Nora's Birth Altar This Year

This was the first year I celebrated Nora's birth, not holding onto her passing

This was the first year I felt her completely.  Seven years.  This was the year I allowed the ache of missing and loving her wash through and out of me.  I felt the pain but was not the pain.  This was the first year.

This year, I was in the warm water of the South Pacific, Kauai.  I allowed the day to prepare for her birth/passing day to be soaked in salt, water and air.  I was the ocean that day.  I cried such yummy ache, felt it all and was held tenderly and strongly by the elements of an ancient island created by water, wings and wind.  Both Nora and I were held that day.

Maholo Kuaui

February 28th darling daughter

Grief Became My Identity

Grief became that co-dependent part, the extension of some middle school girl hallway.  I wanted to be Grief.

Grief meant I had a link to Nora that no one else had.  My story was important.  My back was never bent.  I was Grief.

Then I started to loose my vision.

I spotted to put importance to a crown of thorns instead of a reed of grass.  Death and life were never asking for my attention or calling to be named.  I sought it.

I do not think this journey with sister Grief is over.  I am simply making choice to enjoy the steps of life green along the way and not pressure anything that is never really asking to be shared.

I am who I am and that is enough.

My children are sacred beyond words and that fills me up.

Life be gentle.

Make a mama find kind, calm center while the waves of grief can malice cluster.

She won't be taken down, no matter how the undercurrent pulls.

Accept Accepting

Never will I feel that way.  Never will I prod for anything but today but I am stuck, so in that dudgeon of rut muck slop that is of what now, where is my now, how is my now, where do I find some sense of answer of now?

I honored sat before a couple of might and fight who were in the two year struggle of finding sense of where the loss of their child might guide.

I sat.
I reflected that since my five years I have had a pointed pull path that allowed me strength but also mis-guided remembrance of the grief steps following a friend's babe's death.

Dear sister of eyes blue haze, I acknowledge now how I repressed the stare of your year gaze.  It hurt to look at what was so sound fast pace of loosing the babe a year ago and the delicacy of the steps we all have to trace.

My apologies for the abrupt sound fence fury.  Gentle words I used but my quest was of scurry, as I knew that all was meant was of process I forgot that all we humans are made of is just that: process.

Product is what our dark-age culture requires in the human process of reproductive malnourished.

We are behind.

I accept the realities of life as such and feel connected to the pull and tug of what is so very much life, love, bring, be, feel, pull, bind for the greater all and yet here in my luxury of thought I feel for the women who have nothing for not.  The women who birth babes without support to death circumstance and no chance for a voice to shout out, "come, be my thought!"

We are dark in our ages of group surrounding and I am here to be a light of leopard skin seen kin.  We are not alone.  We are not forgotten.  We are of the voyage.  We are solid and so very not thin.

Thick and rich we bring the life of women voice sing.  You, me bring it fierce, bring it whole, bring it light as a fairy would sing.

Thank you mothers of woven life-cycle-end babes gleam, your stories are answers to what our culture requires to feed.

Tattoo

Not soft but oh so concentrated still.
Meaning less than what we tell to feel or seek for pull.

This Tattoo is embedded in the crystal zone of our story long lorn and what we do with it is our journey's given life fill.

The Tattoo is her seen, her heard, her lent and her form family still.
She is our Nora V Bam, Bam, Bam quaking for life's breaking to the other knowing, to the other showing.

Never do I know the ink press she bestows but I always know she is zing print perfect in her fire blows.

We take it.
We fake consciousness in it but we never second guess the living magnitude of breathing it.
She did not.
She now is imprinted on my back, my husband's back.

We are family.
Let the story be told.
Let the family be whole.

Birth Become

Birth Become
Birth Become, you've got that bend son.

Luna changing all around and you are crescent on horizon sound.

5 years ago the moment anniversary of still birth.
She
All
Make
Fall
Just feel the very tall in her telling and making of symbol quest.

Birth Become
Birth Become, you've got that bend it through son.

Voice not knowing, but being steadfast in our conquer to understanding the tests.
Not falling.
Not being of anything but a puller to find past.

5 years you are our lady guide clearing visions for our firm family pass.
We pass to visions of truth.

We feel you as blue breathes midnight to her hue.

We are here.
We are fierce.
We are fire.
We are tattooed tribe.

5 Years: Our "Family Stamp," Our Tattoo

Five years ago this February 28, we wanted Nora to never be forgotten.  Five years later, we still want her story, our family story to be told.  This print on our backs is the Divine weight of storytelling in grief's ebb and flow.  She, us, we are now visible.  May our story help others find voice in the family fabric story.  May family stories never be muted from fear.

Mistress Grange

The Grange, five years ago shy held timber wall stories and muffled cries.  We held our time of Nora mourning in these timber logs and although it had a kitchen and bath, it felt like a sacred burning box.

And now I walked strong head high beside my partner and live sons thrive to the very same space to celebrate the new stage of giving in communities we be living.

I walk back to this grange, five years ago shy, new dew eyed reminiscent of my young path and the smell of old pioneer was anything but pallet make for fast.

