist, and we weren't going to have any pedestals to anything.  Currawong, more than any other human I've ever met, treats absolutely everyone with the same dignity.  Be they a politician, homeless, wasted, rich, poor, black, white, man, woman or child, he will treat them with exactly the same respect.  Maybe it's our Friesian heritage.  I think in my heart it is.  My lineage from Suidwest Fryslan, about whom it was said they were all born noble, and bowed to no-one, practiced self organising social anarchy 700 years before the French Revolution, having no monarchy or ruling class, and respecting each other as sovereign.   I like to say we practice radical equality and acceptance.  We've learnt that just about every finger we've pointed at each other has indeed had three fingers pointing back at ourselves.  We've grown through the fire of uncomfortable self reflections and mirrors.  And had to acknowledge our shadows in the process.  Humbly.

Currawong and I when we first met as a Leminist and Panarchist

So I want to step forward and own the shadow of woman, and call Hecate in to illuminate our dark.  We can be hateful in our hate and projection, whilst bouncing those arrows everywhere else except for where they belong, in our own hearts.  We've whipped up great frenzies and high pitched sonic missiles at the evils that men have perpetuated, but we have evil skeletons hiding in our own skin cloaks.  We may not be direct aggressors as much as men, but we certainly know how to emotionally manipulate in the wings to bring clashes to a climax.  

I've searched many years for a sustainable sisterhood, and practiced with many others the art of brushing over the bumpy bits, and out of respect for privacy and the sanctity of women, hidden my deepest hurts.  Which have come from women.  My mother, sister and daughter relationships have been harrowing.  Glorious in bits but internally shattering.  My women friends have been my saviours and my sadists.  My first ever kiss, love and sex was with a divine woman.....who broke my young heart with her ex lover.  My best friends loved letting me know how much other people hated me.  My sisters first 'lover' was also her first counsellor.   And the first feminist I ever met, got me kicked out of home when she bravely persuaded me to out the abuse happening in my house, and then just dumped me to cop the backlash.  Satisfied with herself once she'd scalped her victim - my stepfather - but not so concerned about how me and my sister weathered the storm.  After getting my heart broke by a woman, I surfed the heterosexual world for a while, but always had contact with the gay and lesbian world, through my sister, and then myself, when I became a lesbian after the birth of my first daughter.  

My early days as a rad fem, wearing socks down my pants.....

A lot of the women who traveled those same scenes were either learning or practicing healers, social workers, counsellors, neighborhood centre workers, womens refuge workers, politicians, lawyers, feminists, nurses, writers, musicians or policy writers, who were definitely at the cutting edge of the feminist activist scenes.  They were organising dances and workshops and forums and marches and petitions and movements and womens groups and consciousness raising........all while hiding their skeletons.  Many of their secret worlds and relationships were very dark and hidden.   The first lesbian dance I went to, I was warned to avoid the toilets alone, as I'd get groped, and I narrowly avoided it.  One of my friends was working at the local womens refuge with her lover, an indigenous woman, and when her girlfriend got drunk and beat her up, she couldn't even access the refuge, as her lover took precedence, as the indigenous worker.  I had a lover who's first 'girlfriend' was her 30 year old woman teacher, when she was 14.  Her teacher 'love' not only introduced her to S+M, but used to offer her as a plaything to her other female teacher friends as well.  When I got raped at an S+M nightclub by a bunch of women, one of whom was on 'safety' patrol, it took talking to a counsellor at the Gay and Lesbian Anti Violence Project to be believed by my lover and friends, and when the owners of the nightclub found out I'd made a complaint, they tried to find out where I lived so they could send around their henchwomen to beat me up.  I went to the office of the magazine Lesbians On The Loose, or LOTL in Sydney, and they told me that they sympathised with me, but would never print my story, because other women didn't need to hear negative stories like that.  These are just the extreme stories, but the day to day reality of a lot of the relationships I saw, the hidden addictions, the nasty treatment of men - particularly boy children - that many women had, the secret rivalries, the public demonising of tall poppies, and the vicious power of a nasty tongue were equally traumatic.  And all of these stories would barely show up in statistics.

 

In the throes of lesbianism

 

In the worlds I've trod since then, and since finding the love of my strong hairy man, and challenging ourselves to grow through brutal honesty, and sharing our deepest darkest secrets first thing, and growing through bonding and birthing and the creating of a large family, I've seen a lot and asked a lot of questions, and found similar hiding of deep scarring truths, all to protect the fragile belief of the sanctity of womanhood and motherhood. I've listened to many secret stories of fellow women, who have similar scars from the wounds given them by the other women in their lives.  Scars they hardly ever talk about, let alone acknowledge to the world.  And I've lost all fantasies of a 'sisterhood', after witnessing the ease with which so many other women have tried to steal my man away from me and our family, mostly right under my nose.  

Mothers and women aren't always so great.  In fact sometimes we can be totally evil.  We kill our children.  We abuse young men and women at schools and in situations of trust.  We make up abuse allegations to get full custody of our kids.  We abuse our partners and we rape.  We control those around us.  We emotionally manipulate people.  We're fierce and deadly combatants when we choose, and we victimise people with our victimhood.  Women are oppressors as well.

The Dark Mother Goddess Kali from bhmpics

We could take those three fingers that are pointing back at us and follow them.  Look into ourselves and our deadly aspects and our shadows and our murk.  Own our own skeletons in the closet before we chase screaming at other peoples.  Witness our own internal worlds of power and domination.  And maybe if we did we could see that NOBODY is thriving in this harsh world inherited through the power of the roman empire that supposedly died.  None of us have a clear direction forward with no blood on our hands.  And the rising toll of men taking their own lives at the hands of a culture that tells them they are all that's wrong with the world, is growing too high.

