Birthing Soul

Motherloss

Puffy-eyed and nose-stuffy, I chew on the layers of meaning that seep like bittersweet honey through my consciousness, letting the tears flow. You know how sometimes movies shake you to your core? Slice like an arrow deep into an unknown festering wound... well that's what Secret Life of Bees did for me tonight. It was moving and emotional to watch on so many levels, and hit so many deep places that I found myself bawling my eyes out in the car on the way home, not really knowing why.

The word that keeps coming to me is motherloss. A word that I feel from somewhere deep down that it brings deep wellings of grieving tears to my eyes just to speak the word. My own motherloss. The motherloss of our culture... the way the patriarchy wreaks so much havoc and pain in the lives of people: minorities, war "enemies," women and even men, each in its own horrible way.

Watching those monsters beat the nanny as she went to register to vote – I was so enraged. Fiery hot tears burned trenches down my cheeks as I wanted to jump into the movie and fight for her, with her, against the angry men beating her. But I was helpless, like the little girl with her, unable to help her, unable to change the past or the injustice that my country was built upon. Yet her strength  in the face of the roaring monsters - who abused her and threatened to kill her - awed me. She refused to give in, to break down or apologize. And I have to ask myself, where's my inner strength in the face of much lesser threats than that, and yet how often do I cower and give in to their demands in order make life a little easier in the short run.

And the little motherless girl, carrying the grief and guilt all her life of having accidentally killed her own mother. With a tortured monster of a father, raped by the ravages of patriarchy's war, who couldn't love her, who told her her mother had abandoned her, she was convinced deeply that she was unlovable. I look back to my own story and grieve at how I symbolically killed my own mother by being forced to choose sides and not choosing her. I aligned myself with the father. The good father's daughter. The authority pleaser. The good girl. Fitting into patriarchy's mold to the "T." And yet with the rejection of and by the mother, a deep seated feeling settled in that I hadn't even known existed until tonight... unlovable. I mean, if your own mother can't love you, who can?

And yet this little girl found a safe haven among the very folks her culture despised. She found strong women who worshiped an image of the Sacred Feminine, and she found the strong, compassionate and fierce heart of the Great Mother.

While I grieve for my personal motherloss, I know I am also in the process of healing the motherwound - that empty place that no human mother can fill, the wound that patriarchy has inflicted by killing the Mother for us, banning us from any powerful mother figure to cherish. Slicing her up. Splintering her out of our collective psyche until she is a caricature of femininity: picture perfect pagent girls smothered with fake smiles, plastered with makeup, prancing perky bodies down catwalks with the universe gawking and drooling. Or leave-it-to-beaver's mother, all docile, ready and waiting for the king to come back to his domain.Or the perpetual Virgin, a splintered image, wiped clean of any sinful bodily contamination; cleansed and holy. These are the versions patriarchy has left us.

It's time we find the real Mother in all her love and fierceness, in her dark earthiness and primal sexuality. It's time we women embody that for our children and stop the tragic rewounding of generation after generation, deprived of real mothers. Deprived of the Great Mother. It's time to stand up in the face of the patriarchy and scream back from the deep centers of our beings and say I will NOT give in! I will NOT let you slice me up, manipulate or control me, put me in my place or wreak your vile injustice on beautiful souls who may not fit into your rigid belief system.

And then we can find Her compassion to heal the brokenness, to mend the wounds inflicted on our own souls and on our collective soul, to begin to heal the splinters and splits and chasms between us that patriarchy, with its legacy of racism, oppression and abuse, has left us.

We may grieve Her loss, but She isn't lost forever. Indeed she is reawakening within us, remothering us. Sometimes it takes a movie to remind us of the wounds, but also of the hope.

PS... Go see the movie, but if you are anything like me, remember to bring tissue!

