tick tock

That ol' biological clock is still gently doing her thing, ticking away like a constantly there sound that disappears. Similar to Ben's white noise CD or the soft static of the baby monitor. I am always hearing it, but I am not often listening. I am 34.5 years old. The pregnancy I would have, should it happen, would be called "geriatric" at this point (can you believe medical doctors actual use that as an official term for the preggers-over-35 set?). Although it would obviously affect Ben and A, this next step in our family journey feels like a really private, interior one. Between me and my gods, me and my body. There are heaps of muck to wade through, reconciliations to make, most of all with this earthy container of mine. I sometimes shook my fist at fate (which is fruitless, as I'm sure you've discovered), all those months of trying before. More so at first, when I experienced the earth shattering shock that egg+sperm does not =baby. I mean, for having been a lesbian all these years, you would think my body would positively throw down the welcome mat at its first chance at replicating our quirky species! Maybe slip into something more comfortable, turn on some nice music, make it a martini. Alas, my lady parts weren't up for playing hostess to suitors, nor zygotes. Spiritually, my faith was shaken in whatever powers I felt were guiding me. But I found ways to ask different questions and to make different prayers. Instead of a baby, I asked for grace or the strength to get through another cycle. I certainly wasn't anything like serene but I did find some peace eventually and a gentle surrendering to the mystery.

My relationship with my body on the other hand still suffers. I want to torture it with cleanses and special diets and crazy exercise (okay, a bit more exercise than none is probably not such a bad idea...). But I won't. I am seeing a new naturopath (for overall health), am going for some Reiki, and am back into yoga (definitely a major missing ingredient in my life since Ben's arrival). I am really trying not to make it a big deal, or focus too much energy on fertility. This body and me are stuck together until the end of this lifetime, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. I need to nurture that relationship, not take it for granted or wish it were anything other than the miracle that all of our bodies are. It's not easy though, and there are parts of me that I fear, or find difficult, or which I resent (like some genetic issues). There is also much to love and be grateful for. I guess where I am now is in a middle place, somewhere liminal like dusk or dawn. I am neither mired in the traumatic muck of the past, nor fully engaged in trying again. I am spending this time learning to feel good in the here and now. I want this body to feel like a good place to be; a good thing to be made of, to live in, and to come through. I still wonder if I have enough to offer, enough energy, enough nutrients, enough love, to still remain intact at the end of it. I guess that's not the point, really, since how can it be anything other than completely transformational? It's scary, and A is always so tired in such a deeper way than me. How do I explain to her, who has so gratifyingly experienced the mind-blowing, heart-exploding ability to create and sustain life, that I need more time to get there?

E