When my son was born, the cord was wrapped around his neck. Each time I pushed, his heart rate slowed and nearly stopped. When I rested, his heart rate returned to normal, well, as normal as the heart of a newborn about to emerge into the world can beat.
My sense was to stop, let him be.
My doctor knew otherwise.
She told me I needed to push. Hard. She said I had one more shot at it and then they were taking over: emergency c-section. I watched the NICU team enter the room. My doctor told me that she sensed my fear and that I was holding back, but that I was stronger than I knew and I needed to push past my fear and get my son out.
That was 17 years ago.
Lately, I feel pulled between two currents.
One prompts me to hold tight, rest and quiet my thoughts. Slow down, not so fast.
The other wants me to jump in and ride the rapids. This is the time for change, for one great push into the unknown… whatever that may be: different for each of us yet universal.
The water moves swiftly, turbulent now.
My thoughts are drawn to meditate more, be still.
They cannot be.
I cannot be.
Everything rushes by, pulling me in.
Maybe it’s no longer my time to hold space on the outskirts. Maybe it’s time I jump into fast-moving waters and start paddling.
See who’s in the water with me.
Offer them a life raft.
Or simply float alongside them
and tell them a story
about when my son was born.