Fire, water and shadow eruptions

I lay limp and weightless in the water tonight, effortless, letting go. Letting all the psychic toxins float away from me into the soothing water. The searing hot yoga room, the burning muscles, the aching back. The stored emotions in my cellular memory that get unlocked and unleashed through the heart exploding poses. My anger roused at the little girls fighting in the car on the way to grandma's house and the ensuing lecture, my frustration at not being able to control them. My frustration at not being enough, not having enough hands, and having two sleeping children to carry into the house in the pouring rain, and one who is wailing at the flooded doorway at 11:00 at night while I carry her sisters from the car. Embarrassment. Frustration. Anger that the littlest things in life  - like walking from the car to the house - get complicated immensely when you are a single parent.

I often feel my psyche contracting throughout the day, getting smaller and smaller and increasingly rigid until something sets it off and it just spasms in an uncontrolled cramp of frustration and anger – usually set off because I am too attached to a situation and am unsuccessfully trying to control it. We are running late and the girls refuse to cooperate (get dressed, stay dressed, eat, whatever it may be). Or we are in the car and I cannot control the fighting without either pulling over or yelling at them to stop.   

As my psyche contracts, these situations become my world, my universe for that moment. Nothing else exists except my glaring inability to control, and my anger that these lively little beings can't just make life easy for me and cooperate. This authoritarian shadow figure rears an ugly head. A grand old patriarch who expects full and complete submission, and rages when he's crossed. Roars when he's questioned. I don't much like him, and as soon as the moment passes, he's disappeared once again into the shadowlands of psychic territory.

I'm definitely seeing the need for some psyche-opening practices. Or at the very least, a practice where  psyche can rest. Intense yoga seems to stir the cauldron, pushing my physical body to its limits, flushing toxins from psychic cells, burning and searing and cooking me in a semi-hellish kind of way.  I feel wrung out.  Emptied. Parched inside while outside drenched in toxic sweat, leaving me longing for cool pools of refreshing water, or just a little mist upon my heat-stricken face. I think the fire meditation needs to be balanced with water.

So after it all, I draw myself a bath, pouring my already stiffening and aching body into the depths where I could just be in the surreal, underwater stillness, and finally let it all go. Letting my buoyant body hover and float in weightless nothingness.  Nothing to control. No children crying. No phones ringing. No hellish yoga heater searing my face. Just the thudding of my heart in the echoing liquid chamber. Held in the Primal Waters.

Inanna's descent

I wander through the fecund folds
of her ever-changing cloak where
she twinkles dancing sun-rays
upon her rustling gown.

The green of summer is cast off
to reveal beneath
a woven tapestry
spun with gold and crimson.
She is radiant,
crowned with the lapiz sky.

Dancing along the river's edge
she calls to me in whispers of longing
Dancing the dance of descent.
Calls me to join her as she sheds her garments
layer by layer
each more beautiful than the last
until she dances naked
into the underworld.

She sings an ancient song
that echoes deep yearnings in my soul.
Deep calling unto deep.
I miss her like a long-lost lover
Her memory haunting
the cellular caverns of my being.
Her love letters etched
on crimson leaves
long turned to dust.

But today I remember her.
I taste her sweetness
I hear her haunting song.
I drink her sensual fragrance, her colors, her life.
Her cyclical rhythms are my own
for I am part of her. She is me.

Along the banks of the river
I shed my cloaks and layers
living her life
dying her death
With her I dance,
disrobe and descend
to the shadows
into her incomprehensible womb.

With her I celebrate the edge of life.
In one last flourish of color and warmth
we dance together
naked and unashamed
at the rivers edge.

Leopard skin: fungus, partiarchal thought and the allopathic heirarchy

Tired of diseased-looking, itchy spots that cover my back and chest, I broke down yesterday and went to an allopathic doctor. I've had this spotty skin fungus for a year and a half now, growing, spreading and inching itself over my tissue like a slow moving but insistent wildfire.

I'm just tired of looking like a spotted leopard. I know I've been working with large cat energy this year, but really, I don't need to look like one.

After self-diagnosing as tinea versicolor and trying various self administered and internet concocted natural remedies, as well as a good dose of anti-fungal cream I went to my naturopath to see what advise she would have for fighting this little bugger. We checked my food sensitivities and then she gave me a list of supplements and intense pro-biotics to help support my adrenal function, liver function and immune system.