Anyway.  Enough for now.  I've been needing to say this for a while.  So I thought I would.  Happy Mothers Day Hecate you black darling, owner of the dark and hidden secrets of the soul.  Here is my offering to you.  

Gone are the leaves on the Hecate trees
Shed to the wind till her skeleton claws the sky
I am alone in a forest of memory
Dragging behind me the howl of the winter

Hecate
Hecate
Hecate

P.S.  If you'd like to read a nicer offering to Mothers Day, you can find it here.

Baggage.....

So picture this.  We’re all standing and sitting in a massive, gi-normous airport, watching the baggage carousel slowly spinning round, watching other people picking up their baggage.  Picking up their stuff.  Their learning’s that have filtered through their family, religion, schooling, childhood, environment, culture, country of birth.  That have often come packaged with rules.   As well as all the bits of baggage that they’ve collected along the way, not to mention the invisible memory of the baggage they’ve lost. 

And we’re all watching each other, watching each other claim our baggage.  Some of it is all fancy and designer made and covered with emblems of great wealth and opulence.  Some of it is very similar and easily attainable and looks like a lot of the other baggage carriers.  Some of it is handmade and colourful and totally unique looking.  Some of it is in wild shapes and sizes that contain instruments and tools and costumes and artifacts.  Some of it is tattered and worn and sad looking.  Heavy, and offering discomfort and unhappy carrying.  Some of it is indefinably magic and mysterious and delightful looking.  Some of it looks ordinary, but for some obscure reason you get the feeling that picking it up would be a dream.  Some of it is rotten and stinking and falling apart and messy.  Some of it looks like it could come alive and savage a human easily.  Some of it has badges and symbols emblazoned on it that look surreal, or otherworldly, or evil.  Some of it bears the badges and tickets of an incredibly far and wide travelled life.  Some of it has spilled open and is leaking it’s secrets to the world.  Some of it advertises on the outside what’s within in a lurid fashion. 

And we’re watching.  We’re watching who picks up what.  Getting some surprises when forlorn looking people pick up opulent baggage.  When tiny people pick up huge instruments.  When trashy looking people pick up the baggage of a genius.  When earth mothers pick up the rigid files of a lawmaker.  When humans of great beauty and talent pick up the baggage of depression and self hate.  When the ‘perfect’ people pick up rotten stinking bags that are bursting their seams with filth. 

There’s all sorts of surprises when watching the great carousel of life, and the people who are claiming their baggage. 

A lot of the watchers are looking with judgement, and you can almost witness the invisible tallies and categories and stereotypes and lists of woes that are being added up and subtracted and multiplied within their heads and hearts.  A lot of them are not looking at each other and hoping that others will respect this and not look at them either.  There’s also a lot of them who are looking at each other with compassion, watching each other claim baggage with love in their eyes, giving each other little signs and signals of acknowledgement, acceptance, respect.  And those that make assumptions based on the appearance of the person, as to what their baggage will be.  Often they are proved right, and spend their time only with the other people that have the same baggage as them.  A lot of them making a huge song and dance about their wonderful baggage, what lovely baggage it is, and look at my baggage!!  Don’t you wish it was yours??  And a lot of them have code words and songs and statements that define them from the others, and their baggage all wears the signs of their uniforms, and they sing at each other as they claim their baggage, and then each other.   A lot of them are obviously kinda ashamed of their baggage, but they claim it nonetheless, trying their best to muster a sense of self worth and pride even before the judgemental glares of others.  And there’s a lot of people who are obviously victimised by their baggage, no matter how sweet, or innovative, or beautifully mended, or lovingly patched they may be, they are victimised nonetheless.  But most of them pick up their baggage with the unselfconsciousness of familiarity.  After all, they’ve been carrying round that baggage all their lives, they’re connected to it and consider it their second skin. 

If you look really closely, you can notice there is a lot of comparisons going on, and some people looking relieved when others pick up the more socially unacceptable baggage and cop the derision, rude noises, judgement, and approbation of the crowd.  They’re relieved cause some one else is copping it and not them this time.  Or somebody else has it worse than them. 

A huge amount of us, more than you could ever know, silently slink away from our nastier baggage, the baggage that we’re ashamed of, and covertly steal back later to claim it when nobody else is there, or only when the other people we know would understand are there……

Of course there’s also the people who send somebody else to claim their baggage.  Or get it delivered to them.  And quietly sit behind their walls, sometimes even making the most noise and opposition to a certain sort of baggage, from the afar of the internet, or other public forums, that nobody but them knows, is secretly hidden in their own closet.

Some people have learnt the clever trick of having a seemingly innocuous baggage holder on the out, hiding completely different baggage on the inside.  And some have baggage that everyone else can recognise, hiding just one or two little trinkets inside that would get them thrown out of the baggage group if anyone found out.

Some people have a completely new set of baggage carriers every time you see them, but what’s inside stays always the same.

And see, I’ve had lots of different sorts of baggage throughout my life.  I’ve traded one for the other along my voyage, depending on where I am, who else is in the airport, and what my experience has taught me.  Some very incongruous and unexpected baggage has passed through my hands in the various  byways and plane paths and highways of my life. 

I’ve learnt it’s our baggage that defines us.  Or maybe more to the point what we do with our baggage.  What we’ve learnt from the places it has taken us.   How we’ve mended the holes, and the scars, and the rips.  And when we’re really on good terms with our baggage, when we can own it, and claim it, and be completely sure about it’s worth, and teachings and tools……then all the watching and judging baggage holders and avoiders, can just keep going about their business, cause you’ve got your baggage sorted. 

And it’s also our baggage that divides us.  And unites us if we let it. 

