So last week I lost a baby. I was eight weeks pregnant, and excited and just a little smug in that hormonal (and cultural) kind of way. Knackered too. Lying around a lot, being tired, figuring I was letting my body do the things it needed to do, putting the structures in place for the big growing season ahead.
But then I started bleeding. And I had a bad feeling about it. I read the things on the internet which said that it’s not always the worst thing you can imagine, and for a while I hoped it wasn’t, but I kind of knew it was. In fact, I kind of knew it was already. Seeing people after the silly season and them asking me how I was, I said, Hmmm, I don’t really feel pregnant any more. And thinking back now, I had been searching for my connection to this little one for a couple of weeks – this little one who had woken me up to let me know my egg was ready, this little one who had been such a loud voice in my head, demanding to be made.
I have had some great friends and healers around me for this. We have all received such beautiful love. Right from the start, when this baby got made, and right through this process of letting go. And it has allowed me to adjust my thinking really naturally and surprisingly fast, to relinquish my attachment to the due date, to my pride in making a baby just exactly when I wanted to, my concern about how old I am (41). All these things are intellectual conceits, and not much to do with body wisdom. I am having to trust that my body knew what to do, and that the wisdom of the people around me is allowing my mind to catch up.