The Dance - Blog Post

"Henry Ford Hospital," Frida Kahlo, 1932, oil on Sheet Metal, 12 ½ x 15 ½ in. Collection Museo Dolores Olmedo, Xochimilco, México. © 2014 Banco de México Diego Rivera Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, Mexico, D.F. / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

As the pregnancy test signified Life, I swayed and revelled in her dance. I allowed Life to flow and welcomed her signs. Life caressed and soothed me, she reached out and said, 'Come, we can play this game together'.

Life was ecstatic with her creation - she cavorted, glimmered and sparkled and I was entranced. I felt her fingers stroke my skin and her body cuddle into mine. I was comforted, held and supported and she whispered to me her dreams. 

  'This little one is forming, my darling'.

My body obeyed and revelled in growth - hormones increased. I swam in the nausea, my breasts became full as my belly ripened and I felt every movement as if I was swimming in water. Sickness moved me as if by tidal pull, and Life kept encouraging, 'Yes, my darling, feel everything. Feel it all'. 

Calling to all the humans I needed, I tried to nest, to feel safe in the world. I needed to find the people who would support this pregnancy so I could meet this little one - to experience having a baby in this lifetime just. one. time.

And then one day at work, Death decided to visit and she called my baby's name. 

Death sang softly and so sweetly, every note caressing the air around me. The spectral pied piper of the little womb ones. Death danced around me whilst Life started to shrivel and cry. Death shimmied, allowing her pendulous breasts to swing, and she shook her childbearing hips. Death waggled her finger and spoke to me with a smile on her lips, 'My darling, thank you for growing this little one of mine'.

I could see Life was helpless in the face of Death's call and could only witness the events unfolding. She watched as my baby heard and reached out in joy to suckle on her breasts, sit on her soft belly and be cradled in her sumptuous lap. Death sang, soothed and tended... whilst Life, and I, looked on in dismay.

My body was so full, then so empty, as I straddled and embodied Life and Death. My body understood what was happening and vomit, blood and tears seeped from me - ravaged by the loss of my little one. My husband collected my heaves, wiped the red from my legs and helped me collect the remains of our little one as I allowed the cramps to sweep my uterus, making sure Death took every last remnant. 

Then I heard Death speak to me, 'You have given me four of your gorgeous babies and I am indebted by your kindness. I will leave you with four gifts in remembrance of your sacrifice'.

Death laid the gifts out in front of me, and smiled with gratefulness. 

First of all, here is acceptance, which will also bring you peace. When you meet me without resistance, you will see I will also bring you a deep, resounding peace that will continue within you always. I know your resistance to me has devastated and exhausted you to the point that you are ready to receive this gift now. I nodded and took this gift into my hands.

My second gift to you is the ability to learn how to parent yourself - there is a little one within you that has waited so long for you to be able to embrace her. Now you can learn to look after her and allow her the healing she craves. This little one desires safety, comfort and love from you so very much. I understood the wisdom in these words and agreed.

I also allow you the capacity of compassion so that you can mother the lost ones in the world who are in desperate need of love. You are being given a limitless well of compassion so you can support others in their growth and allow them to find their own way. I took the gift without response.

Lastly, I bestow on you the title of 'Warrior'. A woman who has witnessed the dance of life and death of her own children she was unable to keep learns great courage and knowledge. A woman who can embody Life and Death and is able to hold them within is taught some of life's greatest secrets. There is very little in life you will be unable to handle. I bowed as I took on the title and tried to integrate this with who I think I am.

Death watched me receive these gifts, nodded and slowly bowed. 

She then turned and walked away with my little one in her arms.

 

Play free my dear Little Sprouty, play with your brothers and sisters in the spirit world - come and find me when I am ready to dance with Death once again.

I love you.

 

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She doesn't tell you - Poem

She doesn't tell you what it means,

When she tells you her little one is no more

When you will say, 'I'm sorry.'

And she will wonder what you are sorry for.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you that inside she is feeling numb

When you will say, 'Don't worry.'

And she will wonder what she will overcome.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you her baby's body will not leave

When you say, 'Be patient.'

And she will wonder how to silently grieve.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you of the hot anger in her heart

When you say, 'Please calm down.' 

And she will wonder if she's fallen apart.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the torrents of blood released

When you will say, 'It's nature.'

And she will wonder at the flow of the deceased. 

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you her beautiful baby has gone

When you will say, 'I don't know.'

