something to begin with

Today, I inched ever closer to finishing my thesis. Something I've been working on for quite awhile. During the duration of this work, many things have happened. I got married, bought a house, got my first real job, and gave birth to my daughter. Other things happened, too. Those nuances of life that are perhaps more interesting, and which are best saved for other entries. But since this is the start of something, I want to tell a story of my daughter's birth. Not the story, but a story of the day. A moment that culminated in what is the most beautiful, wonderful thing. And look, I went and spoiled the ending.

* * *
January 27, 2009. Her godfather's birthday. I hadn't slept well. Five days overdue and very much over going to work and hearing the "you're still here's" that are so easy to give and mean nothing. So, I stayed home. I had been having those wonderful contractions; you know something is happening, but the "what," exactly, is unclear.

I spent the day on my computer, legs crossed on the couch. Chatting and working and counting in-between pulses. It seemed to be every hour, and yet I was so sure that the time was far away. At noon, I put down my laptop and put on my headphones. Walking helps bring it all about, I had been told. So I decided to walk around my very small living room. Stella, my dog, was a little concerned. My pacing made her pace, so she went to sleep in the dining room. Poor thing.

First, "Tangled Up in Blue" by Bob Dylan. An amazing acoustic version that was first introduced to me on my 21st birthday on a mix from my best friend. It was nestled in there between Phish and Ben Harper, two artists who I don't really know much about, even to this day. But this version, Bob just strumming. A slower version of the one best known. I held my belly, so amazingly big. And we walked, the two of us. And I encouraged her to make her way.

Then "Such Great Heights," the Iron and Wine version. We swayed together; "Come down now." I cried openly and walked and danced with her. I hadn't talked to her that much until then. But in that moment, as that silent, sweet little song floated about us both, I felt as if I'd known her always and told her everything. All of my history and fears. The particular parts of myself that I keep on the inside. And in that now, I could ask her to make her way to me. We walked back and forth, not pacing but moving together in a loving cradle. We made a lullaby together, one that rocked us into union. It was so touching and private. Even now, writing this, it's hard to let the memory live someplace other than my heart. It's hard to not explain it enough.

Several hours later, she was born. Or came into the space where her father could see her, and other people who love her now could marvel at her grace. But we had already become mother and child, dancing in the living room inside each other. We had both been born together. And while every time I've had with her since then has been an unparalleled explosion of beauty, laughter, and insane sweetness, I do believe I have had no gift greater than those 4 minutes and 11 seconds on January 27.

Every time I hear that song, I think about leaving a me behind and entering the age of us.