Slower, she Grange said in gentle fold to understand the unfold.  She held us as we wept for the Nora daughter so lost and yet so felt.  So lent and yet so intimate and life altering are the days, months, years.  And later as I sit in front of a school community we helped manifest, I know old Mistress Grange still makes plans to sing the flame to what must be fame as some helpful quest.

Not sure what this translates but the wood standing still can vibrate stories truer than what we can do to only stand still.

Listen, breath and be of a worker bee building communities that grow the love of what was lost and what can be found.

........................................

Nora is our daughter.  She was born and passed away five years ago this coming February 28 from Trisomy 18.  Her memorial was held at Lisabuela beach park and Vashon/Maury Island Grange Hall a week later.  A loving community of family and friends circled us as we grieved.  We have never forgotten such loving kindness.  

Klahanie Nursery School was born out of the residuals of such kindness and birthed a new community of joy and celebration, all encompassing the meaning of life shifts.  

Klahanie Nursery School 2011 Winter Party was held at the Vashon Grange in order to solidify the tansformative experience of what it means to be in a community: new, old and growth for more.

Thank you to all who have been active and witness to this transformation and embraced it as such.  What an honor to experience such power of cohesive life intention and be surrounded by people who live inspiring lives.

There is much more to come, no matter the age!

Sincerely,

Emmy

February 28, Wear Our Children's Colors

I read on the most amazing website (Glow In The Woods) of another family who share February 28 as the day of their child's birth/death.  I was so moved by the entry and excited.

I would love to see the day of our children be of color--the color we feel represents our children.

For us, Nora was fire colors--reds and oranges.  She is fire and light, burning us to a new level of understanding.  She is our fire rose.  Apricot spice.

Find your day of birth/death and honor it.
This is similar to Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday--a day to be grieved and honor celebrated all in the same moment.  What was and what is to be.

These are the flags of our children.

Support: The Birthdays

Dear Friends,

The "birthday" of your deceased child can be so painful.  For us, Nora was born and died the same day.  Our memories are wrapped with pain.  How do we hold a day like this, where the pain is a massive piece player?

Warmth...

In the hospital after her birth I was so cold from keening, grieving, hormones releasing.  February being her birth month and all I want is for warmth--warm me to my bones colors and weather.  This year I wanted to garden for Nora's day but the colors and weather are muted and grey.

Today, I just want warm.  So I made a fire.

Burning beside something burning can be so cleansing.  So I suppose that is what we grieving parents must embrace; looking to the elements (fire, air, water, earth) and feel out what ways we want to honor ourselves with the element's dependable help.  After all, are we not all looking for dependability during this time of no certainty?

With Deep Love and Constant Support,

Grief Sister

Today You Would Be Four

Not sure how I feel.  Raw and delicate might be the best way to describe.  Reminds me of when I would get sick as a young child and the heaviness of homesickness would blanket me.  The world felt much too big.

I miss her.  She feels spirit still to me today and that makes me ache for her all the more.

I feel still, a bit numb and longing.

Each February 28 I experience something new when re-living the birth and death of Nora.  Hurts every time.  But it also is a safe haven of memory for me.  That was the blessed day I was able to hold her in my arms, kiss her tender lips and be with her those hours.

As I write and cry I recall words a very wise woman shared with me years ago about the releasing of tears;

"Let them settle on your skin, dry where they ran for tears are our medicine.  They soothe the sores of pain.  They are our body medicine."

I will hold these words today as my Alex and I roll with whatever emotions surface.  Tears are my medicine.

Apricot Spice Daughter, Happy February 28 Birthday

You are four years memory.  Happy hurt for more memory.  Happy birthday darling apricot spice daughter.

I raise you in memory.
I raise you in story told--for others to release some-something-glorious something.

Wind-aa-ya-ho, wind-aa-ya-ho, wind-aa-ya, wind-aa-ya, ho-ho-ho-ho, heh-ee-o, heh-ee-o, ya-ya-ya.  Nora va, va.  You were born of fire, be of fire, more of fire.  Blessings from your warm glow.

Four years and I feel you so ever more.

Darling girl.  My darling girl that broke and re-opened my heart.  Thank you for the medicine that allows me to see your brothers and extended mama give Vashon crew the love light you never allow to be put out.

Darling spice girl.
Darling apricot sweet girl.
Darling Daughter.

Four years--four years--four years--more to come.

Support: An Altar

Dear Friend,

Have you thought about an altar for your child somewhere in your home?

We've found that having a space to place sweet little pieces of nature, notes, pictures, a candle to burn has been soothing for our delicate hearts.

When I have yearned for my connection with Nora I light our altar candle and speak love and thanks to her.

This is my way of feeling her when she seems so far away.

You Asked How We Remember On February 28.

Her birthday is approaching and you ask me how we remember.

The first year--was the year.
The second year--I cried and cried and lovely Fin entered our hearts and hands.
The third year--I was pregnant, with our darling Kai.
This year--I will garden, with all my might.