And she will wonder how on earth to hold on.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the sorrowful tears she's shed

When you will say, 'You're healing.'

And she will wonder if she's better off dead.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the endless days of bare breath

When you will say, 'Time will help.'

And she will wonder about her baby's death.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the dark silence that surrounds

When you were never there

And she will wonder at the pain that abounds.

She doesn't tell you what it means.

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Letting Go - Blog Post

I was hauling a brown splattered 17kg suitcase through the mud of Bushy Park just a day after I had passed the majority of my third baby and all that entails. We had decided to bury little Noodle with their other siblings by the tree we had chosen nearly two years ago.

As we were trawling through, I looked up at the sky and said, 'Why are you pushing me to my limit?'

And I heard a voice say, 'Let go and all will come.'

The day I heard that I had lost this little one I had to make my way to a friend's house over an hour away. Diving into overcrowded, claustrophobic tubes, doubling over with cramp, I sweated my way to a hug and a goodbye as she left to look after her relative. I grabbed a hot water bottle, sat down and let the warmth of the water seep into my abdomen, which was indignant, as I had allowed another internal scanner to poke, push and annoy.

Sitting on that couch, I soon experienced a sense of blissfulness. I fell into the deepest gratitude as I was so grateful for this pregnancy, one that took over a year to achieve. I was so thankful for every single hormonal signal - from the positive pregnancy test, the sore breasts, the bloating and nausea to the increased saliva and deep deep exhaustion. Food never tasted better, sleep never felt so refreshing and the knowledge that a little life had chosen to grace my uterus with their presence was gratifying and humbling. I promised myself this time that I would love every second of the pregnancy and I did. I relished every single second of being a mama and immersed myself in the maternal love kept only for this little being.

That evening, I felt this deep joy and relaxed deeper and deeper, knowing it wouldn't last forever and that the inevitable pain of attachment would soon catch up. I tasted sweetness from the cup of gratitude and allowed my body to submit and let go - glowing, free and relaxed.

That evening, a friend sent me information about a film maker called Richard Martini who speaks about how miscarriages can occur for the spiritual development of the parents. Since reading up on him, I have been guided to read, 'Letting Go' by David R Hawkins and 'Ask and It Is Given' by Esther and Jerry Hicks. I have had dreams instructing me to meditate and I am trying to come back into my body slowly.

Clearly, this is another opportunity for spiritual growth and development that I need to work on although I am a very slow learner at the best of times.

Though I was provided a taste of how I could feel if I just let go, I know I am resisting and as a consequence feel a build up of anger, pain, upset, hurt and can feel myself drowning into waves of this. I find it difficult to find peace and see myself react, react react.

Because, for me, nothing feels right after experiencing deep maternal loss. Physically, emotionally, hormonally, spiritually and in relationship to any or everything. I feel off kilter, unlike myself and raw - as if layers of my skin has been hacked off and my sores are left to bleed. I find human interaction exhausting, limiting and frustrating. In Real Life, I have found nobody who can truly understand how lonely, sad, painful, brutal, traumatising and heartbreaking repeated miscarriage is and so I know it is only up to me to brave this initiation, find a way through and learn.

I keep being told that it is up to me to choose the way forward, that I can make the decision to be joyful whilst processing this grief healthily, so I can heal and set myself free. I know the universe is on my side and will help me to learn. In the meantime, I will just take one day at a time and trust that it is possible even if I am not there yet.

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Gratitude - Blog Post

Photo by Carl Attard

  'So, what are you grateful for?' he asked, as we stretch out in bed after meditating, fresh from metta.
  'Well... I am grateful for you, this bed, this house, the safety we experience on this street... and then my list would continue, including various people, items, experiences, qualities until I feel satisfied with my daily quota. 'What about you?'

It is the same conversation we have practically every morning. Our list of appreciation, of love.

Amongst the milieu of death I have found a new appreciation for life. The last year, which included the death of my beloved Uncle and two babies, has left me with a clarity I cherish beyond words.

I notice everything now. I observe, see, and try my very hardest not to grasp or cling.

I get excited by the budding and blooming of flowers and leaves, I see animals and am deeply grateful for the role they play in our lives and love to see the dogs, cats, birds and deer on my daily walk into work. Watching this joyful spring unfold has been powerful, as the cyclical return to light releases my need to hibernate.