If we all decided to just camp out in the airport for a while, and unpack our baggage, and show each other our dirty undies and secret compartments and hidden treasures……..I can almost guarantee you that you’d be surprised about who really had what baggage, deep inside their outsides.  And you’d realise that we share far more baggage than we let ourselves know. 

So now picture this.  I’m walking into the airport with all my favourite clothes on.  My harem style pants with the velvet waist band that I made from some real Indian silk, fresh from a stock creating trip, that was given to me on the first day I brought Lilith to our market after she was born, and has been through many incarnations.  The diamond cut hippy skirt with the applied crochet circle, that I traded for a crocheted creation with that cool chick with dreadlocks, who pretended I didn’t exist anymore, after she heard some stories about my baggage that she judged as worthy of blocking me out.  That purple top I made out of a tube of stretchy purple that I zigzagged through the middle, leaving me a shipwrecked look for a top and a pair of pants.  Made me look like a great purple pirate when I wore them together.   My hairs up in the style for which I crafted it, with long healthy slightly curled hair streaming out, beneath the dreadlocked horns that I’ve sculpted with a strip of wool wrapped wire plaited through my dreads.  I’m wearing jewellery for once, the big lapis lazuli and coral laced chunky necklace I traded a beautiful mantle for, with that awesome woman in Eumundi, who was inspired to never use soap again, after I left a residue of my scent on the top of her shoulder after hugging.   My favourite rings, the diamante studded spider and the copper scarab.  And I’ve got on my handmade felted boots that I stomped courage, strength, compassion, empathy, love, peace, respect and freedom into, through different coloured felt stamped onto my sole by a muddy earth.  

And I’m walking into the airport, and before all the different eyes, standing in my power and proud of who I am, and willing to recognise myself in all the optic nerves connected to memories eyeballing me.  Wrapt with what I’ve learnt from my life and my travels and the baggage I’ve carried, but most of all totally in love with the baggage I carry now, all the nice bags and darker bags and secret bags and life long bags and messy bags and nasty bags……….all of them are embroidered with gold and yarns, and encrusted with gems, and have features that may or may not fit, but make some sort of sense in the end, and in the interim, and in all the bits that went before. 

And there’s some parts of my baggage that I’d like to share with you.  Not all of it though, cause that would take a really long time, but there are some precious bits of my baggage that I’d like to unpack with you.  Cause I’m not ashamed of any of it.  I’ve got some baggage that has parcels in it that are severely judged, and some that are in the public discourse at the moment, as people stridently take sides, offer statements of ‘How could they do that!’ and the like, trying to convince themselves and others that there’s only one right way.   I suspect that there’s some folk who have made assumptions and judgements about me, based on my mother earth kinda appearance, and that’s just not healthy for anyone.    And I’m  noticing more and more that there’s a growing movement of people just wanting themselves and everyone else to be who they are, and get over the judgement. 

But maybe more to the point, after travelling through a childhood and picking up various baggage and parcels that often contained lies, hypocrisy, betrayal, duplicity, and hurt, I’ve spent my adult life creating a collection of comfortable, claimable baggage, that carries things with honesty, trust, authenticity, and my personal truths.   

So I’m walking up to that great carousel in one of the many airports of life, and the first bag I’m claiming is my baggage of rules.  It’s full of zippers and compartments, and made out of sandpaper with soft edgings and handles.   And has an enormous amount of pockets that are full of information sheets, and lengthy lists that have boxes in which to write ticks and crosses.  There’s some clandestine pockets hiding other people’s score sheets and test results, and secret judgements I’ve made, that I pull out occasionally to make myself feel better or worse with.  And there’s also a tool bag made out of leather, where I keep the tools of the lessons I’ve learned from rules and unlearning rules.  

So let’s sit down in a comfortable seat for a while, cause I’d like to show you a few of the tools I’ve sculpted along the way, but first I want to give you a glimpse of my external/internal rule sheet. 

Which has a whole heap of rules that I inherited by being born, right at the beginning of my sprawling parchment made from my skin. That have been slowly crossed out, or have arrows pointing to later realisations.  And there’s a big line about a tenth of the way down that has THE ONLY ULTIMATE TRUTH IS THAT THERE IS NO ULTIMATE TRUTH written, with lots of underlines, and everything going before it squared off.  This is the epiphany I wrought through eating cheese and playing solitaire for two weeks, after leaving my home, family, friends, school, religion, horse, cat, cello, piano, and area, under police escort, to go and live with my sister at the age of 16.    Everything was gone.  My carpet had well and truly been ripped.  And this was the best sense I could make of the void, that the disappearance of so many rules and regulations had left.  The rest of my rule sheet is full of diverse rules, beliefs, stereotypes and judgements that I’ve felt variously oppressed and esteemed by through different stages of my life journey.  The other main rules that really stand out in their scattered places around my sheet is the one that says WE’RE ALL CONNECTED,  written in blood, and the calligraphy of THOUGHT CREATES REALITY that I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve quipped.  There’s a woolly kind of fibre that’s a cross between carefully crafted yarn and freeform wildness tucked in an envelope that sits in a pocket on a far flung reach of the parchment.  And with the fibre, nestle small pages full of all the wool rules I took on, and the rules I crossed out, and rules that I deliberately broke.  With little addendums of all the rules I didn’t even know existed, that I broke anyway.  And somewhere over here is the one I saw time and time again on my travels, YOU BECOME WHAT YOU HATE (OR FOCUS ON), and over there on the right is another rule that I’ve had to learn time and time again, that EVERYTHING IS PERFECT…….no matter how imperfect it may have been at the time.  And these are the main rules that I really took on, to steer me through my journey, and that I learnt from my own experience, so I know they’re true for me.      