I love the philosophy of naturopathy: your body can cure itself, we just need to give it the right tools. She said that she prefers not to use invasive means to eradicate symptoms, but prefers to let the body heal itself in it's natural timing. I really resonated with that philosophy, recognizing the quick fix, slice and dice, drug it and cover the symptoms mentality as a masculine and patriarchal model with concern to the body. And I'm really re-examining my relationship to the patriarchy on every level.

So I am trying my best to take my supplements every day, including my super-intense pro-biotic solution, and I'm seeing benefits in my energy level. But it's going to take a while to combat the fungus this way. And as much as I believe in natural means, I'm also a product of a fast paced, give it to me now society and I just want this stuff gone from my body!

In my research I found there was a pill that would eradicate this stuff. At least for a while. So yesterday I broke down and went into the local medical clinic to get a very expensive signiture.

The young, blond 30-something doctor walks into the room, and without saying hi, she looks at me from the other side of the room and said, yep, that's tinea versicolor. Thanks, I thought, I already know that. She then tells me that the only thing they can do for this is topical. I informed her that topical creams haven't worked for me and that I can't even reach some of the places where this fungus is spreading (my back).  Actually I said, I've heard the Diflucan pill eradicates it pretty nicely. She scoffed at me like I was an idiot, and informed that yeast and fungus were completely different things. Diflucan would definitely not work on this. (Right, so that's why even Wikipedia says that yeast is in the Fungus family, and several reputable websites recommend this drug for extensive cases of the rash). She decides to go check it out anyway and about 15 minutes later comes back into the room. She tells me that it's not recommended, and it probably won't work, but we can try it, and she hands me a prescription. The most expensive signature I've ever gotten...

I was pretty annoyed at the whole setup. First at the doctor who treats you like you are a number in a list. Second at the fact that all she could do was offer me something to cover my symptoms. There was no explaining how this fungus works, or what imbalance might be causing it internally... maybe some ideas on lifestyle changes. Nope, none of that. Just, hi, that's a symptom and we slather it with symptom juice. Here's my 70$ signature. Next! And third, the fact that she concluded that I was an uninformed idiot who didn't know anything about the grand world of medical magic. Well I may not know the scientific name for yeast, or fungus, or exactly how it reproduces, but I damn well know my own body. And I can do legitimate research about my symptoms and what might actually work.

All the more reason why I'll stick with my naturopathic doctors who actually take the time to get to know you and educate you about the way the body works and how you can help it heal itself. I'll continue to keep up my supplements though I may defect to the allopathic mafia for a day and take that pill to help jump-start the process. But I doubt I'll go back to an allopathic doctor any time soon.

Moving skeletons

I feel all chaotic and dusty inside, cluttered up with piles and boxes of exploding stuff everywhere. Boxes marching like disheveled soldiers to their deaths where they fall and shatter glass everywhere, poking my psychic insides with angry shards. I feel like a bulldozer ran through my unconscious, like all the stuff that had it's place is now out of the shadows. Skeletons find their way out of locked-tight closets and end up sitting on my toilet like a dinner guest. Bathing with me, taunting me. Laughing at the clutter and disorganization of my life.

Such is the joy of moving. No wonder I dream multiple times a night for weeks on end every time I move. All the psychic dust from the shadow lands is being stirred up, revealing itself in strange symbols and a swirl of chaotic emotions.

I look at all the work that needs to be done and I shut down, overwhelmed. I'd rather curl up in the safe womb of my sun-lit bed, pull the heavy blankets over me and wish it all away. Maybe grab a book from my shelf and disappear for a while, or call the Fantasia brooms and buckets to swish it all into place. Does Fantasia magic work with roaming skeletons too? My back aches excruciatingly, my head hurts, and my kids are screaming. Nothing's in it's place and I forgot to eat. Where are the glasses, I'm thirsty? Oh yeah, they all broke. Where's a spoon or a knife or something so I can make a sandwich? Oh right, they are still at the other place. Skeletons rummage through exploding boxes looking for nourishment. I should probably eat something just to keep them at bay...