I am in love with the soft rhythm of my week as I start baking and cooking for the week ahead, gathering fresh clean clothes - dissipating with the old in the house and allowing the new to enter.  Preparing, creating, nurturing, allowing and being - revelling in the change and space I create.

I deeply cherish the process of transformation, of refinement and growth, as I continually make adjustments to accommodate the new. In the process of learning about fertility alone, we have thrown out plastic and destructive chemicals, we have eschewed sugar, caffeine, processed food and are taking so many supplements that if you shook us we would rattle. We have become healthier... cleaner... willing...

I am so deeply in love with now.

One of my favourite meditations is to become so actively involved with the breath that the process of breathing becomes a love affair. I notice how the breath enters my body in such an intimate way, experiencing me so deeply with such involvement before showing me how important it is that we remain detached from the experience so the breath can leave and then return. I find it overwhelming at times, this finite but beautiful, gorgeous process... forever teaching me something deeper about how we are to experience this gift of being human.

Without the medicine of death, I would not be able to understand life. Without the squeeze and sucker punch of grief, I would not be able to understand the depth and freedom of breath. Without the gift of tears, I would not be able to wash myself clean. I have been emptied and yet I am full.

I am so grateful.

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Merry-Go-Round - Blog Post

***WARNING - long graphic post and a little bit of swearing***

I no longer believe in blowing away eyelashes and making wishes.

My whole life I used to get so excited when I saw the tiny hair fall from someone's eyes. I would carefully scoop it up and present it to them... 'Make a wish,' I would fervently say, believing that this was their special moment to call on the magic and power of the universe.

When someone would give me my eyelash, or I would find my own, I would solemnly compose my wish, send it out and blow my wishes into the air. For the last few months my wish has been the same and I would wish our little baby, our second pregnancy, would stay with their mama and papa this time. We affectionately named it a name that would have no meaning in our daily life, but the song was significant and I thought to myself, you can't have a second miscarriage when you have named your baby Chumba - short for Chumbawamba - that would be ridiculous. Yet here we are again, and the poor little one is stuck with a ludicrous name now.

I had lost my innocence of pregnancy the first time around. When we told family and friends that we had become pregnant again, without exception everyone congratulated us and then wished us luck. Every single time I went to the toilet I felt anxiety and scanned my knickers for any signs. I would check for the discharge to make sure it was the right colour and consistency. If I felt a twinge or cramp I would run to the toilet for a quick check. Sometimes I wouldn't even go the toilet, at home I would just drop my knickers and ask my husband to confirm my findings.

On my 8th week I had slight brown coloured discharge.

I was at work and left everything. I called my husband and he collected me and we went straight to Accident & Emergency. We were so lucky as within 30 minutes we had been assessed and sent to the Early Pregnancy Unit (EPU) and was scanned. To our delight we saw our little perfect baby - they were the right size, there was a regular heartbeat and nothing seemed to be wrong. The nurses placated us with how lots of women bleed throughout their first trimester, that we haven't had pain and it was only a little brown blood so there should be no need to worry. Together we hoped so much they were right and I fled to the forums - all of them, I became a forums slut - Mumsnet, Netmums, Babycentre... you name it, I read it. There were so many stories of women who have bled and have been okay, even after miscarrying before.

Two days later at work I found more blood - red blood that filled my knickers - and I again called EPU. The next afternoon I was scanned again, fear filling me up and anxiety nipping at my heels, and I cried when the sonographer let me hear the heartbeat. I saw our baby who was very much alive. The Doctor later came in and gave me an internal, 'Your cervix is closed. There's no sign of cervical erosion. This just happens.'

So I calmed down. There were only spots of brown blood after that. No pain. No problem.

Except it wasn't.

A scan is a snapshot in time.

We went for a 'comfort scan' two weeks before the 12 week nuchal scan and we weren't worried as everything seemed to be back to normal. The bleeding hadn't returned, my belly did not seem so tender and I was feeling all the symptoms.

My husband had to park the car but as we were late I went in to the EPU first. I joked with the sonographer about my bloating, at 10 weeks my belly was so large I was wearing maternity trousers. The sonographer placed the scanner on me and said nothing, then after a while she said there was so much gas she couldn't see what was happening and asked if she could do an internal scan.

I asked if I could go to the toilet, stalling time till my husband arrived because I already knew what she was going to say.

