This is a story about finding patience and peace within the wisdom of the body and the earth.
A seagull has built her nest outside my bedroom window.
I check on her everyday. Now she is sleeping, beak tucked into her breast and eyes half closed, always alert to the smallest sound or movement.
The sea outside is unusually calm, almost still from where I watch it up on the fourth floor of my building. No wind disturbs the trees. All is quiet.
For me, a peacefulness has emerged slowly these last few weeks. Peace is something that's hovered temptingly around me for many years, yet been elusive and hard to hold onto: I failed to strip it from lovers, couldn’t locate it in my bank balance and didn't even feel it in my work.
I don’t know if the seagull outside my window is the same one who set up home here a few years ago. It could be her, or perhaps it’s her baby, returning to its birthplace to continue the cycle of life.
When the eggs hatch, I can forget about peeking my head outside to watch the tiny balls of fluff attempt to walk. Their mother and the bigger, angrier seagull who protects them will make a furious racket until I descend into the heat of my flat again. This is our summer ritual.
Two years ago when the seagull built her nest here using twigs and moss and leaves, I was excited. The sun does this to me anyway because I always seemed to be falling in hot but fleeting love in the summer months.
Winter romance is harder. Bulky jumpers, nights in front of the TV and comfort eating have suggested a grey road to domesticity and drudgery to me that, in the past, I feared walking down. I used to care about what I understood then to be, “passion”. I wanted to be with artists and drug addicts and sexy people! Yes, that was going to lead to happiness!
As the days grew longer and the seagull made her nest, tended to her eggs and then chicks, as they grew and shed the grey fluffy feathers for strong white ones, I dreamt of nothing but pregnant mothers. Literally - my dreams were snatched images of hospital dashes and panting mouths.
One day I cracked an egg and discovered a double yolk. I cracked another, the same result. And another, and another, and another, and another. Six double-yolk eggs in a row. What was going on with these hens!?
Birth was everywhere. I insisted to my therapist that yes, I was in love but no, I wasn’t broody, and was preparing to birth a new life and a new business instead. This was just as well, as the relationship I was in at the time fizzled out to nothingness as quickly as it had burst into life.
Over these couple of years of first birthing then raising Curious Souls and journeying into the mysteries of the feminine, I have wondered “why are you really doing this, Tamsin?”. Yes, there is the lofty mission to rebalance the sacred masculine and feminine and bring peace to all…
But if I’m really honest with myself, all this WOMB STUFF has very personal motives too. The womb wounding, the womb clearings, the womb blessings, the womb love - it’s literally been a full-time job! The work works though, and as my internal world has healed and settled, so too has my outer world.
Releasing and honouring old energy and memories from our bodies, filling ourselves up with love and learning to create from the deepest Source of truth - these are noble tasks.
We do womb work to honour bodies that have been controlled and coerced.
We do womb work for the next generation.
We do womb work so we can express ourselves fully.
We do womb work to pay respect to our ancestors.
We do womb work to reclaim pleasure and play as birthrights.
We do womb work to set ourselves free from shame.
We do womb work so we can birth new life.
We do womb work so we can birth a new earth.
This lockdown has been a sacred pause of kinds. Like the drawing in of menstruation, or inner winter, in this pause we surrender everything, drop the busyness and sink into the great void where true transformation occurs.
I know this time hasn’t been a quiet one for many people. I know life on the front-line has been anything but peaceful and calm. I know that homeschooling and working, furloughing and redundancy have been struggles many have faced. And I know too that illness and death have never been far away.
But we can’t deny this is a time of re-evaluating our lives and priorities. We slow down enough to ponder and reflect. We marvel at how little we need materially. We miss our mothers but certainly not the mall. In our quiet days and even quieter nights, we look within.
Like the expectant seagull, we wait.
In the perfect moment something new will be born.
We can’t rush and risk crushing the potentiality.
We can’t leave the nest and abandon ourselves, our dreams and desires.
We simply have to be patient.
To tend to ourselves gently.
To cultivate an inner peace in the waiting.
Because something new will be birthed. And we all, individually and collectively, get to decide what that looks and feels like.
For me, it feels like connection, contentment, peace, simplicity and authenticity. It looks like writing more, posting on social media far less, and most importantly for a woman who has spent a long time healing her womb, creating a family of my own.
All will be made manifest in their own time and their own way, I have faith in that.
But for now I'm curious, what does the new earth being birthed look and feel like for you?
In love and sisterhood
Connect with the wisdom of your cyclical body
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