And scattered through the whole bag, are scrunched up bits of paper that have rules that I’ve totally abandoned, and in some pockets, the scrunched up papers have been neatly flattened out with realisations written on them.    

But look at some of these tools! This flamboyantly coloured pair of glasses that when you put on, makes you see only two old men, is the one I made when I was a baby dyke going to my first ever Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras.  There was all this talk and discussion and energy about Fred Nile, a fanatic and dogmatic religious dude, who had organised a pray for rain meeting, so he could rain on our parade.  In the weeks following it, there was an article in a gay and lesbian magazine that described a journalist going undercover to the pray for rain meeting.  Equipped with a wig, mobile phone, conservative clothes and a beeper, she strode into the meeting………..to find two old men.  All that fuss about two old men.  It started me wondering about those two old men.  Maybe they were the same two old men who I called ‘them’, and who I expected to judge me, as I walked around in my shaved head, black leather splendour.  And maybe only being two of ‘them’ explained why I’d never actually encountered any homophobia.  Maybe my world wasn’t so surrounded with judgement as I thought.  Mind you, I had friends that suffered endless homophobia, and here are the talismans I have of them, and I know and understand that my experience isn’t everyone’s, but this is my bag afterall.  And I’ve used these glasses often, anytime I’m tempted to feel oppressed by rules or a moral majority or a bunch of ‘them’, whoever they may be.

And this tool that looks remarkably like a headdress, with big scooping ears to listen, and a great hat that assisted in standing in the shadows, and dark glasses that hide microscopes, and a big soft drapey scarfey thing that hangs in a loving hug to feel my heart……..is the disguise I wore for many many years, whilst trying to unlearn dogma, conditioning, fears, superiorities and insecurities…….and rules.  All I knew was that along with there being no ultimate truth, I knew absolutely nothing about most of the things I was interested in.  So I lurked, and I listened, and I observed with every faculty I knew how to use……and I learnt. 

And all these beautifully coloured glass bottles held safely in satin pockets, contain the essences of those lessons.   Here, have a whiff of that charge I got when I found a twin soul in an unexpected incarnation.  And have a feel of this satiny liquid that pours through my body in those moments I have of complete and total oneness with everyone and thing in the universe.  If I open this cork,  you can hear the yip of joy I let out when I get something totally and completely right…..for me.  And have a sniff of the odourous stench I get in my nostrils when I’ve done something that I really wished I hadn’t.  And search my head for ways that I can both acknowledge and transform that part of me.  Have a taste of the bittersweet tang I get on my  tongue, when I have to admit that I’ve been totally wrong, and it’s time to backtrack and find a more authentic path. 

And this tool, this gem encrusted mirror, is the one that I learnt about how you get what you expect, or focus on.  I made this one when I was comparing photo’s with that awesome German woman in Tubingen, in her student loft, of our times in Belfast at nearly exactly the same time, 6 months before.   We’d even stayed in the same youth hostel.  Her photos were full of tanks, armed men, steel clad police stations, huge and aggressive murals on bombed walls.  And mine were of pleasantly pissed and thoroughly pleasant Belfastians in pubs, taking me out to dinner, driving me to the Giant’s Causeway, and generally sightseeing.  She was a student political activist, and I was a frequently pissed tourist.  And we both got what we were looking for.

And this little photo-memory book contains all the reminders I’ve got in my yarns about how worthwhile turning around to face fears is.  All the pretty moments when I was so overwhelmed with fear, but decided to jump anyway, and realised that hulking great dragon chasing me was really a Pekinese yapping at my heels.  

But that’s enough of my baggage of rules now, let’s zip it back up and place it on my trolley.  I’m walking back to the carousel again, for another part of my collection.  But this is enough of my baggage sharing.  I gotta get back to the family now, and get on with my journey, but we’ll catch each other at another airport carousel soon………






And no Baltazar and Nimue this time, instead I'm going to leave you with a song that I was obsessed with for a while.  I used to play it over and over as I sat in my little house and gazed out the window or at my little stained glass candle holder, and wished and wished for Currawong to leave where he was and come and be with me. I think it worked! And on borrowing Northern Exposure from the library I was reunited with it, so I had to share.....

And check out the words!! Quite a song for our times.....

I am the crow of desperation
I need no fact or validation
I span relentless variation
I scramble in the dust of a failing nation
I was concealed
Now I am stirring
And I have waited for this time.

I am the termite of temptation
I multiply and find my population
I am the wheel
I am the turning
And I will lay my love around you.

I am the sea of permutation
I live beyond interpretation
I scramble all the names and the Combinations
I penetrate the walls of explanation
I am the will
I am the burning
And I will lay my love around you.

I am the will
I am the yearning
And I will lay my love around you.

  

How to work towards an empowered caesarean Part 3

This is the letter I wrote to Flinders Hospital, or more specifically, the people present at my caesarean.......


Friday, 5 December 2008

Flinders Medical Centre
Att:Names of the 11 people present are kept out for reasons of privacy

Dear people.

On the 28th of November, my partner, daughter, and 2 midwives came into Flinders after giving a homebirth a serious but safe go, and you all assisted us tremendously by performing an emergency Caesarean. As it happened, there was no way in the world that a homebirth could have happened, as my baby’s cord was around his neck, and he was ‘leashed’ high in my uterus by the placenta. If we were living in a place without medical facilities, the chances are that my baby and I would have died without this procedure. For which you have my deep and profound thanks. And I honour the work and study that you all have done, that enabled you to perform this process quickly, safely, and with such wonderful respect and people skills.