He arrived just as she was placing the internal scanner in me and then she said the words I hate the most, 'I'm sorry.' No woman in the world wants to hear those words when they are being scanned. Ever. Now, whenever I have to let anyone know about my situation and the first words I hear are, 'I'm sorry,' I feel like I am experiencing a flashback and my reaction is anger - honestly, when someone says that, I may be saying some sort of trite response in return but I actually am just trying to find ways to stop myself from scratching that person's eyes out.

This time I left the sonographer's eyes alone but I burst into tears and clung on to my husband for dear life as yet again I realised I had lost a tiny little soul I so desperately wanted to meet.

So here we are again, on the merry-go-round of miscarriage.

I have calculated that I have spent just under six months in first trimester this year. Six months of nausea (and weight gain as the only way to stop my nausea is through eating), painful breasts, peeing constantly, and bloating so much I generally looked six months pregnant with a constant need to sleep at all times. What I have in return for this permanent hungover state is two babies to bury, a very deep and intimate relationship with my bed and so much knowledge about miscarriage and loss I didn't have previously. I am not sure this is much of a return on our investment - it has left me bereft, heartbroken, grief-stricken but most of all, it has made me fucking furious.

One of the hardest part of the situation is the loneliness of it all - the first time around everyone I knew had a story of miscarriage they could tell, they could relate to one miscarriage and the pain, discomfort and unfairness of the situation. Yet, this time around, the usual first response after the ubiquitous, painful, fury-inducing, 'I'm sorry' is about my being tested to see what's wrong with me, compounding the sense of failure I am already feeling. After that, it's usually silence or a random, 'Thinking of you' or an emoticon to let me know they are there. I am now not just a case of bad luck, I am recurrent. I don't blame people, life goes on, there's a world to be part of, but it is an uncomfortable place to be in - full of hard edges and muted impotent responses.

Being on the merry-go-round means I already know how to process the emotional response I am experiencing, I know what to do and where to seek support and advice. I know the process of grief and the journey that is laid out for my husband and I. I know about the possible tests I could take, what I would need to do to start them, how they are not always successful and how there may even be nothing wrong with me. I know about the physical process I am about to embark on and what I could try differently when we try again.

I also know I need to accept that the journey of parenthood is a path to becoming a warrior, whether we have a baby to hold in our hands or not. The whole process is refining us to be people who are courageous in the face of extreme adversity and forcing us to continually embrace acceptance and surrender in the deepest way.

Statistically, I still have a very good chance of becoming a mother. However, I also need to accept I may never become a mother in this lifetime. I may never know the joy of having a child in my arms that I can watch grow and become. I may never experience the labour of a woman who sees their child for the first time with a heartbeat and open eyes. I may only experience loss in this chapter of my life and somehow if I can make peace with this I will find freedom in this process.

I also need to accept that others will have the experience of motherhood and it is just as important for me to be able to remain open-hearted to their joy even in my deepest hurt - to be able to embrace everything this world has to offer so my heart can be open to it all. It will take some time, but that's okay.

But if I see an eyelash, there will be no more wishes.

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Limbo - Blog Post

***Warning - quite a graphic blog post***

I have never been in this position before and to be honest, before I found myself here, I had never thought about all the women who have been through this, who are experiencing the waiting for a natural missed miscarriage right now. It's comforting to know I am not the only woman in the world who is preparing for their child to enter the world even though we know they will never take a breath.

No one tells you about limbo - the waiting and uncertainty of each moment. The time between finding out your child's heart is not beating until the moment they can find their resting place. No one tells you about the agony of looking for and analysing blood on your pad or when you wipe and perceiving a glimmer of pain, hoping and fearing the process is about to start. No one tells you the tumult of emotions, looking at your belly every so often, knowing this is one of the last times you will see this child creating a hillock inside. No one ever tells you the struggle of never being too far from home. Just. In. Case. It. Happens.

Yet on motherhood forums there are stories, crashing together, all unique. On these pages there is fear, pain, agony, heartbreak, upset and the torture of waiting. And blood - lots and lots of blood, mixed with hCG levels, hormones, placenta, cord and the sac which some women will cut open so they can see whom they have carried, their particular miracle that was not meant to be, whom they call their Angels. I have read words of encouragement around the world from a sisterhood who have been there, who say you can do this and you will get through this, 'You have got this mama, you are a warrior and you will make this baby proud.'

