Recently, we crossed the threshold from Winter to Spring. With that, Caleb has now been out of my womb for as long as he gestated inside-and ever after, the scale will tip in that direction.
I readily embraced the concept of a Fourth Trimester along with the birth of my first son. Now as I move forward from the point when I birthed my second child, I sense that the trimesters keep rolling on. Throughout my second pregnancy and these nine post partum months, I have felt a shift at each three-month interval: a change in physical being, mood, relationship to self and other.
I do not mean to suggest that we are living by metronome and shift dramatically at precisely three months. Rather, I have observed in myself over these last eighteen months a settling into the experiences I have just lived through and expectation over what will come next.
As this nine-month marker approached, I felt a realignment of my spirit and my body. It felt like landing: oh, hello, old friend! I am back and thanks so much for waiting right where I left you.
Today, in Santa Fe, the weather speaks to the blurry line that exists when we humans make declarations about time or nature. Spring-cleaning happened this past weekend and with that I put the snow boots away. Outside: daffodils, forsythia, cherry blossoms and tulips are opening to the warming days. When I opened the front door this morning the snow falling and blowing about took me aback. And, then it literally took me back; into the house about three more times to gather more layers, snow gear and then unearth Liam’s snow boots from the garage.
In myself, I feel the blurriness of this self-referential demarcation: “I am back!” I have declared. And then there is a pendulum that swings within: coming back into myself, and then dropping away again into the vortex of caring for others that is so much of early parenting. Now that consistent sleep has fallen away, yet again, it is harder to access the will and energy to exercise, connect with others, do anything but loll about and keep the people fed and clean. However, I don’t think it was premature to declare myself returned. It was true in that moment and each time that I swing back into that space, it will be closer to the lasting truth.
Now, with each passing day and for all time, Caleb moves further from the symmetry of growth that the Vernal Equinox showcased for us, nine months in, nine months out. It is hard to imagine him as anything other than the baby he is, yet he is well on his way to embracing the world and it’s gravity, expectation and disappointment.
I appreciate that he was born on the Summer Solstice, so that we now keep the time of his growth (and mine) along with the seasonal changes.
The question I now take to my journal is; will I continue to feel an awareness of myself shifting with the next change in season? (Might this be some of the fairy dust of procreating that blows off of our wings if we do not tend to it?)
And, I wonder, if there is something discrete about these 12-14 week intervals as an appropriate-or reasonable- amount of time to hatch a new plan or vision, live through it and then begin to reflect in preparation for the next go-round.
Onwards, we grow into Spring, planting our seeds, tending our homes and selves and daydreaming about the many-hued possibilities of Summertime.