It's not just feeling overwhelmed at all the work that needs to be done. It's not the changes that I have to make to the new living situation, the fact that I'm now on the "other" side of town - the un-pretty side - or that my girls decided they were big enough to sleep in their own bed (which is true) - though all that plays into the chaotic swirl of blustery emotions. It's just that my life feels all disjointed and chaotic and un-put-together. I feel all disassembled, parts strewn. I feel concerned and worried (finances) and flustered and frustrated and rigid. My back is stiff and my insides are stiff and I don't feel very flexible at all. I wonder if my life will ever be put together the way I want.

Part of it is uprooting everything and seeing how much stuff I'm attached to. You don't feel like it's a lot until it's time to move, and then it feels like a mountain load. And why all this stuff? Nothing is particularly attachment-worthy. Most of it's junk. Except my books. My bookshelf is my lover who I visit with every day. Tall and strong, quiet and unassuming. He's full of wisdom and doesn't leave his underwear on the floor. I was so lonely for my books when I packed them up! Several times I went to check for a book I wanted to reference, not realizing they were gone. They were the first thing that went back up in my new place. So I can see my attachment to my books... But the rest of the stuff? Seriously?

Such is the joy of moving... it's more about facing your stuff, and stirring up skeleton friends, sweeping the old crap out and finding a new psychic space. With time and maybe a little outside motivation, I'll put all the skeletons lovingly back in their closets. All the stuff will once again find it's place - hopefully much of it at the goodwill. And normal, functioning life will resume as I settle once again into a new place where the dust and fuzz-balls will collect in the in-between and shadowy places until the next time I move. For now I'll keep tabs on all the psychic stuff that is getting stirred up. Maybe goodwill will take that too…

Natural birth

Natural Birth

I just watched the movie The Business of Being Born,  a documentary on the big business of birth in America. It was quite interesting, heartbreaking at times, satirically hilarious at others. I don't know how many times I was crying watching the amazing miracle of a baby coming into the world, and all the intense emotions that come with those first moments.

I am struck by the beauty and power of a woman's body. The way the primal forces take control as she gives herself to her body - with movement and moans, sinking into the intensity and the process of opening up and birthing a new life. It is the most sensuous, primal and emotionally intense experience a woman will ever have. It is quite literally a rite of passage and should be the most sacred and honored of all events in a woman's life.

Unfortunately, in America, it's not the case. Birth is a messy and painful inconvenience to both doctor and mother, and many are electing to have planned C-sections, while most others attempt to numb the pain with epidurals and other drugs, and often end up with emergency sections because the baby is in distress from the violent contractions pitocin causes, or labor isn't progressing because the epidural has slowed it down.

Beyond the fact that it is a multi-billion dollar industry, I am saddened that so many women have been robbed of the single most profound experience in her life. Like someone in the movie said, you hit a wall so high that you absolutely know that you can't make it, but then you do, and it changes you in a profound and deep way. A woman knows at a cellular level that if she did THAT, she can do anything! The woman starts to develop an awe and appreciation for her own body, and instead of thanking technology or falling in love with the anesthesiologist who numbed her pain, she knows SHE did it, the birth of her baby skyrocketing her from pain to instant cosmic bliss in a rush of more pleasure and bonding hormones than she will ever experience at any other point in her life.

Wherever it happens, natural childbirth is a profound and life-changing experience. The question is, can a woman fight for the experience she wants if it's in a hospital situation.

Like Ricki Lake, the executive producer of the movie, I experienced both a hospital birth and a home birth, and can say that the difference is fairly profound. After the powerful experience birthing my twins at home, I am a home-birth advocate and would encourage anyone who is committed to a natural, profound and beautiful birth to consider a direct-entry midwife or a natural birthing center. As my 7 year old just said (to my raised eyebrows and a bit of surprise), quoting the video, "the best thing to do is get the hell outta the hospital, mom." But I do realize that it's not always possible. There are ways though, to try to assure yourself a memorable birth in the hospital.

