The act of giving birth is more than the pains and throes of
a woman in parturition. It is a rite of passage from one existence into the
next that every human being who enters into the earth must experience. I was first taught this years ago by my
beloved godmother. I remember sitting at her feet beside the fireplace as she
schooled me on the deeper things in
life. She would rock back and forth in her rocking chair in meditative
contemplation. “Awodola,” she would call me, “ As the Iyanla, or woman of the
house, it is important that you maintain your shrines daily and take care of
your ancestors, for one day they will
come back through you and your children.” I never forgot her words…that moment
in time galvanized my way of thinking forever. I was the single mother of a
male child who I brought into this world with a vengeance. I traded in my
sailor hat for a mommy hat while serving overseas in the United States
Navy. It seemed as though the entire
world was against me; loved ones expressing their disappointment and sharing
with me all of my “options”…completely oblivious to my joy and amazement over
the gift in my belly. I was with child
and at total peace with it. By no stretch of the imagination was my pregnancy
an act of immaculate conception, but at moments I understood what Mary must
have felt when she had to convince her husband Joseph and the rest of their community
that her pregnancy was a divine occasion. The looks…the stares…the
commentary…the disbelief…and no one but God himself can truly understand what
you feel inside.
The women in my life
became rocks upon which I was able to lean when the fierce winds of change blew
me completely out of the water. Two in particular, my mother and godmother, were
angels sent to me from the heavens like gifts sent to Perseus from Zeus to help
him survive the wiles of Calibos. My birth mother taught me how to thrive in
the physical realm. By her example I learned the ways of the Lioness; I learned
to hunt, gather, keep my head above the current, work hard, and sacrifice. My
godmother taught me how to thrive in keeping with the spiritual realm. By her
example I learned how to pray, meditate, be content, acknowledge God always,
respect my elders and know that there is no such thing as coincidence. In time, following my incubation period under
the tutelage of the “great mothers,” God sent me a husband. My nest was
expanding. I had brought forth one ancestor already in the form of numberoneson
Christopher, and before long came another in the form of my beautiful daughter
Vashti.
Now clad with a husband and two children, I found myself in another fireside chat with my godmother.
To my amazement she informed me that I needed to add my maternal grandfather to
my ancestral alter, for he would come back through my next child. “Well that’s
jacked up to all hell!” I thought to myself.
I hadn’t added him to my alter because frankly I didn’t care for him while
he was alive. He was a mean man at times and angry at the world…Ebeneezer
Scrooge times 10. Interestingly, my
maternal grandmother is my spirit guide and the dominant energy on my prayer alter.
Because I wasn’t planning on having any more children I dismissed these things
my godmother said to me about my grandfather. In keeping with the culture,
however, I did add him to my alter right beside my Nana and thought nothing
else about it. Well, as the universe would have it, two months later on my
daughter’s 8-month birthday my husband expressed to me his desire for a third
child…and one month later I was pregnant.
My godmother told me
some time ago that my karma in this life was such that all of my children would
hail from my own bloodline, not their fathers. I thought about this often throughout
my nine month pilgrimage. This pregnancy was the most “chill” of all, choc full
of epiphanies and visions about my family and my ancestors. I was obsessed with
old photographs of relatives and who they were and how they lived. I knew that
my first two children were my ancestors come back but I did not know which
ancestors. So I searched for and interviewed family members to decipher whose
personalities matched my children’s the most. But THIS baby…this baby baking in
my belly fascinated me so because for the first time I actually knew who he was.
Not only did I know, but this soul had actually been my grandfather in his past
life and I didn’t always dislike him; before I became pregnant with
numberoneson we were very close. It was
his disdain over my unwed pregnancy that drove us apart. How ironic that he
should come back through me. For the first time I understood what was meant by
the euphemism, “The universe has a sense of humor.”
Upon Baby Ayden’s birth, the first thing I noticed was his
color. One year into his life he was still several shades lighter than both my
husband and I; a beautiful caramel pecan, the exact shade of my
grandfather. “But Africans come in all
shades so surely,” I thought to myself, “this is no real indication of
reincarnation.” At age 3, I sat an old washed out military photograph of my
grandfather in front of Ayden one evening during dinner time. I told the rest of the family not to say a
word. Within minutes after observing the man in the picture Ayden blurted out,
“That’s ME mommy!” as he pointed knowingly to my grandfather. By age 4 Ayden was in speech therapy twice a
week for a severe stutter. After 3 years
we grew to love this adorable characteristic of his and after little
improvement, he grew tired of therapy so we removed him…and besides, my
grandfather stuttered his entire life so Ayden’s stutter was probably more of a
tattoo on the soul than a speech impediment…
By age 6 the icing on the cake for my mother and I was when
we realized that Ayden didn’t really enjoy sweets like other children and that he
had to have raisin bran every morn for breakfast. He would take 3 licks from a lollipop and
give it back, 2 bites out of a piece of gum before spitting it out and throw a
tantrum refusing to eat breakfast if we
ran out of raisin bran. Well not only was my grandfather averse to sweets and junk
food, but as far back as my young mind can stretch, I watched my grandfather
eat raisin bran cereal for breakfast every morning.
Knowledge is power, and in my research I found that my
grandfather had a very difficult life. People
who are hurt, hurt other people and this experience gave me a sense of peace
and closure regarding my damaged relationship with my grandfather. In turn, I
realized that in his new life as Ayden Reed my grandfather would receive all
the love and attention to make up for the karma from his past life as George
Cole. A clean slate, so to speak. And
deep in my soul I know beyond a shadow of doubt that my grandfather’s spirit
communicated with me to let me know he was at peace in his new “situation.” As
the universe would have it, one cold winter evening as my family sat quietly enjoying
some delicious homemade chilli , Ayden’s favorite, I had a de ja vu experience
that shook me to the core and sealed the nail in the coffin (no pun intended).
If ever I doubted my godmother’s words, there was not a trace of doubt left in
my mind at this point. My grandfather loved good food, and whenever my Nana
would cook his favorite meal he would close his eyes, rub his head and hum softly
as he ate. As I sat at my dinner table
words cannot express the calm that came over me as I listened to my son hum a
familiar tune that sent me spiraling back to my Nana’s dinner table. I looked
over at Ayden as he leaned over his bowl, gently caressing the crown of his
head with one hand and eating with his other, just like my grandfather used to
do. I smiled. We all smiled as Ayden continued to hum ever
so sweetly a tune that would nevefr again allow me to forget the fact that the
act of giving birth is more than the pains and throes of a woman in
parturition. It is a rite of passage from one existence into the next that
every human being who enters into the earth must experience. And in the
unspoken presence of energies past, present and future, my understanding of the
role of a mother changed forever.
