Author: lakshmibertram

My first book, 'Choosing Waterbirth: Reclaiming the Sacred Power of Birth' was published in 2000. I continue to write, working on a number of projects, both fiction and non-fiction.

Note to Thor…

I can’t reconcile-

the last time I saw you at Pinos Pizzeria on no day in particular “Hey, Aunt La,” when we hugged and exchanged pleasantries that always end in our family motto: “I love you.” “I love you, too, Thor.” 

– with the body that lay in the coffin.

How is it you came to be that picture in the corner of the living room, forever peter-panned by the tragic, dramatic colliding of a flying truck and a tree? The revered family member everyone talks about  at gatherings, the son, brother, grandson, nephew  cousin, lover, stranger to new family members, your existence known now through mythologies told and retold with deep love, humour and sorrow? Where is it you have gone, now that you’ve left us? My beliefs say, though you’ve shed your body shell, the essence of you remains. I wish I were a medium, able to sink deep beneath the surface of bodily life and hang with you in the ether-world:

“I love you, Aunt La.” “I love you, too, Thor.”

Spectre

A phantom lives in me, a ghost you cannot see Ignore her and she’ll catch you unaware.

The shadow in my sight, the darkness in the night, the demon who resides under the stair.

This thief unto the day, she robs me of my way awareness of my inner self betrayed.

I cannot keep her still, by effort, hope or will she wants to rise and shatter all I’ve made.

Who will win, she or I? Who’s the truth? Who’s the lie? The monarch of this body that we share?

We both want to be left, the other self bereft, of everything inside that’s good and fair.

We have been here before, her scratching at the door illusions that I try so hard to fight.

Of course I don’t give in and let the spectre win I banish her and thus she haunts the night.

Brace for Impact

Love comes down the mountain, avalanche of wonder
You cannot flee the slope, now that you’re snowed under
There was a moment once you had the chance to act
All you can do now is
Brace for impact

Lust roars from the ocean and rips across the plain
levels all the houses, a class five hurricane
Ordered to evacuate, still you didn’t act
There’s nowhere you can hide
Brace for impact

Betrayal hits the shore, a sweeping tidal wave
The life that you adored? Debris upon your grave
Your saw it from the coast, decided not to act
What else can you do but
Brace for impact?

Regret comes creeping in a fog on cloying feet
Emerging from the mist a beast you have to beat
Weeping for the moment you had the chance to act
There’s only one way now
Brace for impact

Hope, like sunshine dawning sheds light upon the day
Sift among the wreckage to find a better way
The smashing of your heart is not the final act
Open to that bright light
Brace for impact

Forgiveness is a breeze arriving from the west
It scatters all the pain, reminds you that you’re blessed
Listen to your heartache, learn lessons, make the pact
The good life’s there for taking
Brace for impact

Pumpkin Patch

I have a pumpkin patch, though not through my own effort, desire, or design. My kids planted it this spring based on a Native American planting system termed The Three Sisters where corn, pole beans, and pumpkins are planted together. Corn, a heavy feeder, benefits from the beans which bring nitrogen into the soil. In turn, the corn stalks provide the perfect climbing frame for beans. Pumpkin plants, light feeders, provide shade to the corn and beans. These three foods, purportedly staples of native cultures that provided storable crops for winter, were planted thus to capitalize on symbiosis.

Growing in our garden this year, where we don’t have much else planted, the Three Sisters thrive. Cleverly planted in integrative harmony, each providing support, nourishment, and caring to the others, they seem very like a family. It’s been fun to watch them grow–particularly as this has not been an easy year for growing things not only in our region but all over the world. High heat is crippling much of the US and where it is not drought conditions there have been freak storms and flooding. One wishes there were a way to scoop up all that flood water up and deposit it on the hard-baked dirt, rutted with crevasses in the drought regions.

For plants to survive this kind of weather, they do rely on human intervention.