1. Labor at home. The Bradley Method encourages women to do most of their laboring at home, and to know how to read a woman's face and demeanor to determine when it's time to go in. This way, the woman is in her own environment, not strapped to a monitor, she can walk around, lay in the bath, lay in her bed, and just let the beginning of the process happen on it's own time. Once admitted to the hospital, there is a ticking clock, and if the woman is not progressing quickly enough, they will push the pitocin, or manually break the water. A woman's body is made to give birth in the absence of fear, so as soon as she changes environment, or there is pressure on her to prove she is really in labor, the labor often stops.

The down side of this is that the woman is going through the worst part of labor in the car on the way to the hospital. Let me tell you from experience, this is ripping the seat-belt off the wall, screaming in intense agony kind of torture. Once those transition contractions hit, you don't want any movement whatsoever. I remember with my twins hitting that place, and if someone was sitting on the couch near me they weren't to move a muscle until that contraction was over. Bumps and breaks amplify the pain through the stratosphere.

2. No interventions. Once you start interventions, you start a snowball effect, so the best thing to do is not allow them. It's scary though when they pull the fear tactics on you. Probably one of the biggest differences between a hospital birth and a home birth. Midwives trust your body, though watching for any complications. The hospital staff trusts technology.

3. Go with a CNM - Certified Nurse Midwife. They are familiar with various birthing positions and will be able to guide you through. Lying on your back is the worst position ever as it closes the pelvis and it hurts! Every pregnant woman knows it's painful to lay on your back, why in the world would you give birth in that position!? Makes no sense. Even a 45 degree angle can be excruciating to the tailbone. So experiment with different positions (yeah, this is kinda like a sex class! It's just the other side of the sex part). Squatting, the birthing bar, the birthing stool, the good ol' hands and knees, the bathtub: there are so many ways to use a woman's body and gravity to birth a baby.

4. Have a birth plan and an advocate to enforce it. When you are in labor, the last thing you will be thinking of is fighting for the birth you want. Your rational mind has been taken over by the primal instinctual mind and you are in your body more than any other time in your life. During transition you could be completely naked, have a team of hot football players run through your room and you could care less. You are literally in an altered state. Because of this, you are also hyper-suggestible, meaning that if a doctor comes in and tells you things aren't going fast enough and you need pit, you will probably not care at that point. There will also be a point where drugs sound really, really good. An advocate who knows your stance on interventions and drugs will be able to be strong for you when you are weak, when you are hitting that wall and don't believe you can do it. You can! He/she needs to know that and gently pull you through.

5. Consider a Doula. Basically a birth coach who is trained in natural birth practices who will be there with you through your labor and delivery process. 

My first birth was in the hospital and knowing these things beforehand was helpful. I managed to birth my first baby naturally - probably because as soon as I got to the hospital, it was time to push! Nontheless, I remember feeling that rush of elation and emotion as the pain gave way to amazement and the first moments of locking my eyes on her big, wide, blue ones.

But it didn't keep the experience from becoming traumatic. When my placenta wouldn't deliver in the prescribed amount of time, they hooked me up to a pit-drip. When that didn't work, they told me I might bleed to death if we didn't remove it immediately (even though I wasn't bleeding). So out of fear of death, I consented to a manual extraction of my placenta. Think a woman's hand reaching completely inside your uterus and ripping out the organ still attached there. They gave me stadol for the procedure, which made me loopy, but I still felt it all. When she pulled it out in pieces in her fist (think birthing a head again), they didn't get it all. So then we had to do a d&c to scrape my uterus. The whole procedure was very traumatic to say the least.

In the end, every woman needs to make this decision for herself. Do the research. Listen to your body, listen to your intuition and follow it. Even if we don't all rush home to have our babies there, at the very least, women need to take back birth in this culture as a sacred experience, her body the temple of mystery. We need to send the message that natural birth is a powerful and profound experience, one that is difficult, intense and sometimes painful (though it doesn't have to be), but very do-able.

