Life is a spiral, with one circle ending and another simultaneously beginning; layering and weaving thick histories and memories that ultimately makeup our very personal stories.

My own personal story is evolving once again, as I prepare to move into a new house; the house of my dreams; the sort of place where writers create and imagine and bring to life another overlapping circle of alternate characters and plots.

So I wrote this, a poem of the end of one such circle—meeting the beginning of another.

It’s soft sunlight, with husband holding my face between thick fingers and rays of setting, kitchen-evening sun.

It’s wife-opening heartache of new opportunities to flail terribly against currents of crisp thresholds.

It’s mommyheart kisses, scraped hands, falling on new porch steps.

It’s Christmas-tree lighting in a different nook near cold, slowly-warming-from-coming-inside memories of pink cheeks and snow-trodden shoe-print trails, dragged across another worn wooden floor.

It’s hips swaying, music driving, new stovetop bubbling, different sink washing, apron-hanging kitchen dancing routines.

It’s possibilities and dreams nestled tightly into fresh corners of my family circle; it’s feet carving grooves that will spin a deeper domestic heartbeat.

Photo: Flickr/Meg Wills.

The post A New Place to Dream. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

When the glasses are all cleared.

When there are dishes to be done.

When hearts have been emptied into words whispered from lips to ears.

There’s a sort of let down that follows a brilliant celebration—there’s also a sort of relief.

There’s a sense of fullness that lifts a previously tired a spirit, along with a kind of shallow emptiness that settles into calm as life returns to normal.

But normal can shift back into lonesomeness as the half-nibbled plates are taken care of; as those whispered words settle back inside the heart.

My always too-talkative self usually feels a sense of embarrassment at the things that I’ve said, as well as not said.

I wait for weeks and days to see special faces, and when they’re here, I retreat into myself—too tender to reveal what a get-together means and too sore in my crippled woundedness of fragile life to know even how to go about telling someone else what they mean to me, when not there.

I look over at a spent napkin, sitting forgotten on the nicked antique table.

I remember the way her face fell as I accidentally said the wrong thing (that I didn’t even really mean). And then I remember, too, the way she lit up when we laughed or how she smiled at the baby, quietly contented in her visiting lap.

I never have much to do after the party’s over. They’re all so generally helpful and good at cleaning up after themselves.

Sometimes I wonder, though, what they’ll say about me on the drive home, or how they’ll recall a funny incident. (I swear I’ll be 59 and hear ringing in my ears that someone else is talking about me.)

So when the party’s over and I’ve returned to me—to my home in my natural state—I’ll always wish, again and again, that we’ve only just begun.

That mascara will go on freshly curled lashes.

That excited chests will be clothed in favorite sweaters.

That anticipation, curiosity and (almost a sense of) fear will reside within my full breast, ready and needing hugs and conversation.

I listen to the quiet that fills the room, along with my house’s familiar voices and rhythms, and I’m grateful to be sitting where I am, nursing a baby with a half glass of wine, listening to my heart fill up for its next chance to spill open.

Photo: Flickr/Merry Christmas; Flickr/After Party.

The post When the Party’s Over. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I smile and laugh and playfully enjoy the company of others.

I cringe at some of the things that just pop out of my mouth when I’m too at ease in conversation. I buckle under lonely, heartbroken legs when I feel isolated and not cared for by friends.

I shine and come alive in the presence of people who matter in my life.

Yet when I’m sick and not feeling like my sunshiny self, I pull back—I crawl back into my active imagination and, like a sensitive child on a rain-drenched day, I curl up inside of my lonesomeness rather than seeking playmates.

So what should we do when those we love don’t return phone calls or texts?

What should we do when we want to give someone we care for space while still making them feel loved and supported?

We do this:

1. Call me and text me, but don’t take it personally if you don’t hear back quickly.

2. Make sure to tell me that you adore my company, even when I’m gloomy.

3. Understand that, though extroverted, I’m a whole person and I am okay on my own, just like someone who is deeply introverted. While I might garner energy from spending time with others, I too enjoy and need my alone time in order to be a healthy individual.

