Watching a woman in labor is like watching a thunderstorm.
To an outside observer, labor can seem wild, fierce, frightening even. But to
one who holds the act of childbirth in reverence, it is beautiful, rhythmic,
and glorious. The rain will pour and the thunder will roll, but the raw,
untamed beauty takes my breath away.
Contrary to what television and movies show us, labor doesn’t
usually start with a bang and take mere minutes. First, the clouds begin
rolling in on the horizon. The mother-to-be notices some mild discomfort,
perhaps some pressure. She has a subconscious feeling that labor is soon, but
maybe she doesn’t vocalize that thought. Instinctually, she prepares. She
begins to ‘nest’: cleaning, organizing, and stocking up on necessities. Then,
the calm. That eerie, quiet calm, just before the rainfall. The clouds are so
close you can practically taste them, and the air hangs heavy. The waiting
takes both forever and no time at all.
Then comes the first wave of rain. It starts out light, and
everyone wonders if this is the real thing, or perhaps just a sun shower. Gradually,
the rainfall increases its intensity, and the birth team circles the wagons and
hunkers down to rejoice in the storm. It is time.
Low thunder rolls through the falling rain, the mother
gently sways, held up by the arms of her doula. The rocking is like a rhythm,
the thunder is still coming closer. The rain is heavy now, cooling the earth
and encouraging new life. The thunder rolls, and mother moans. It is time. It
is time.
The rain is pouring now, coming down in driving sheets. A
crack of lightning splits the sky, white hot and so close. The thunder follows
right behind, shaking every living thing down to their core. This is it. The
heart of the storm. The flashes come one on top of another, each one as intense
as the last. Mother cries out, grasping tightly to her support team. Her hair
has come loose, it tumbles about her face in a wild cascade. Sweat and tears
fall like the rain, she gasps for air and soldiers on. The thunder is here.
The storm suddenly changes. The rain eases up a bit, but the
thunder continues to roll in a continuous parade. Mother grunts as she bears
down with all her might. The rain is clearing, but the thunder still rolls.
Rumble after rumble, wave after wave, sweet relief for mother as she bears down
with all her strength. Then suddenly, new life. Pink and grey and red,
screaming and sputtering. Out out out, into the light and the embrace of
mother. The rain is but a drizzle now, and the birds can be heard quietly
chirping in the trees. Mother and babe cry in unison, babe for the newness of
it all, and mother for the love that is like no other. Thunder can still be
heard, but mother pays it no mind. To her, the storm is over. Those distant
rumbles of thunder bring forth the afterbirth, and the birth team gently cleans
and restores any damage the storm has left behind. The rain is now a fine mist,
leaving the world damp and rich, and bursting with new life.
There is nothing like this experience in the whole of the
world. The raw beauty of a birth can’t be fully captured in words or images. I
can only paint a picture of how it feels to be invited into that sacred space,
to be welcomed into the circle as a woman faces her own unique storm.
Incredible doesn’t even begin to cover it.
If I am to learn one
thing in my life, it is this:
Never fear the storm,
for there is beauty and wisdom in its ferocity.
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