Homeschooling

So I'm homeschooling my oldest. Yes, in addition to my grad school studies, raising pre-school age twins and working on the weekends (just call me a glutton for punishment or quite possibly crazy!). I almost don't know how it turned out that way, but it did. So here we are, rather bumbling through the first bit, hoping to get a handle on things and a rhythm going. Some days it's okay, other days it's like banging my head against hers. Some days I'm completely overwhelmed - like the day our curriculum came in with about 20 books worth of theory and cds and learning activities that I need to sift through in order to make something coherent. Like I have time for all of that!!

Other days, like today, things go great. I've put the Enki curriculum aside for now, until I have enough time to figure it out, and instead we are just kinda winging it. So today she chose to read a myth of the Sumerian Goddess, Inanna, so we went with that. We turned it into a great little discussion on some of the stronger aspects of women, like the ability to stand in the face of a threat. Then we watched a brain-pop cartoon movie on Sumeria and learned a bit of the history and culture of the ancient Mesopotamia. I read from a great  history curriculum, a little chapter on the Sumerians and the dictator Sargon, how he united the city-states of Mesopotamia under military threat, and out of that we talked about the difference between dominator models who impose rule by the threat of death and partnership societies who value life, relationship and beauty (yes, with a 2nd grader!). We colored some maps and drew some pictures and watched another youtube movie on mesopotamia where we actually saw real pictures of the ancient structures.

It was so fun! I even learned some stuff! If I had planned ahead a bit we could have made some cuneiform tablets (which we still might do). But all in all I felt like it was a great afternoon of learning and fun. It's such a wonderful feeling to watch your kid get excited about learning, or recognizing something in an unrelated book that she recently learned. She gets so excited :).

There are times that I have felt incredibly overwhelmed with all the tasks I've taken on. I just need to keep things in perspective, remember all the reasons why I chose to homeschool and shoot for these kinds of days. There is definitely an element of learning with your child that is so magical, that I hadn't even realized I had given up by sending her to school.

So today's a good day... yesterday was extremely overwhelming. Who knows what tomorrow will be, but no doubt it will be an adventure. It always is!

Mythic Journeys

Just thought I'd pass on a beautiful movie that I ran across while preparing for my spiritual autobiography for school. It's called Mythic Journeys. It's a 12 minute trailer to the full movie, but it is quite powerful. I can't wait to see the full version!

From the website:

Mythic Journeys is an inventive fusion of documentary, story, artwork and animation. Despite the fact that myth has always existed, surprisingly few people today are aware of even the classic myths or the potential myths have to impact their lives. Myths are the reservoir of human wisdom - the story and the meaning of life. Every human being has asked the questions who am I, what is my purpose, why am I here? The answers are in the myths that have been passed on from generation to generation. Mythology is a tool that can bridge cultures, communities and generations. Through this film we hope to inspire people to activism and show that by helping others we ultimately help ourselves.

Interviews include:

JEAN SHINODA BOLEN
DEEPAK CHOPRA
SOBONFU SOME
ROBERT WALTER (of the Joseph Campbell foundation)
MICHAEL MEADE

I can't imbed the video, but you can view it  here.

May we each find the unique and powerful story of our lives!

Plant wisdom

As much as I like the color green, it's clear I do not have a "green thumb." Unfortunately my gardening mother didn't pass that down to me in her genetic donation. Maybe I only need a few lessons and a good dose of fertilizer, but it seems the only plants I can keep alive are those tropical vines that are so hearty you could freeze them or leave them for a week and they still manage to hang on.

I am trying my hand at tomatos this year - though my mother planted them for me as a birthday present. They are sitting outside on my porch looking withered in the summer morning sunlight. My mother tells me tomatos need to be stressed in order to produce fruit. Well, if that's the case, it looks like they will be producing plenty! (Hmm, is there a life lesson nestled in there?!)