And for those who had no indication of an imminent miscarriage, there is anger - so much fury at the injustice, treachery and deception. No one tells you how utterly betrayed a woman can feel by their body's lies. There is talk about hCG levels and how when they are still high, the symptoms of pregnancy continue - the broken sleep, waking up to nausea and having larger sore breasts. Women who are walking as if in water as exhaustion sits on their shoulders, their brains less capable of processing the world around them. And because of these hormones, their body still won't let go. It refuses to believe it will not be a mother to this particular child. It cradles the remains in mourning, clinging to its lifeless form.

No one tells you that if you are far enough along, a natural missed miscarriage can be like labour and you can experience the cramping, labour pains and blood just like any other pregnancy. No one tells you about women all around the world lying on their bathroom floor, almost wanting to pass out in pain or vomit with extreme nausea or sitting in a bathtub in bright red water needing heat or holding a sieve under themselves when sitting on the toilet as they don't want to lose their baby amongst the diarrhoea that is exploding because of the hormonal changes.

They don't tell you of women who want to miscarry naturally but who are bleeding so much they have to rush to A & E to be operated on.

Yet there is a huddling of women all around the world who repeatedly say they can't express what is happening to them to people in their Real Life because it's too intimate, real, gory and painful. The worry that people will not understand makes these women mute in front of family members and friends who can only say, 'I'm sorry' or 'I wish I could give you a hug.' Magnifying the impotence of friends and family who have no idea what to do or how to help, who have no idea what happens to a woman, or their partner, who is experiencing this. All I can say to those people is become aware, learn what it means when a woman says they are going to lose their baby. Please sit alongside them - whether in person, on the phone or by text - listen to them and hold them when they howl with grief, feel endless guilt, express their anger or anxiety about one tiny thing they think they did wrong.

Otherwise, your 'I'm sorry' means absolutely nothing.

And how to speak of the unbearable sadness of when you hear a pregnancy announcement, when you see another woman who is pregnant or have babies in their arms, against their chests. How to speak of the heartbreak and mixed emotions when people close to you bring a beautiful one in this world, ready for their adventure of joy. Sometimes no words can express what is felt very deeply inside.

One beautiful thing about humans is that it is in our nature to find a way through this. So in the forums there is also something else, other stories, and they are of hope, possibility and joy. Women who have braved the process again and have come out the other side with their baby's heart beating and breathing. Women who have had countless miscarriages, years of pain and heartbreak, who suddenly find themselves with a family of their own. Women who thought it was too late but managed one more time for their dreams to come true. 'It can happen!' 'You will be like us too!'

Now, in the waiting, I document everything. I document the slightest change, because I know that I will want to share my story with others so that whilst they are waiting, in fear of the pain, blood and their transition from motherhood into shidu fumu - a status so unbearable to the English language, we have to borrow from the Chinese. I will write so I am able to give someone else a little respite from their worry or concern and maybe one day, I will also be able to post a message of hope.

Until then, I will remain in limbo.

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Loss - Blog Post

*****WARNING Long blog post***** 

 I knew that I couldn't wait to see you but not like this. I was expecting contractions but not so soon. I was expecting to hold you in my arms not scoop your remains. I was expecting to hear you cry, not to be flooded in my own tears. I was expecting my heart to burst open not to become heartbroken. I was expecting to announce your arrival, not your departure. I was expecting to bring in your life, not usher your death.

And now I have no further expectations because you are no longer here.  

After seeing your heartbeat flickering on the screen and the sonographer saying you were looking healthy and well at 8 weeks and 2 days. We were so excited seeing your little head and body, with everything in the right place and all was as well as could be expected. My husband and I squeezed hands and felt tears slide down our faces as we dreamed of the day we would have you in our arms. 

I was in wonder as in my fertile soil, you germinated. You were just a tiny poppy seed when I knew you had chosen to use my womb to slowly form, develop and grow. I felt I was nutritious, rich and ready to support your fledgling life. And whilst the outside elements ravage - leaving me on my knees and retching, battered to exhaustion, I heard the call to motherhood and she was singing my name.  

I mixed matter, mineral, gas and liquid to help you grow. I was your home and supply, your carrier and vehicle for your soul to create your body. And in doing so, I drew a boundary around myself and cocooned, allowing life to care for me and you in our process of transforming and becoming. I snuggled, lay and forgot the outside world whilst I pondered on how life reflects life reflects life and how my microcosm helped me to understand mother nature's struggle, pain and joy of birth.  