I looked out the window yesterday afternoon and my harmonic, happy plant family was wilted. The pumpkin patch looked downtrodden, drooping in the heat, and the edges of the corn leaves were dry and brittle. It was 95 degrees, not hot for us for July, but far hotter than I prefer. However, having seen the state of things, I knew I would never be able to sleep that night if I didn’t get out and water the garden.

It was hot, as I said, so I donned the only appropriate apparel, a bikini, and ventured out. I dragged the hose up the yard, waded deep into the wilted pumpkin leaves and turned the soaker on them. It made me feel better to be doing it. I imagined the cool sensation I always feel when suddenly relieved of unbearable heat, I imagined a desperate thirst being quenched by cold water.

There were pumpkins hiding everywhere amongst the foliage. I have no idea what we will do with them all, should they survive to be ripe and edible, but it was a joy just to see them; dark green globes with pale streaks of lighter green and just the beginning shading of orange in places. There were beans as well, climbing up the stalks and the first thickening of corn ears showed at various junctions.

I love to garden and haven’t been able to do much of it lately. It may have been that love-induced absorption in plant-life that prevented me from hearing the distant rumble and roll of the thunder. I first became aware of the storm when raindrops began to fall, warm as bathwater and the size of dimes. I thought about hanging up the soaker and heading indoors, but it was not clear from the partially over-cast sky how much rain would be falling. I opted to persevere, thinking too much water would probably be better than too little.

That is how my twelve-year-old daughter found me. The front door flung open as she popped her head out into the rain and shouted, “Mom! What are you doing?!”

As it would happen, that early rain had become a torrent. I looked up. The whole sky was dark, rain falling in sheets.

What was I doing?

I was watering the garden in my bikini in a down-pour.

Oh, well, at least the pumpkins are happy.

The Life of Babies

I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Babies have got it right; they’re the only ones who really know how to live life. Babies are too young to have been properly thought-programmed by their elders. They don’t yet know to believe that money, fame, the right street, the right career, the right person, or the right pair of shoes is what makes for happiness. A baby’s happiness comes from whatever is in front of them at the moment. It bubbles up uncontrollably, not because of some particular outside influence, but because the happiness is in them already—all they do is let it out. Because they habitually express what is in them, a baby lives a life of complete authenticity. If they don’t like something, they spit it out, stop playing with it, or refuse to pick it up in the first place. They never second-guess themselves, they like what they like, want what they want, and do what they do because it’s inherent in them to be that way. Babies live completely as they are, acting just as they were created. They cry when they’re sad or angry, laugh when they’re happy, eat when they’re hungry and sleep when they’re tired. And they never worry about anything. They don’t obsess over what happened yesterday or spend all their time thinking about what they’re going to do tomorrow. A baby lives for what’s happening now. Have you ever watched a baby discovering something new? Their whole existence becomes about that one moment of discovery. Even if you try to distract them, you can’t. But when they’ve learned all they can, they move on to the next discovery in the next moment. Life for a baby is an endless string of pearled moments of discovery, one after the other. Because a baby lives in this present way, they never hold a grudge. They may be upset and crying one moment, but when the next moment rolls around, they’re smiling, laying a head on your shoulder, forgiving whatever wrong-doing you may have committed. Babies also don’t know how to judge yet. A baby does not care about the color of another baby’s skin, their religion, or in what country they were born. To them, there’s just another baby—quite like themselves. And they will smile at anyone from any denomination who takes a moment to try and make them smile. Babies love like this because they haven’t yet learned how to hate. I wonder sometimes what our world would be like if we weren’t so conditioned by our up-bringing’s, if our worlds of influence did not fill our heads with ideas of who and what we should be, who and what we should like, who and what we should hate. I wonder, what kind of a world it would be if we took a few lessons from those younger than we and lived, in certain aspects, the life of babies.

Essence of Life

Sometimes I forget what’s important in life
kept busy thinking about next week, last week,
last year, or the week after next, kept occupied
recalling a moment gone or planning a moment                                                                    still to come. Sometimes I forget the essence                                                                      of life exists only in this moment. My breath                                                              brings me back to a single heartbeat, the space                                                                    between thoughts where my essence rests                                                                            at peace with itself.