I’m just a doula.
A woman that questions and second-guesses and mops crusted oatmeal off my floor and very often needs big chunks of time alone to reset.
But I remark over and over again that I cannot believe I have the most satisfying job in the world.
If you’ve ever wondered what it looks like to see a poem write itself, kneel on a warm floor and watch a mother unfurl herself to make way for the passage of her baby.
If you’ve ever pondered what a poem sounds like, close your eyes and listen to the song that fills every empty space in a room as a woman rains down her tune in birth.
If you’ve ever wondered how a poem moves from stanza to stanza, then pull up a chair to the wild eyes behind the sweaty hair of a maiden morphing into a mother.
And if, by chance, you’ve ever wondered what a poem tasted like on your tongue, kiss the head of a babe fresh from from the womb and then the temple of the woman who just brought her forth.
If you’ve ever thought about what it means for the invited to be the one serving, sit on your hands and see if you can hold back tears at the image of a woman standing in her own circle of power.
Blessed be this holy work that has allowed me tender entry.