As you may have noticed from reading my birthing plan, I was a bit of a homebirthing nazi before this experience, and as with a lot of humans, I had to have a different experience that affected me directly, in order for me to change my judgements and opinions. Incidentally, I’m also in the process of writing a book about birth, sex, and death, that I now believe would have been seriously one eyed and unbalanced, had I not had this experience.

I don’t know whether you all would be aware of it or not, but there is a large body of information on homebirths, ‘freebirths’, and other birthing alternatives, coming from alternative midwives, blogs, the internet, and books. Believe it or not, ( I was quite surprised! ) some of the largest advocates of unassisted births are members of the religious right, who believe that doctors, midwives, and doula’s all get in the way of how God intended babies to be born, which is into their fathers hands, after the mother and father helped the baby come naturally into birth through sexual acts. And yes, you could have knocked me over with a feather when I stumbled on that particular sect of birthing lore as well!!

I also read a lot of Sarah J. Buckley, a Queensland doctor who has had 4 homebirths and 2 lotus births, and has published many essays on the natural hormonal process of birth. She highlights how as mammals, we have a cocktail of hormones within us that is released during the birth process, if we behave as other mammals behave, and find a dark, quiet, unobserved spot where we feel safe, and keep out of our logical brains and trust to our mammal instincts. And I read a book about Lotus birth by Shivam Rachana, a Melbourne midwife.

There’s also Grantly Dick-Read, the father of the ‘natural birthing’ movement, and Leboyer, who championed reverence around birth in relation to the baby’s needs, and Michel Odent who started the water birthing movement, and writes often about gentle birthing. Not to mention the more well known authors Sheila Kitzinger and Janet Balaskas, who write about active birthing and taking an empowered role in birth Deepak Chopra also has a lot to say about gentle natural births, and has even created a birthing centre in America, where lots of work is done pre birth, during the experience, and afterwards, to create a conscious, gentle experience.

And of course my beliefs have also been shaped by my personal experiences. My first daughter was born in Katoomba hospital with a midwife, my personal doctor and my mother, and was a birth reflecting my little amount of knowledge on natural birthing. My waters were broken, I had pethidine, and it was a shock. 9 years later after meeting the love of my life we decided to birth in a hospital because we didn't know much about the options. I lounged in the spa bath, had my partner, mum, 2 support friends and the midwife on duty, we played music and the midwife thought we were having a party more than a birth, I had a bit of gas, and when I was only 8 cms dilated the midwife went off to get her machines and prepare for a birth she thought was going to be a while longer, and while she was out of the room my son's head crowned (he was born in his sac) and was born before she got back in the room. The first thing I said was “That was so easy”. With my 3rd birth we decided to try a homebirth, had a totally easy and natural birth in a birthing pool in my mothers loungeroom, with 3 midwives and my other children around. Knowing now how well I birthed, when my 4th child was on the way, we bought a house in Peterborough and were going to have an unassisted birth, but before my 4th child was born I met Rosey, and she kept in touch and offered me support. Now Rosey is a magical midwife, and after her 30 years of experience she has a large amount of instinct and intuition, so when I went into labour she already knew, and was most of the way on the 250 km drive to our house. She came into our birthing space and made everything safe and had all contingencies catered for, calmly and knowledgeably held the space for us, and when my daughter was born into the birthing pool, she gave me the huge gift of letting me be the first person to collect my baby from the water, which was incredible. As I sat there just having birthed, holding my baby in my arms, it occurred to me that I was the one who would find out what gender my baby was, and I could take as little or as long as I liked. It was incredible. We didn't leave the house for a month as we had a 'baby moon', we performed a lotus birth, and the oxytocic wash of love and bonding that surrounded our family was one of the most amazing and transformative events of my life.

My birthing knowledge has also been influenced by the incredible dedication and advocacy of local midwives, notably Rosey Vaher and Lisa Barrett, who are constantly trying to make options, possibilities, and realities available for local women, that encompasses both medical and homebirthing options, depending on necessity, reality, desire, and ability. These two women more than anyone else I know, are trying to make the paths between the medical and homebirthing models easier for their clients and everyone else involved, and to bring the focus from what either the medical or homebirthing fraternities believe to be ‘true’, to what is right for the family, mother and child, in every individual situation. I was fortunate to have these two women at the homebirthing part of this birth, as well as with me at the hospital, and they ensured my safety, as well as informed me of my realistic options when it became clear that this baby wouldn’t be born at home. I originally only booked Rosey to be my midwife, but when it became clear that this baby was in a breech position, and may have even been two babies, we asked Lisa to be a part of our homebirth as well, to ensure complete care, safety, and two valuable opinions. To have the continuity of Rosey being at home with me, and then being allowed into theatre made the world of difference as well. As someone who understood what was happening medically as well as knowing me personally, she could translate the events in a way that kept me feeling informed and acknowledged, and continues to do so as part of my after birth care as well..

As you may well imagine, in a lot of the books I’ve read about birth, Caesareans are described as traumatic and often damaging to both mother and child, as well as vastly over performed by a litigation fearing medical establishment. There’s much made of the possible complications and negative side effects, as well as a medical institution that only considers the birth in it’s medical terminology, and not the spirituality, confidence, attitudes and well being of the mother and child before, during and after the event.

And also as you may well imagine, as I was on my way to Flinders for what I guessed was going to be a Caesarean, having painful contractions out of the water that I love to birth in, into the ‘den of iniquity’ as described by much of my reading, I was absolutely terrified. It seemed all my fears had been wrapped up into one experience, and I was to face them all at the same time.

