Tag: Birth

Lightly Child, Lightly.

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“And the part about light as a living creature,” he said. “What a beautiful thought. I hadn’t really heard that idea before…It really got me for a second,” he said. “I had to think about it. Is light alive? I mean, it doesn’t excrete anything. It doesn’t reproduce. And yet it gives life, so it must have some kind of life to give…” He’d isolated the ultimate kernel…the very idea that I’d fallen in love with, the idea of light as a kind of amniotic fluid flooding the cosmos.

— Jon Raymond, God and Sex: A Novel (Simon & Schuster, August 5, 2025)

Notes:

  • DK Photo @ 5:23 am this morning. Nobadeer Beach. 57° F. Nantucket, MA. More photos from this morning’s glorious walk here.
  • Post Title & Inspiration: Aldous Huxley: “It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.

Sunday Morning

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At church a baby girl was baptized. She lay quietly in the vicar’s arms, absorbed in contemplation of things around her, her eyes very wide and bright, her hands spread like stars.

— Helen Garner, One Day I’ll Remember This: Diaries 1987–1995 (Text Publishing Company, October 12, 2021)

Post inspired by Jay, Lizzy & Ellie. Thinking of you. Photo Credit: Pexels

Miracle. All of It.

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When the nurse brought her, all swaddled up, to the glass-panelled door outside the operating theatre to show her to me, tears projectiled on to the glass, signalling the single most miraculous moment of my life. If there’s a nanosecond’s worth of choice when you fall in love, there was no measure of time between seeing Oilly and feeling the most profound, life-changing love imaginable. Beyond all counting! Our longed for, miracle, baby.

— Richard E. Grant, A Pocketful of Happiness: A Memoir (Simon & Schuster, August 1, 2023)

Notes:

  • Photo of Richard E. Grant & his daughter Olivia in The Sun, Feb 15, 2019
  • Book review by Amy Bloom in NY Times: Richard E. Grant Fights Grief With ‘A Pocketful of Happiness’. The Oscar-nominated actor’s new memoir is at once a Hollywood air kiss and a moving tribute to a happy marriage that ended too soon.
  • Post Title Inspired by Albert Einstein’s quote: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle.”

 

Miracle. All of it.

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Dear Babies,

I now know that you are a boy and a girl. The girl is bigger than the boy now, by 12 percent, and you’re both over 2 pounds, and the boy is presenting first, head down. I had a dream that the boy came early but the girl stayed inside; and the boy didn’t want to breastfeed but instead asked for sausage and cheese, and I was impressed with his verbal abilities. I have been resting up and reading, hoping you stay in there for at least another couple of months. Most people come into the world by themselves, but you will (knock on wood) come into this world together. I hope you both feel safe and sound and cozy there together.

Love, Mama

…

I got my epidural. My doctor told me to hug him around the waist to reduce my shaking and increase the chance that the needle found its target. I threw my arms around him, grateful. I got my Pitocin drip. My husband and I watched basketball on television. I never watch basketball. Why were we watching basketball? At midnight time sped up, and they rushed us to the OR. Everyone in scrubs, just in case. My doctor put on his birthing mix tape. I think it began with “American Woman.” Looking into the face of my husband, I pushed William out. I heard a baby cry. “Is he all right? Is he all right?” “Yes, he’s perfect.” Then the doctor reached inside me, as he’d promised, and pulled Hope out by the legs. “Is she all right?” “Yes, she’s perfect.” The nurses laid Hope and William side by side in a crib and checked them. The nurse told us the babies were holding hands. Before they held the hands of their mother or father, they held each other’s hands. I began shaking.

— Sarah Ruhl, from Smile: The Story of a Face. (Simon & Schuster, October 5, 2021)

Notes:

Walking. It Ain’t Disney on the Sabbath.

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5:50 a.m.

Go ahead, lip sync. I’ll wait.  362 consecutive days. Like in a Row. Morning walk @ Cove Island Park.

I can see her from the parking lot.  She’s up.  I rush to grab the camera gear, worried that she’s going to plop down again and I’ll miss the shot.

Yet, Something is off.

A raven approaches the nest with his shrill KRAA! KRAA! KRAA!

The male rushes towards it, hissing. Canadians, normally patient, and ever-courteous, can be pushed only so far.  Nasty black scavenger, steps back, offers a half-a**ed kraa! and takes watch from a distance. I look around for a stone to join in the defense. Lucky for you Ray, I didn’t find one.

Mother Goose, meanwhile continues to peck away at her nest.

There’s no sign of eggs.

No sign of little ones.

I wait.

And watch.

No eggs. No little ones.

She’s pecking, poking, arranging.  And then, she tugs and pulls on what appears to be a fetus, skin color, reddish orange.

I watch for a moment longer. And leave. Can’t watch this.

I walk up to the bridge, the entrance to the park.  Take another look from this vantage point. No eggs. No little ones. Maybe they’ll both be gone by the time I return. And some kind soul will sweep the remains of that hardscrabble nest into Long Island Sound.

I walk around the park, not anxious to return to the funeral, and return 30 minutes later.

She’s still poking at her nest. Odd.

The raven has departed, tired of waiting for a free meal.

Her mate is now sitting on the pier. Must be waiting for her to be done grieving so they can move on.

I cross the bridge. Still no sign of any eggs, or little ones. Ever the optimist DK.

I look away.  Sad, all of it. Heavy.

I get in the car, and turn up the heater. Cold? 53° F?  I can’t bear to keep looking at the scene.

I’m ready to back out of the parking lot, and take one last look. She’s still cleaning her empty nest. What is she doing? Strap on your zoom lens and let’s see what she’s poking at.

I turn off the ignition, and get out of the car.

Camera, super zoom lens affixed, I walk back out to the fence and zoom in on the target…

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