Once just a field, I had felt my curves become hills and sensitivity heighten. I could feel even the tiniest organisms trace my skin and grace my soil. My growth into a hill felt like it could become out of control and be possible for me to become a mountain or volcano as deep earthquakes within relentlessly pushed me to spread and expand, to breach any limitations I previously assumed about myself - physically, mentally and emotionally. I felt myself become softer, stronger, powerful and wide enough to hold enough love to transcend our microcosm and fill the universes. I felt I had become a servant of mother earth, acquiescing to her constant creative process.  

And you allowed this, my dear seed. You gave me a gift that no other has and for that I will be eternally grateful.  

  

I was so nauseous at the time of the scan, it was the first time I had left my bed in two days. Thereafter I stayed in bed for a further three. Little did I know the day I went back to work your healthy little flickering heart stopped.  

Still.  

I had no idea. I still kept you inside and for as long as you were in me, my body still believed it was pregnant. I couldn't wait to see your precious little life on the screen at my 12 weeks scan. I couldn't wait to broadcast your arrival to the world. I had read every website that detailed your progress and the effects your being would have on my body. I whispered and sang to you, made promises and wishes, I told you stories of the family you would grow into and the world we wanted to create with you.  

The day before the scan I was at work and just about to go into a meeting. I went to the toilet to find spotting on my knickers. I took a photo and sent it to him. In our fear, we both frantically Googled what it could mean and then placated each other, 'It could mean the placenta is embedding.'  

  'It's just spotting and dark red, so it could be just old blood as the baby is shifting...'  

  'It says on this site that lots of women experience spotting, I am sure it's fine.'  

  'We've got the scan tomorrow and everything will be alright.'   

  'You don't feel any cramping or pain so that's a good sign.' 

I have no idea what I spoke about at the meeting. 

The morning of the scan I had no energy for work and stayed home and rested until we needed to leave. We arrived at the maternity unit, swarmed by heavily pregnant women waddling with life and we waited to be called in. The sonographer asked if I had experienced any bleeding and soon tears filled my eyes as I recounted the spotting I saw yesterday, but then I wanted to be hopeful as I recounted all the pregnancy symptoms I continually kept experiencing. 

She pressed the scanner into my belly hard and moved around quickly and efficiently. She said the baby didn't look the right size for twelve weeks but that she was going to look for a heartbeat. After a short pause, she said she couldn't see a heartbeat and asked if I would mind her scanning the child internally just to check if it had been missed. In minutes, she was scanning again and broke my heart with just a few words, 'I'm sorry, there's no heartbeat.' Another nurse came in to confirm the prognosis and I felt my head spin.  

We were ushered into a room, too tiny to be comfortable, and then taken six floors to a nurse who spoke to me about my options of types of miscarriages. 

In my head, very loudly, I was saying, 'I don't want the option of a type of miscarriage. I want my baby, I want pregnancy, I want motherhood and all the heaven and hell that entails. I want my promised future that I was given after seeing my Poppy's heartbeat. I want the plans I have created and those conversations with my husband and family, talking about the new changes life is about to bring. Poppy is due at Christmas time and would be the best present I would ever have been given. STOP TALKING TO ME ABOUT MISCARRIAGE.' 

All I said was, 'I want to go home.' 

That night we informed everyone and then curled into each other in a pool of tears and words. We shared our feelings, held each other and delved deeper into the sense of shock, pain, sadness and a deep sense of injustice. We received stories of how others had also gone through this, we received texts of love and heartfelt wishes of support and concern. I would move from finding solace in humour, philosophy, spirituality to howling with a deepest sense of grief that was creating the deepest fissures in my heart, feeling lost and unhinged with nowhere to cling to. 

And I heard Ayahuasca call and remind me, so I looked for my diary and read, and again learned about surrender and how it is the only way to process this experience we go through. I was reminded how surrender is the only way I can make sense of something so insensible. And I read further about death, how it is the sternest, most persistent and patient teacher there is and how grief is medicine for the soul. That every soul has its own journey and we never ever have control over anything or anyone. Everything in our lifetime is temporary, all of this will pass, and I just need to keep observing, observing, observing and find equanimity in it all.   

Goodbye Poppy. May your journey take you to a place where you find real happiness, may you be free from suffering, may you experience real peace, real harmony, and take you on the path of liberation, my love.  

I will always be your mama in my heart and if you ever want to return to me, I will be waiting. 

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