4. Ask me what I need. Don’t assume that I want to be left alone. Don’t assume that I want to be bothered either. I’m human and my needs vary, so don’t be afraid to ask me what exactly it is that I need from you.

5. Understand that simple interactions are meaningful. That hug you gave me; the smile from your eyes to mine; the text that succinctly said “I love you”—all of these made me feel supported and loved when I also felt under the weather.

6. Don’t hold back. You’re in my life as a friend or partner because I’ve chosen you to be there; I’ve trusted your judgment as a person and I respect and value the way that you decide to react in situations. In other words, follow your own instinct in our relationship too.

And as the days go by and I return to my more typically joyful self, I’ll remember who it was that held my heart up high for me when I wasn’t up to it—and I’ll thank you with love in return when these tables are reversed.

Photo: Flickr/Plum leaves

The post How to Care for a Reclusive Extrovert. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I was in yoga class, in downward-facing dog, when I reached my right leg high and long behind me.

It felt like my toes touched the studio ceiling.

And I know that this was intrinsically connected to my internal manifestation and declaration of something that I had been burying for far too long within my cumbersome chest—since my youthful days when it was expected: I Am a Rebel.

And this is my Rebel’s Manifesto.

I wear my heart on an occasionally tattered sleeve.

I have a college degree, but I consider myself to be educated through life’s experiences, teachings and my willingness to learn from them.

I value kindness.

I eat what I want to, what feels good for my body, and I try to purchase and eat my food mindfully. I don’t eat for the latest vegetable craze or what someone else thinks is healthy for five minutes before it changes again.

I move my body because it feels good, not because I want to fit into a certain size or shape.

And I don’t buy that fit is the new skinny. That’s a gross exaggeration of what’s normal too.

Self-indulgence is not self-care. (Thank you to my friend for putting this one so eloquently into words.)

I stopped coloring my hair because, as it turns out, I like both my natural brown as well as my greys, but this doesn’t mean that I’ll never have blonde highlights again.

I like to feel the sun on my skin, but I’d rather be hiking and sweating my butt off than lying in a reclined chair with my bikini on (although those days were thoroughly enjoyed and not regretted).

I do believe in regrets. But I don’t have any.

I like some of the most obscure bands that are nearly unheard of…and I own more than one season soundtrack of Glee. (My ears don’t know what’s cool, just what gives my tender flesh goosebumps.)

I would rather watch one of my husband’s nerdy science documentaries than most of the shows people are talking about on Facebook. (But don’t tell him please.)

Sometimes the weight of my breaking heart feels like a rock in the pocket of my dress, bringing me down to the bottom of the lake as I walk into the water. Just as I realize that I have no air left to breathe—my wounded soul depleted—the dawning sun tickles cheek and I feel my arms being tugged at, freeing me from my gloomy despair. My savior? Myself.

I have a temper, and a wildly passionate spirit.

I’m impatient, and I’m wonderfully proactive.

I have flaws and idiosyncrasies—thank God.

I believe in something much bigger than me, but I don’t believe in praying to it for what my human incarnation wants—yet I’m genuinely inspired that some people do.

I want to teach my children that worth has nothing to do with dollar signs, collected trinkets, or countable paper accolades.

I want to teach my children to be rebels.

I want them to know that the best person they can be is a reflection of much more than a status quo.

I’ve realized that embracing rebellion doesn’t mean fighting for no reason or standing out when it’s not necessary. It means letting the fire within us shine so brightly that the blaze can’t help but catch the world on fire.

And I want to live in a world with light.

And I’ve always been different.

I had six nicknames in preschool that I made up for myself—J, Jenn with two n’s, Jen with one—and I made my teachers call me by my name of the day.

And we’ve all always been different. I have an identical twin and she is not my doppelganger.

Before we write in with parts of this manifesto that we don’t agree with, let’s set the story clear that I hope anyone who reads this has an entirely unique list, made from items completely contrasting my own.

All that I ask—the declaration that set me free in my downward-facing dog—is that we not get so caught up in our need for societal acceptance and belonging that we forget whose approval really counts: our own.

This article was first published by elephant journal.