Imagine how incredibly grateful and overjoyed I was to encounter people smiling at me from the minute I came to Flinders, and how thrilled I was at how quickly the whole process was enacted. At the professional, informative, and respectful attitudes I came across in all the health professionals we dealt with, and how incredibly relieved I felt when the pain was stopped and it was nowhere near as bad as I’d thought it would be, in fact, not bad at all. Everyone of you who was in the room was friendly, told me exactly what you’d be doing, treated me gently, respected my wishes in all the details, helped me to have a lotus birth, told me all the details I needed to make an informed decision, and were graceful as you went about your jobs. For which I again want to offer the hugest gratitude I can muster.

And I’m also profoundly thankful that this experience happened before I went about publishing my book, as there is obviously a huge role and place for western medicine in birthing emergencies, and I realise now I had huge judgements about it, that would have been damaging to many women who went through similar situations to mine, and who would have been hurt and felt judged by my hardline attitudes. I was a homebirthing nazi, and now I believe I have a more well rounded opinion about all birthing options, and how we can access them and remain empowered, informed, and conscious.

I’m deeply grateful that my son and I are alive, and it’s thanks to you all that we are. And I realise now that I did get the perfect birth that I was after, but just not in the way that I thought it would be before it happened. I feel empowered not belittled by my experience, and I’m finding it interesting bumping up against attitudes similar to what mine were about Caesareans in the broader community. I intend to continue to tell my story to any who are interested, and describe the process and all of your actions in glowing terms. In my circles, Caesareans are often described as failures, horrific events, and in saddened tones. People don’t quite know what to do when I say that I had a perfect birth, and that the experience was amazing and empowering. As an unexpected and wonderful side effect, a few women who previously thought there must have been something wrong with them for their need to have a Caesarean, are reconsidering that notion, now that an ‘earth mother’ homebirther like me on her 5th birth had one!

As you're probably aware, there's a lot of debate at the moment about midwives and homebirthing, and I hope that you'll all keep in mind this story, as you enter discussions and decisions about homebirthing midwives and women's and families choices in birth. Having the continuous care of my homebirthing midwife also coming into the hospital with me, definitely eased my mind and helped me feel safer. And I'm certain that being left to a naturally induced labour, and spending a large amount of the birthing time at home, helped this experience to be a positive one, rather than the disempowered and horrific experience that many women feel on having a caesarean.

Also, in the year since my caesarean, I've found out some interesting things, mainly because for the first few months I experienced a mild form of post natal depression. Now I'm aware that what I'm about to talk about may be a very different paradigm of reality than what you all work within, but with the advancements of Quantum Physics and all the information coming to light about how much a person's thought affects their reality and physical health, I ask you to suspend cynicism and just go with me on this one for a minute. When I got sick of fighting with my partner and feeling perpetually angry and wondering why I'd birthed babies for years and never experienced an after period like this before, I self diagnosed Post Natal Depression from the Edinburgh Scale, and then started seeking treatment by alternative practitioners. I was fortunate to find Russel Smith, and Ayurvedic masseuse, and Andrea Hart, an accupuncturist, who between them pieced together the story for me. As Russel informed me caesareans by the very nature of the cut (there's no judgement in this by the way, I understand that it's the only safe place to cut, and I KNOW that this operation is neccesary and life saving), cut through a major meridian in the body, and the results of this, produce symptoms incredibly close to post natal depression. And I found this information further fleshed out by Andrea Hart, who told me that where the spinal goes in, is a place that accupuncturists never go near, as that point is one that locks off all power to the lower body. Again, no judgement in that statement, as power and sensation in the lower body need to be dulled to perform the operation, but the effects last longer than those of the anasthetic. And again, the effect on the body and psyche of these points being cut and having needles in them, are the same as the effects of postnatal depression.

I felt instantly relieved on finding this all out, as I could stop blaming myself for being an lesser mother than I had been, and realised why it was all happening. I also found their treatments helped me tremendously on the path to healing, and am now completely recovered. As accupuncturists are now covered by medicare to be present at births, (funny that this comes at a time when homebirthing midwives may not), this information may be handy for you when dealing with women who are having or have had caesareans and aren't feeling tip top.

Incidentally, I've also recently discovered Ethnopediatrics, and am supported in my beliefs of co-sleeping and attachment parenting as being biologically kind on my babies since reading about it. Some of the nurses in my convalescence in hospital had a bit of a hard time with me not letting my baby go or putting him in a cot It's worth a look at this new science, and very fascinating reading....

I'd best stop before this letter becomes too much of an epic, but I just want to say again, thank you all for being there, and for your thoughfullness, respect, and for giving me and empowered caesarean. From the bottom of my heart, thanks.

Hellena Post, Currawong and family.

How to work towards an empowered caesarean Part 2

On the afternoon of the 27th of November I went into gentle labour, and hung out with Currawong slowly getting ready, resting between expansions, and being gently sexual. Later that night it hotted up and I felt like the baby/ies were gonna come before my midwives even got there. I made Currawong call everyone over, and wake two fellow community members to help him cart water for me. I was riding the expansions like I'd ride an orgasm, and my whole family and midwives and two community members were holding space for me in a totally honourable way. My waters broke while I was in the birthing pool, and the plug popped like a champagne cork against the pool. But I could only get to a certain point, which felt to me like it was just one step behind transition, and could go no further. My beautiful midwives gave me the time and space to come to my own conclusions within safe limits, and also gave me many suggestions about how to birth a breech baby, which it still was, not having miraculously turned at the last minute. It was a beautiful time, a fellow community member stroked my face in the pool and told me that I WAS the goddess, she also fed kids and made sure that everyone was ok. My mum was there gently in the background giving me her rock like support like she always has. All my kids were looking forward to meeting their new sibling. I faced one of my fears – to have expansions out of the water – and found it wasn't that bad. We hung a rope from the ceiling and I bounced on a ball, we walked around outside and did the labyrinth in our back yard. For the first time in my birthing history I masturbated through expansions, and found that this helped a lot. I also got into some raw sex with Currawong hoping this would help things along. My midwives were there the whole time, checking me and my baby/ies, making sure everything was safe.

