The Journey continues...
Today I gave notice to the Real Estate agent that I would be moving out of my flat; leaving my sanctuary up here on the hill among the gum trees and the raucous chorusing of cockatoos.
I came here two and a half years ago like a mother cat seeking somewhere close but safe and sheltered to have her litter. But I, the mother, would be giving birth to me, the daughter.
It has been curious, this double aspect of myself that has developed; this sense of being both watchful, anxious, nurturing mother and awkward colt of a daughter, taking her first shaky steps into the world; wonderful, dangerous.
There were times my daughter made me proud. Like the time she shocked her girlfriend Mab by going home with her mad Irish friend, Mick. Oh! I suppose she took a risk, altho' he came with Mab's endorsement. But she handled herself with a clear-spoken self-possession and grace (well so I thought). Handled lying on his mattress naked under the moon, "like a virgin, touched for the very first time"; fourteen years old, nervous, vulnerable.
The headlights sweeping across the ceiling; his man's scent; his man's hands paying homage, taking his inch, trying for his mile but in the end honoring her insistence on his promise.
And in the morning she handled his embarrassment and regret.
There were other times tho' when her daughter wrung her heart. Fumbling with her newfound strength and responsibility she caused pain and felt pain, hurt and was hurt, terribly. Betrayed confidences and trust. Broke the precious Ming vase of another's heart and hope. Slipped back into old bankrupt ways of cowardly deceit and abject fear. Went to that place of blackest, unfathomable despair. That place where there is no light, no hope, no coming up for air.
But come up she did (and got her come-uppance). Shook herself off like a kitten who's fallen into water; bruised, sorry, shaken...but wiser. St Paula learning the bitter, dry taste of Damascus dust. Understanding that joy is twinned with melancholy, learning to cherish that which is "as good as it gets".
And there were times, too, when Paula felt very much that she was actually giving birth in long drawn out, etched deep, waves of pain. Mostly during electrolysis. Other women, in other cubicles, would chatter, twitter, groan about the thirty hours they would have to do over a year. Trill gaily as they left after half an hour. Paula would gird her loins for the struggle of enduring two hundred hours, three hours at a time.
Every week, week after week, pinching pennies, eating plain rice. Learning the tricks of going with the pain, breathing through it to stop it taking hold, getting into her core. Sometimes it did...get into her core. She would stagger back to the car trembling, every nerve end screaming. Alex would be visibly pained for her, bewildered. Back home he would put her to bed, make her soup, stroke her hair. Ministering angel.
Mostly, tho', she endured, silent, stoic, like all the other women, the half-hour ones included. Detached from the waves of heat and pain, breathing through them like contractions. "She is coming", she would say to herself. "I can feel her coming, needle by needle, into the world, my lost child, my child of hope, my child of rebirth, myself."
And now she is here, come of age. Feminised, transitioned, operated on, legalised, challenged, accepted, bloodied, grown. The stone is chipped away, concealing facet by concealing facet, to reveal she who has always been since the beginning of her time. The two-spirit is made one. And now she is leaving, venturing forth on the next stage of her journey.
To pledge her life in partnership with the man she loves; the man who adores her, respects her, comforts her, challenges her.
Down by the sea, amongst bright air, holy of holies.
Two years ago, despairing, dark, stuck, alone, oh! so alone! she prayed, under a full, white belly moon to Lord Ganesh, remover of obstacles, "Oh My Lord, consort of Goddess, make me woman, teach me love.
Now I am woman, whole and complete, rebirthed, reclaimed. I go forth to live in love, to love.
I came here two and a half years ago like a mother cat seeking somewhere close but safe and sheltered to have her litter. But I, the mother, would be giving birth to me, the daughter.
It has been curious, this double aspect of myself that has developed; this sense of being both watchful, anxious, nurturing mother and awkward colt of a daughter, taking her first shaky steps into the world; wonderful, dangerous.
There were times my daughter made me proud. Like the time she shocked her girlfriend Mab by going home with her mad Irish friend, Mick. Oh! I suppose she took a risk, altho' he came with Mab's endorsement. But she handled herself with a clear-spoken self-possession and grace (well so I thought). Handled lying on his mattress naked under the moon, "like a virgin, touched for the very first time"; fourteen years old, nervous, vulnerable.
The headlights sweeping across the ceiling; his man's scent; his man's hands paying homage, taking his inch, trying for his mile but in the end honoring her insistence on his promise.
And in the morning she handled his embarrassment and regret.
There were other times tho' when her daughter wrung her heart. Fumbling with her newfound strength and responsibility she caused pain and felt pain, hurt and was hurt, terribly. Betrayed confidences and trust. Broke the precious Ming vase of another's heart and hope. Slipped back into old bankrupt ways of cowardly deceit and abject fear. Went to that place of blackest, unfathomable despair. That place where there is no light, no hope, no coming up for air.
But come up she did (and got her come-uppance). Shook herself off like a kitten who's fallen into water; bruised, sorry, shaken...but wiser. St Paula learning the bitter, dry taste of Damascus dust. Understanding that joy is twinned with melancholy, learning to cherish that which is "as good as it gets".
And there were times, too, when Paula felt very much that she was actually giving birth in long drawn out, etched deep, waves of pain. Mostly during electrolysis. Other women, in other cubicles, would chatter, twitter, groan about the thirty hours they would have to do over a year. Trill gaily as they left after half an hour. Paula would gird her loins for the struggle of enduring two hundred hours, three hours at a time.
Every week, week after week, pinching pennies, eating plain rice. Learning the tricks of going with the pain, breathing through it to stop it taking hold, getting into her core. Sometimes it did...get into her core. She would stagger back to the car trembling, every nerve end screaming. Alex would be visibly pained for her, bewildered. Back home he would put her to bed, make her soup, stroke her hair. Ministering angel.
Mostly, tho', she endured, silent, stoic, like all the other women, the half-hour ones included. Detached from the waves of heat and pain, breathing through them like contractions. "She is coming", she would say to herself. "I can feel her coming, needle by needle, into the world, my lost child, my child of hope, my child of rebirth, myself."
And now she is here, come of age. Feminised, transitioned, operated on, legalised, challenged, accepted, bloodied, grown. The stone is chipped away, concealing facet by concealing facet, to reveal she who has always been since the beginning of her time. The two-spirit is made one. And now she is leaving, venturing forth on the next stage of her journey.
To pledge her life in partnership with the man she loves; the man who adores her, respects her, comforts her, challenges her.
Down by the sea, amongst bright air, holy of holies.
Two years ago, despairing, dark, stuck, alone, oh! so alone! she prayed, under a full, white belly moon to Lord Ganesh, remover of obstacles, "Oh My Lord, consort of Goddess, make me woman, teach me love.
Now I am woman, whole and complete, rebirthed, reclaimed. I go forth to live in love, to love.
posted by Paula at
9:11 pm