Photo: Wikimedia Commons

The post The Rebel’s Manifesto. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

My first child was born naturally.

And, no, that doesn’t mean I had her at home.

Rather, she was born in the birthing center of a local hospital, and I had no medications. I let my body do the work while my midwife provided wonderful guidance and support. (My husband was pretty great too.)

And I’ve had essentially three different reactions to my sharing that I had not so much as a Tylenol throughout my pregnancy, labor and delivery.

One, other women look at me with shocked horror clearly exposed on their faces, saying something along the lines of “I would never do that. Give me the drugs;” two, women say that they also had beautiful natural labor experiences or, three, I’ve had some women appear jealous or a little sad because they weren’t lucky enough to have had natural childbirth as an option. (Cesareans exist for a reason, after all.)

So, with my expectant mother’s tummy filled with another growing life, I can’t help but hopefully contemplate my upcoming renewal of this experience and, likewise, reflect on the positive experience that I had—and what steps were taken to arrive there.

I’d like to share some personal tips that helped me, and I’d like to you to also keep in mind that this advice is from the experience of a mother, not a physician.

1. It is not your birth.

Women get so hung up on the pain aspect of labor and, to be fair, it’s practically shoved at us.

I choose to view my labor and delivery as my child’s experience, not mine, and this helped me view it as an act of maternal love instead of a wailing struggle.

2. Breathe.

If you practice yoga, don’t stop. Learn safe modifications, but do not stop your practice. If you’ve never practiced yoga then find a properly certified teacher to guide you through a prenatal class. The breath work that’s taught in yoga class is a priceless tool for the delivery room.

3. Exercise.

Do not use your pregnancy as an excuse to sit around.

Relax and rest, of course, and nap if you can, but exercise. Your body will need to be strong, and even flexible, during childbirth, and now is the time to prepare.

4. Eat well.

Ideally you’re already eating well for your baby, but what about for you? You’ll feel your best when filling your body with unprocessed, healthy food.

Again, pregnancy is not a reason to eat an entire carton of ice cream (although that’s not to say you shouldn’t have a serving, or two).

5. Find a midwife or physician who supports you.

This step is critical. Make sure that you’re working with someone who also sees the benefits of a natural childbirth and who’s willing to support you and your goals and beliefs. Additionally, it helps if you actually just like and “click” with your midwife or doctor, because this person will be acting as a coach to you when the time comes.

6. Check out Hypnobabies.

Admittedly, much of this excellent CD series was so much like my yoga and meditation practice that I didn’t spend the amount of time with it that’s generally recommended, but I’ve talked with so many mothers who used Hypnobabies with their natural birth process.

Essentially, you’ll learn valuable techniques to empower you and fill you with excitement of the process, and this is hugely important because the more relaxed you are, the more successful you’re likely to be. (Fear and anxiety gripped muscles are not conducive to natural childbirth.)

Another perk of Hypnobabies is that it helps teach you pain management—no drugs required.

7. Have a support system.

I was lucky that my husband was the perfect candidate. Moreover, this might mean excluding people too.

I chose not to let anyone know we had our baby until after the fact. I didn’t want people there, in the room or wandering the halls, and knowing that I had my perfect bubble of an environment—the one that I’d created with my midwife, my husband, and my iPod—was definitely one of the reasons that my birth plan worked well.

8. Stay away from dramatic stories.

You do not need to read about other people’s dramas, in or out of the hospital room.

Yes, be prepared for the reality that it might not go as you’d envisioned, but remember to filter the information you take in. Consider that you’re preparing yourself for the marathon of all marathons—and you need to take in positive things that pump you up, not emotional roller-coasters that play on your sensitive emotions.

9. Read helpful stories of other natural births and pregnancies.

Not everyone out there had a bad labor experience and some women love being pregnant (ahem).

Listening to just one extraordinarily uplifting story might be exactly the thing you need to amp up your spirits for your (and your baby’s) big day.

10. Stop being afraid!

Fear will prevent an easy child birth. It is not something that supports you in anyway.

Address your concerns and make adequate preparations for any real issues that might arise, but, equally, trust that your body will know what to do when the time comes.

