First WEeks of February
When Dina and I moved into this house less than two months ago, our menstrual cycles kept completely different clocks.
Last month, they came within a week of each other.
Yesterday, Dina’s first words to me upon rising were, “Your period will probably be starting soon, because mine just did.”
“Public Service Announcement! Your period is on its way!” I said, in a deep and nerdy voice.
My cycle showed up an hour later. Evidently, we’ve dropped into another regenerative rhythm and precisely synchronized menstrual cycles. It also happens to be the full moon.
We’ve seen that intentions planted here at The Mama Bear Sanctuary bloom as if saturated in fertilizer, since Dina and I are committed to composting our “shit.” So, when Dina suggested that we announce an official release of whatever old patterns or limiting beliefs are cramping our style, I jumped in!
Dina stated her intention (and here I paraphrase):
I am done giving someone else power over how I feel, think, speak, or behave.
I ask my blood to bind to this old energy and take it to the earth, where it is healed.
My turn. While several known cramp-causers blipped across my radar, I told Dina I would sit with the question and see what wanted to arise. Moving forward into the day, I didn’t contrive or squint. And holy wow, “shit” popped right out!
Lounging in the living room with my three daughters that evening, I noticed an unusually strong and restless emotional itch. My reflex was to scratch it with external supports, such as snacks, or social interactions. I felt the pull to pick up my phone—seeking connection, wanting to feel wanted for more than domestic services. Instead of reaching out, I leaned in. What’s this? I sensed the pulsing of an underlying void, laced in loneliness and fear. I sensed the subconscious belief that I’m not enough, how and where I am. I sensed the conviction that something else could make it better. In this case, that something was kombucha. An external support, of course, but perhaps less invasive to my process? Promising soup to the children, I excused myself to the store.
What I really needed was some personal space. As soon as I was alone in the car, I burst into a spontaneous sort of singing prayer. Then I started a video message for Dina, that she might bear indirect witness to my face-plant (making it more potent). And I voiced it. I spoke into my discomfort with no lens, no filter, no justification. Words tumbled out in total vulnerability. I’d unpacked this pain before, after all. Many times. But such is life, so I probed again for the root.
The first layer came through readily. Experiences of discomfort or pain sometimes trigger residual vibrations from childhood wounds having to do with feeling judged, criticized, rejected, or unlovable. For a mammal, this is existentially unbearable. Thus I developed a habit of moving away from pain without even an acknowledgment, to save myself the trouble. This full moon release, like any other, starts with discovering and then allowing my true feelings.
The next layer came through in waves. Another lingering distortion I’ve discovered in myself is the perception of motherhood as a lame-ass job holding me hostage. Certainly, this train of thought runs small and petty compared to the great engine of gratitude and love keeping me on track. But if I am being fully transparent, there are moments when it feels like my kids—their needs—are the boss of me, even though I am supposed to be “in charge.” This creates anything from mild resistance to full-fledged rebellion.
When I’m in resistance, the train of thought picks up power. For my state of being, this literally translates into speed. I scoot from one task to the next as quickly as possible. Done pooping yet? Let’s get those hands washed. Shoes on, time to go! Lily? Rose! Come along, girls! Get in your car seats!
This pace cramps and fragments the way motherhood sits on me, like a hat that squeezes on one side. It’s awfully uncomfortable and I just try to get through it, so as I’m speeding along, I’m simultaneously craving a break, or a shift, from the momentum.
But that’s no way to live. It’s disconnection, pure and simple—and disconnection hurts like hell.
Here then, in plain English, is my sacred offer:
No need for speeding, no bracing for impact.
I release the belief that I have to push hard to move mountains.
I stop running from momentary discomfort by reaching for something else.
I slow down. Drop into my body and root from within.
I am safe, I am home, I am here.
I am present to the love happening now.
As the full moon passes, taking my period with it, I feel much quieter. It certainly seems that some crusty resistance has melted away, bleeding down my leg, into the earth, for healing.
Today, I dropped in and engaged the kids with an open heart, completely present. The love connection was sweet and savory goodness, juiciest known to humanity, nourishing every cell. I allowed myself fullness.
I also found deeper connection with our emerging “homeschool” rhythm. It fully dawned on me that Dina and I are lead teachers when it comes to eating, manners, and self-care patterns—that we are asked to teach what we’re suited to study.
Paradigm shifting is a matter of physics.
In moments of tension during play time, I could feel the kids speeding, grasping, and controlling. I could see how they had adopted cramped coping stratagem. But children this little are regenerative marvels. They demonstrate resilience perfectly, and make quantum leaps as a matter of course—releasing resistance in a heartbeat whenever something more freeing comes along.
It’s beautiful to see the delight in their eyes whenever something more free comes through me. It’s beautiful to sense the positive imprint taking place. Regenerative energy is not theoretical. It’s embodied. We make space for life to thrive by cultivating clear minds. It doesn’t matter what storyline our trauma tells. When our cells sing new songs, everything follows.
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