So I also tried my hand at some aloe vera plants. In our household we call them "Mr. Plant" and treat them with respect. We use his medicine on everything from burns to scrapes, chicken pox and invisible owies - he truly is a magical creature. Naming him also seems to help keep the three-year-olds from pulling them up by the roots repeatedly - as was the case in the beginning. Surprisingly, that first plant is somehow holding onto life.

The other two aren't doing so well. I had gotten a couple more from my mother's place and transplanted them into a new pot. No matter how much I watered them, or didn't water them, or left them in the sunlight or in the shade (I tried everything), they have since lost all vitality and withered away into sad, drooping, empty arms, some dried up completely and others holding on to a bit of life, still half-firm with a sad bit of the gooey life-gel inside.

But what was interesting to me (other than my lack of ability with plants), was that out of the drooping, withered and dying plant sprang beautiful, tender, green shoots of baby aloe plants from the dying one's roots. I realize that this is how these plants reproduce, but it still seemed to hold a metaphor to a deeper life truth: out of death comes life. And sometimes the old needs to die away to give nourisment and way for the new to come forth.

So next time I'm feeling stressed and wilted I'll remember my tomato plants that only bring fruit after stress. And when I'm grieving the dying parts of my life, I'll remember the new life springing from the dying aloe's roots, and in the midst of death look for the vibrant, firm shoots of new life sprouting out of me.

Maybe I should learn more about this gardening thing. There seems to be a lot of wisdom hidden in these little plants.

Saying goodbye - little deaths on the road to growing up

Eliya, one of my 3-year-old twins came to me just now with tears streaming down her cheeks. She had tried to put on her favorite princess sparkle shoes, the ones she likes to prance around the house in because they click on the floor like lady shoes. Only her feet had a little growth spurt since she last tried them on and now no longer fit in the shoes.

She wailed and cried like it was the worst and most awful thing in the world; indeed in the life of a three-year-old girl, it is a pretty traumatic thing. She tried to stuff the shoes on, like the stepsisters in Cinderella tried to stuff their feet into the glass slipper, but no matter how much she tried, they just wouldn't fit. She even brought them to me, the great fixer of almost everything in a three-year-old's life, and even I couldn't fit them. She wailed all the more. "Why mommy?! Why are my shoes doing that?"

In that little moment I saw foreshadowed all the changes that she would go through in her life, and all the little deaths and goodbyes she would have to say as her body changed through the years; goodbyes not just to princess shoes, but to ways of being in the world.

And so I asked her if she wanted to do a little ceremony to say goodbye to her shoes. She didn't quite know what that was, but she tearily eyed agreed. So we put her little black treasures on a pillow in the front room, and I lit my ceremonial sage smudge stick and after I whirled the smoking stick around her, we walked around her shoes and whirled the smoke around them as well. We said goodbye to the shoes and we thanked her body for growing big and strong.

When we were done, she was hoping for some kind of magic to make the shoes fit, and she reached for them hopefully. But I explained that we said goodbye to them, and on some level she understood. I also told her that because she said goodbye to these shoes, she would be able to get new ones soon.

The other kids came into the room as we were finishing and wanted to know what the smoky smell was all about, so we all had a little talk about growing bodies and death ceremonies.

I feel it is deeply important to honor the transitions we make in life - some of them as small and insignificant as growing out of our favorite shoes. Other transitions are full of joy like the birth of a baby or a celebration of a couple's commitment. Many come with mixed emotions like the onset of puberty, and still others are painful and extremely traumatic. But all of them have something in common: the leaving behind of a particular attachment or a way of being in the world. And this way must necessarily die for the next one to be birthed.

We can't wear our little princess shoes forever, our bodies won't allow it. And neither can we escape the transformation and growth on other levels. Instead of fighting the changes, embrace them. Embrace the necessary death. Learn to say goodbye - maybe even in a ceremonial way. And soon, you'll find yourself wearing the shoes of the next stage. They might even be black sparkle princess shoes .