Vulnerability is Mother

If vulnerability were a person,
I think she would be always giving birth.
In every moment laboring.

Breathing through the resistance of a world that has been
lulled and terrored
into silent weeping and isolated thinking —
only dreaming of feelings, at war in the waking,
defending themselves against the shame of being
on their backs.

Naked and panting and crying and trembling
as she pushes out something that once only existed
as a passing thought,
and now has a life of its own.
A world.
A world of hurt.
A world of imagination.
A world of potential.

She would be giving birth to a new earth.
She would be pleading with God to have mercy,
to release her from this pain,
to send the doulas and nurses and loved ones away —
to pluck their ears and eyes out
so they cannot witness when she hollers
“I CAN’T DO THIS.”

And God would say,
you can, and you will.
And she would begin to leave her body,
elevating to the highest realms of consciousness,
vibrating higher.

And her body would continue the work,
with her eyes focused on a depth beyond.
Her head nodding in and out.
Her abdomen contracting,
squeezing all of her bones and muscles,
purging this new world —
its horizon crowning, splitting her open.

Her spirit, in the above,
kneeling down to the deity of acceptance.
Accepting the pain.
Accepting the audience.
Accepting that they will never understand.
Accepting that she will never be the same.
Accepting that she does not know
what caring for the new world will be.
What responsibilities await her after it is born.
Accepting that she will have to do this again, and again —
and that each time,
she will die and transform,
die and transform.

She accepts that sometimes the grief
of every world she bore,
and every time she had to die to bring it to life,
will come knocking.

And maybe she will be busy —
busy washing dishes,
or laughing with someone she loves,
or celebrating her own birth.
She accepts that her very existence
requires her to open the door —
and that sometimes a tidal wave,
or a light rain
of tears will come washing through.

She accepts that sometimes grief will show up as anger,
and she will breathe like a bull at a matador,
infusing her bloodstream with oxygen
until she regains the consciousness
to respect that this anger is made of hurt.

She accepts that sometimes it will be fear,
and she will politely ask it to leave —
and if it won’t,
instead of running away,
she will simply hold its hands
until it melts away.

She accepts and agrees to these terms and conditions.
And in her final push,
she delivers the new world
into the hands of the one she hurt,
or the one who hurt her.