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After 14 years hiatus, I'm a new mother again. I consider myself very lucky to have a second crack at parenthood, this time to a daughter. She's beautiful. She makes us laugh. She mews like a kitten and thinks her fingers are the most fascinating thing in the world (second to my udders). In short, she has a firm hold on every corner of my heart.
As you know, however, everything in the Universe exists in a state of divine balance. Bright days dwindle into dark nights, high waters ebb into low tides, and the moon hangs on the end of a slingshot to the ever rotating sun. So it's only natural then, that through my joy I attract an "equal and opposite" force — a dark force to complement the light essence of joy in perfect and sacred balance.
In my case, the "dark force" that has set up camp outside my front door doesn't have a name that I know of. All I do know is that I now dread walking out of my front door. Home is the only place I want to be. As the Autumn days grow shorter, the grass in the paddocks grows lusher, and the pot-belly stove is cranking for longer, I simply want to be like the goddess Hestia and become a permanent fixture before the hearth. Snuggled up with my new baby, eating comfort food and reading dust-coated books that I've been meaning to read for years. It's heaven on a stick.
I try not to think about the dark force waiting outside my front door. Some days it is a car accident waiting to happen. Or perhaps an accidental drowning in someone's backyard pool. Or maybe even an old pervert waiting to snatch her off the school bus one day.
It is in these moments, when I am certain I'll lose her in the most tragic way, that my baby speaks to me. Of course she can't use words and logic just yet, so we resort to our goddess-given gift of intuitive wisdom to communicate.
"Mama," she says. Actually, it sounded more like "google" but I intuitively know that this is her name for me right now.
"I chose you for this life. I am grateful that you want to wrap me up in cotton wool and protect me from every aspect of harm no matter what face it wears. But we both have lessons to learn. I know that you were injured when you were a little girl, but please don't let that put a limit on our happiness. I will fall over and graze my knee every so often. I need you to dry my tears and help me laugh again. Please allow me to follow a trail of fairy dust through the beautiful garden you've built for me. Please watch me as I spread my gossamer wings and fly through the air on a swing. Please giggle with me as I collect eggs (or count new chicks) from the chicken coop. These are just some of the adventures we have in store with each other."
"Of course," I answer her. And every time, I am thankful for the reminder that I experience darkness in order to experience exquisite joy in equal measure. And with that, I am able to pull on my gum boots, bundle up my precious bébé and set forth on an another new adventure in the big wide world (even if it is only to the bottom of the garden).
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Anita Revel is the creatrix of igoddess.com, a resource portal for women's wellbeing. You can click here to read more of her columns with United Press International. © copyright 2008 by Anita Revel.
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