Satori Marie

Satori Marie is actually Satori long before she IS.

Indiana Summers are H- O- T. Some of you know. Husband, was in the kitchen; probably making fried tofu with mung bean sprouts for dinner. The dogs were playing happily in the yard, the windows and doors were all open and I was languishing in a cool bathtub, reading an old book of poetry which someone had given me as a graduation gift, Please Touch. I would so love to find a copy of that book now but alas, it is long gone with so many tangible pieces of memories. Even without tangible aid, I remember the night clearly.

The poem which I landed upon was a beautiful work about, as I recall, art, or life, or trees, maybe puppies, or true love, or something like that - but the last line spoke of seeing new things with old eyes. Satori. My heart felt suddenly calm, suddenly sure of absolutely nothing. I remember writing it that way in some also lost journal - sure, but of nothing and I called to my husband. He knelt by the tub, I remember my eyes lingering on the gold of his hair draping across brownish shoulders, feeling such love, so lost in just the sight of him. And I told him - our first child is Satori. My eyes met his and I thought I saw wonder, delight, or at least, "not Mary? or Jane? or Tim?" Now I know that what I saw was, "You don't seriously think we're having children do you?" But the unspoken thought remained so and an excuse was made for a long and steamy night of the sort of sex that young people have when they don't know enough to know what is wonderful. Of course, not much excuse was needed for such nights - remember? And though she was not conceived that night; she was, for in my heart, that is when she began.

Eventually she was really conceived - not long after that night, close enough so that she was born the following hot summer. It was a difficult pregnancy; my body threatened to end the ordeal for several months and then finally relented. I found a midwife; I ate mung bean sprouts and drank ungodly concoctions that included ingredients like lecithin and brewer’s yeast - which I also sprinkled liberally on popcorn and toast. I read every baby book and parenting book I could find - most memorably Ina May Gaskin who remains one of my heroes. And, I planned for this child to be born in our home - a plan that had not much chance of success. Despite all my reading, I was ill-prepared. I was convinced that by meditating, thinking positive, loving thoughts, eating lots of healthy things and welcoming and loving my child, there would be no pain. Are the other mothers laughing now? No pain. I was sure of it. I will skip a few lines so you can stop laughing.

Satori Marie was born in the hospital and there we experienced exactly what we expected to experience. (This is my way of saying that I have come to know that we find less often good things or bad things, but more often, we find what we expect to find - which some day we will understand is neither good nor bad, save that we call it so) Broken monitors, nasty nurses, bright lights, dismissal of our wishes and.....in the end...the most beautiful child that ever was born was placed in my arms. I know that I saw God. I saw truth; I saw eternity stretch beyond, before, behind me. I understood my mother and all the women that had come before my mother to culminate in this beautiful, perfect girl-child. I vowed never to raise my voice, to speak cross words, to bring less than Truth. I knew that this perfection in my arms would inspire me to be all things good and beautiful. Who cares about law school, who cares about almost anything that lays beyond the grasp of my arms, and the sight of the breathless beauty. This, this perfection is my calling and I will now be perfect. I will. I just knew.

Except.

Except.

She never stopped crying. (Now, what I want to REALLy say, what I remember FEELING is more like, "She never f****** shut up! but don't you think that,"she never stopped crying sounds so much better? Especially since she was going to create,or call perfection in me and nary another cross word would I speak.) For three months she did not stop crying. Never. I walked, I rocked, I sang. She stopped crying in the bathtub with me; so we took lots of baths. She liked to be naked, clothing against her skin was apparently unbearable, remove her clothes and she would again remind me of that perfection the first night. I was in despair. All my meditation, all my healthy eating, all my preparation - what was I doing wrong? I could not console this small child, dependent upon me! The most important moment of my life and I had not just failed, I was failING in each breath, failING.

Like all good hippie children, our bed was on the floor, draped with some brownish/reddish/yellowish Indian tapestry and pushed against the wall, beneath the windows. Old windows, from ceiling to floor so that sitting on the bed meant you could easily lean out the window and catch whatever slight breeze that might be offered up during a hot Indiana summer. I was sure the heat would steal my daughter's life, she dripped sweat and so did I and she cried, and so did I. We nursed, we walked, we cried, we WEPT, we nursed some more and walked some more and we did not sleep.

One day, quite by accident I discovered that cradling her in my arms and twisting from side to side, VERY FAST, would still her crying. Very, VERY fast. Silence, and then I stopped and crying began again. I even tested it, yes, if I stopped, she cried. I'm not sure why that surprised me so - I already knew that if I stood, and let my knees lower me, there there was a certain critical mass achieved which would set off the next round of tears which sometimes kept silent, as long as I stood. I grew accustomed to knowing that I could stand, I could even sit on some very tall stools, but as soon as I lowered myself enough to meet the chair - wailing began. But! I could sit as long as I twisted, whooshing her fast, almost in circles, twist, flow, fast, don't stop, she is quiet, I can hear birds! Don't stop, as long as you don't stop you may sit awhile longer by the window where tis slightly cool. Don't stop.

I can remember exactly when the thought seized me. Shamed me. Shocked me. As I twisted, just past the window, I realized, in one brief horrific second, that if I opened my arms at precisely the right moment…….then…..and then.....then......there would be…...silence. There are no words for the moment of realization that you, you, ME, I have just thought this thought. Evil. Dangerous. Failure. Go to the living room, sit there, nurse this baby mama - you know, the one who would make you perfect... You are not alone if you note the change in voice, I am now speaking to myself, not being myself. Get away from the window. Sob. Weep for this sinful thought, this evil, unholy thought. It was a dramatic experience.

Of course, dirty diapers (cloth of course) and crying babe can fortunately spare us some drama. It wasn't until hours later when I really retrieved myself and remembered the gentleness allotted to me. But I followed by understanding this: As an almost, or at least heading toward middle class, with a good education, lots of family for support, a present (well, sort of) husband, a healthy child, medical insurance, food in the fridge, for all anyone knows white woman, had that thought, what happens to a woman without partner, without family, maybe without education, social support, no-food-in-the-fridge woman of color? How can I ever judge another human being again? Ever? E -V-E-R? I haven't spoken much of Satori have I? Well, a lot goes into Satori Marie. A lot of me, a lot of her father, a lot of her and a lot of God...and so, tomorrow more of Satori Marie.