11. Expect twists and turns.

This is true not just of childbirth, but of parenthood. I can’t tell you how many things I would never do as a parent that, when put in my own actual life, did not stick, and the reverse is true too.

For me, my first baby required hospital care and I personally wouldn’t choose a non-hospital experience for my subsequent babies because of this. The point is this: we can never truly know how we’ll react until we’re actually placed in the situation ourselves. On top of this, shit happens. So be prepared for a little shit, as well as for joy.

12. Motivation.

Why do you want a natural childbirth?

If having a natural labor and delivery experience is something you feel like you should be doing, but you’re heart’s not in it, then you might eventually find yourself in a difficult situation.

Because a natural birth isn’t for everyone, but if it’s for you, then congratulations—you’re joining countless women who have found birth to be something to celebrate and find beauty in.

“The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new.” ~ Rajneesh

Photo credit: Author’s own.

This article was first published by elephant journal.

The post Considering Natural Childbirth? Read These 12 Pieces of Advice. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I say so many things to you, but I rarely say the ones that matter.

I ask you to help get her dressed or to please let me know if you’ll be home late tonight.

I tell you to have a good day or to do me a favor and refill her cup.

What I don’t tell you is this:

I can’t live without you—if life is unfair and ruthlessly snatches you from me, I would shrivel up and die, at least inside.

I love the way that you hold me close and how you won’t let me go, even when you feel me pulling away to do something more practical.

I love sharing parenthood with you, but I long desperately for those nights when we had no one to worry about but ourselves and how we would stay wrapped up together all weekend long, never leaving our bed.

I want to have your next child, but sometimes I fear that this would drive us further and further away from the sanity of childless couples—the types of things that everyone takes for granted pre-kids, naively thinking that they will be “different.”

I was naive too. I was idealistic—if we weren’t, no children would be born.

And sometimes I fear, too, that my lofty and imaginative dreams prevent me from seeing the reality of our lives: that romance has to be squeezed in between potty training and food all over the floor.

It has to be tended to and cared for before it wilts and withers and falls to the ground.

And that’s not to say that I don’t think our little threesome is perfect—I know we are—but I do still wish that I could be more of your wife sometimes and less of a mom.

Yet that’s the strange battle within mothers: we need absolutely to be women, first and foremost, but we also can’t stop being moms.

I feel your firm thumb trace the narrow line of my jaw and my skin pricks and my steady-rhythm heart becomes significantly less steady.

I look in your eyes and I see the boy that I knew would grow into a fine man; I see all of his courage, his brazenness and his own neediness behind the dark-rimmed glasses you now wear.

I see your muscular arms and I see the athlete that fathering did not take away.

I hear you speak animatedly about new bike trails or a new album you heard on NPR and I know that somewhere in you, you’re fighting this same war as me.

Because I might be the mother to your child, but I never stopped being your lover.

I might come to you less often and with less careless ease when I do, but my coupling requirements haven’t changed.

And those evenings when it feels like I’m against you? When I’m grouchy and tired and not the woman you likely want to spend time with? She’s disappointed that she can’t just have one night off—to be with you.

But I don’t see myself being the sort of woman who goes away for weekends with you, without the rest of our family (although I admire this type of woman, don’t get me wrong).

I don’t see myself slowing down in my own creative compulsion to write—to make art that others want to read—because I can’t stop and, anyways, I don’t want to. Regardless, this is one more distraction from you and from our love.

So, father of my child, what I wanted to tell you today is that some things can’t be placed into words and retain their deepest meanings.

I can’t perfectly describe how my belly feels on fire when I curl up into the crook of your arm, where my head nestles just right.

I can’t explain to you that all I want in this world is to grow old with you, but that I want it to go as slowly as possible.

And I want you to know, especially when my eyes are angry and my voice is either numb and silent or piercing and shrill, that I choose you over and over again, and that I’ll do that forever.

While I don’t know for certain what forever means, I’m certain that my forever and yours are intertwined.

This article was first published by elephant journal.

The post A Love Letter to the Father of My Child. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.