At around 11 in the morning on the 28th of November, I finally faced the fact that my baby/ies weren't going to come at home, and we had to transfer to hospital. You know how in hindsight things make so much more sense than you thought at the time? Well for the first time in our birthing history Currawong had made a bed with a plastic sheet underneath in our magic bus, and all that was left was to pack a bag and go. That trip down to Flinders hospital was the longest and scariest of my life. Another fear faced. To have to transfer to hospital and be driven whilst in childbirth. One of the midwives came with me to hold my hand while Currawong and my big daughter sat in the front and drove, and another midwife met us there and stayed with my big girl while Currawong and my hand-holding midwife went in.

And from the moment I walked into the hospital, everyone just smiled at me. The front desk person who had been warned I was coming told me how calm I looked and was surprised I'd been in labour for the past 19 hours. Everyone in the halls smiled at me, and we got swept straight away into a room where they gave me gas and found out what details they needed, took off my birthing plan to read, (HA! Oh to have been a fly on the wall when they read THAT one...), and got me ready for the hospital process. The head obstetritian just happened to be available, and this tall strapping fella who reminded me of one of my brothers gave me an ultrasound and described to me respectfully and gently everything he was doing. He told me that I had just the one baby, and that the cord was around his neck with a high placenta, and that the only way he was going to come out into the world without dying was to have a caesarean. It was just as well that he hadn't engaged in the birth canal fully, because the pull would probably have strangled him. By this time I was so profusely greatful that the end was in sight, and that I couldn't have done it on my own, and that they were all THERE and being so sweet to me, that I just thanked him again and again, and everyone else who I came into contact with. Thanked them for being there, thanked them for studying so hard so they knew what to do, and thanked them for helping me. On this amazing slide through the hospital system, I also just happened to be there when the surgery was available, so we went straight in, and I found myself in a room full of smiling people who all introduced themselves to me and told me what their role was. The paediatrician shook my hand and told me that if all went well he wouldn't be touching me or my baby, to which I gave him profound thanks, and the anesthetist looked like a total dude. I thanked them all in as many ways as I could think of, and I think they were a bit surprised (especially after reading my birth plan) at how effusively greatful this strapping hippy earth mother type was being. I even managed to crack a joke when my spine was having a needle put into it and he told me it would feel like an ant bite. “What sort of ant?” I asked in a droll fashion. They all laughed. While all this was happening, the head obstetritian was in the corner on a computer googling 'placenta, lotus birth', and getting ready to be part of his first lotus birth, no questions asked, and no judgement given. My midwife was allowed in which I found out later was NOT the norm, and they seated Currawong next to me and told him he could look at what was happening if he wanted. The midwife who was with me told me later that I'd got the Gold Card treatment, and that she'd never before seen a caesarean where the staff were wanting to stand so close to the mother. I had a hospital midwife behind me, stroking my hair while it was all happening.

Another fear faced – having a caesarean. It was freaky. Made so much less freaky by the respectful and gentle attitudes around me, but freaky nonetheless. From the moment the anasthetic hit me I shook uncontrollably, teeth rattling in my head. Most of it is a bit of a blur because I was so totally focused on the person inside me and when he was going to be in my arms. There was a sheet between them and me, and to this day, the most traumatic part of the whole experience was hearing him cry, and not being able to touch and comfort him instantly. Still. Because I was having a lotus birth, they only held him till my placenta was out, and gave him straight to me then, which was only about 3 minutes, and by all accounts a HUGELY shorter time between birth and arms than most other women having a caesarean experience. And when he was handed to me I only had one arm with which to hold him as the other was strapped down with a drip, and he was laid across my chest with his head on my lips. After gusty screaming during the separation, he laid face down with his hands by the side of his face, and settled down to almost sleep, as soon as my lips touched his head and I murmured a welcome to him. And he didn't leave my arms except for when Currawong or my family held him for about 6 weeks afterwards.

And I'm positive that this experience was so positive BECAUSE I'd birthed as much as I could at home powerfully, sexually and spiritually, doing the labyrinth and the rest and BECAUSE I didn't know what the outcome would be before it happened and I walked into the experience open hearted and expecting the best ( I may have been tempted to book in for a caesarean if I knew before hand that it was the only way he was coming out ), and BECAUSE I'd written such a kick-arse birthing plan before it happened, and BECAUSE I trusted in my body and my life experience and surrendered to the experience. All these factors combined just picked me up on a big beautiful wave that bore me through the whole hospital experience.

Healing took a long time. Gone forever were my illusions about caesareans being an 'easy' option. I went into the hospital a vibrant young woman, and came out middle aged. I had less patience than usual, felt like I'd gone back to my teen years in terms of insecurity and having a low body image, and things that I'd usually let slide made me ravenously angry. In lots of ways I was depressed, insecure, and low. About 5 months down the track I self diagnosed Post Natal Depression from the Edinburgh scale, and at least felt like I had somewhere to start in making it right.

I sought a consultation with Russel, the Ayurvedic Masseuse, and he explained to me that my major meridian had been cut, which resulted in symptoms very close to post natal depression. He also said that the scalpel being steel was a conductor, so whatever energy the surgeon had, or mood they were in, was left as a memory in my body. He gave me a massage and showed me how to arch my fingers over the scar to heal the meridian. And then I was fortunate enough to meet the beautiful Andrea Hart, acupuncturist, who happens to be one of the few acupuncturists in the country who knew about how to heal caesareans, as she'd had one herself when learning. She went on to confirm what Russel said, as well as add to the meridian information the knowledge that where they put spinal needles in caesareans, is a place that acupuncturists never go near, as it locks off the power to the bottom half of your body. Sessions with her helped to restore my 'chi', as well as repair the damage done by the spinal and the cut. I also sought a few sessions with a psychologist, who showed me some ways to help heal my head. But I'd have to say that the best healing occurred when 4 of our children and my mother got whooping cough, all moved into our house, and all needed love. Currawong and I were going through one of the roughest patches we'd had in a long time before whooping cough hit. And realised that whooping cough was all about love and we had to put our fighting in our back pockets. We noticed that the kids got sicker when we fought, and that old saying 'fake it till you make it' proved true. By the time whooping cough was over we were in love again, and because the fear had been so strong, other issues like post natal depression paled into insignificance. On Balthazar's first birthday I realised that I was back to my old self, fit and strong again, and all the issues around a caesarean had abated.

We sat around our home with the people who were at our birth and talked about what had happened, how we realised that the caesarean had taken over Balthazar's birth story, and we hadn't talked about the powerful birthing at home. We reclaimed our home birth, and when Currawong was crying and talking about the most intense part of Balthazar's birth for him – which was driving me safely to the hospital – a tree branch cracked and broke outside our house, and it felt like the experience was released. We realised that we'd all been enriched by the experience, and learnt so much that the whole birth became a valuable nugget of learning. Some of my deepest birthing fears had been faced, and we were all stronger and wiser for the experience. Thank you Balthazar, and thank you my beautiful and strongly loving partner and family, and thank you to our community......

How to work towards an empowered caesarean Part 1

Around this time last year I was getting well and truly ready to birth. My baby was definitely breech, and my magical midwife thought there might even be two in there, so she'd called in another magical midwife as back up and support. I didn't have any ultrasounds, I was 38 and I'd had 4 other children. 2 in hospital and 2 at home. Such a narrow description of incredibly transformative events, but there you have it. I had faith in my body and my ability to birth, and I had faith in the little person/s inside me, that they'd create the situation they needed to birth into, and all would be well. I'd created a term 'ECO' birthing, which stood for Easy, Comfortable and Orgasmic, and I was busy making nappies from groovy material, pads, and nipple pads. The birthing room was organised, and we weren't far off putting up the pool. Interestingly enough, I'd met three women just before the birth who had all had caesareans, and internally I was smug in my belief that they must have been enculturated to the point that they didn't believe in their bodies enough to birth naturally. I also 'knew' that I was going to have a girl, even though in the beginning I 'knew' it was a boy. My midwife brought me a breech book, and I decided not to read it, as I didn't want to sway my experience, or feed possible problems into my already fertile imagination. I was sure that my baby/ies would turn if they could, even at the last minute. I guess you could say I took the blind faith approach.

My midwife asked me to fill out the details in my orange pregnancy record, and I took great delight in filling out the Birth Plan bit, cause I was sure I wasn't going to end up in hospital, so I took it as an opportunity to write what I REALLY wanted to tell them, rather than think about politics or diplomacy. This is what I wrote. I'll write the documents questions in itallics, and my replies in normal script.

BIRTH PLAN

Birth
Describe the kind of labour and birth you wish to experience (e.g. position, cutting the cord, pain relief).
In water, no internals, no intervention whatsoever unless ABSOLUTELY essential, no drugs whatsoever, no vaccinations after birth, and no cord cutting as we do lotus birthing, no separation from mother at all, no grabbing baby and giving it to me – I can do that myself. Thank-you.....

Cultural or religious needs
Human Animal liberationist, pagan and anarchist, that believes birth is totally natural and best left alone by western medicine.

How you would like to feed your baby
Breast feeding of course!!

Previous pregnancy experiences
4 previous births, all totally stylish, vaginal deliveries. 1st in hospital, with ruptured waters, gas and a shot of pethidine, 2nd hospital in water, unassisted till after born, last 2 homebirths, no drugs, no pain, no tearing, no tears.....also 2 terminations in and amongst it all.


Any other information
Totally healthy woman who births naturally and easily with huge trust and love for her body. No health issues or sensitivities, strong as an ox with huge stamina. Gives birth like the cliché woman in the field, and no problems with breastfeeding and after care. Totally confident and aware of issues and rights.

In the Personal History bit I gave my occupation as a mother, lover, spinster, creatrix, and Currawong's occupation was father, lover, drummer. Then came the...

Social History

Smoking No
Alcohol 1 or 2 stouts, maybe some organic Rose occasionally
Recreational drug use No
Major stressors, life changes or losses No
Relationship issues No – love is wonderful
Family and social supports incredibly close and loving community
Children are healthy and well adjusted
Accomodation issues we live in paradise
Financial issues we always have more than enough
Other thought creates reality

Medical History

Deep venous thrombosis No
Diabetes No
Epilepsy No
Gynaecological problems No
Heart disease No
High blood pressure No
Pre pregnancy blood pressure No
Kidney disease No
Thyroid disorders No
Other nothing – strong and healthy

Mental health History

Anxiety/depression No
Postnatal depression No
Other psychiatric disorders No
Family history of mental health problems No
Emotional issues No – I've worked long and happily on owning my life....

Family history and prenatal diagnostic issues

Diabetes mother and sister have it, mother controls with diet, sister insulin
Heart disease No
High blood pressure No
Genetic disorders/congenital abnormalities No
Other nothing except extreme intelligence

And then in the back bit, in the Pregnancy Issues and management plans, in every section where it said Pregnancy issues I wrote “Totally natural, easy process with no hitches”

You may well say what I wrote was full on, and maybe even a big middle finger up to western medicine. I just thought I was writing my truth, not being intimidated by forms, and saying it how it was.