Space for Joy

An Isolation Journey to The Belly of Joy Not Yet Tasted — Not Yet Lived

Sep 08, 2024

Dear Friends and Welcome to New Readers,

I tell you a story that came from one of many side doors and not in isolation of any. I am told, “When given a side door, you need to write, and go through, one at a time.” Side doors opened on a trip in Europe I nearly didn’t take. I heard the drums of our ancestors calling and felt a singular thread weave forward, backward, and through all time. Let me show you …

She was born with a gift for laughter and an unsheathed nervous system. Libby Joy, one of two tiny babies, weighed a minuscule one pound at her three-month premature birth. Together with her twin sister, they weighed a total of two pounds. It might have been day three at the NICU when a nurse lifted her out from under the bubble wrap meant to shelter her frail limp body,

Would you like to hold her?
Was she talking to me?

One of the few mothers pacing the frenzied NICU, bleeding beneath her clothes.

I hoped not. I am as nervous now to tell you about her as I was then to lift her to my broken body.

Will I break her? Will you break? Will you sink beneath your desk like I am now? Will you hesitate, stutter, and flutter as I did on that chilly October morning smothered by bright lights, incessant beeps, and the gloom of desperation?

It is as surreal now as it was then to write the memory of a mouse-like creature smaller than my hand, a pink hat sized for a Barbie doll, pin-like fingernails scratching my breast, my mind racing convinced it is watching scenes flash by of someone else’s life.

But I have to claim all of who she is. She is a part of me, as is Abby Rose (Libby’s twin) in my stories, work, and daily life. Abby has a presence that demands to be seen and heard. She’s traveled with me multiple times to various countries as my ‘assistant’ or ‘apprentice.’ She feels the wildest heartstrings and fastens herself firmly, like a security belt — an emotional intelligence detective.

Last month, I traveled alone to Europe to facilitate various events. For a long stretch not a bone in my body could muster the energy to get everything in order, to arrive like someone who knows something, does cool things, and dresses for the occasion. Two years ago, I broke a leg trying. This time with incredible support I made the flight.

I called that time a Soul Sabattical but it wasn’t. It’s a story for another time.

The Heart of the Rose Land, photographer unknown.

The last leg of my journey was The Heart of the Rose, an all-women’s festival in Kent, England. I’d been invited to present a workshop every year since its inception four years ago. They never stopped asking. This time, I arrived. On day one, The Rose Wisdom tent was as packed as my delivery, and though unrehearsed, roses bloomed through the earth bodies of women. At the close, women crowded around me, tears in their eyes, and said things like:

I feel seen in the gifts of Medusa.
Thank you for touching the rumbling — I can no longer contain.
I have your book, will you sign it?

Next, I was happy to undress my facilitator role to experience the event as a recipient of the bountiful harvest of global sisters’ offerings of womb wisdom, wild mysteries, sisterhood, embodied prayers, erotic nature, dark feminine, rites of passage, menopause, soul songs, art, and crafts … all side doors interwoven … is it possible to write one at a time?

On the last day, I was called to ‘The Drum of Our Ancestors’ led by a ceremonial artist Dorrie Joy. She began with an exquisite poem that seeped in and out through every cell of my body on ‘BELONGING.’ Drumming and singing carried us two-by-two to the front of the altar to receive an ancestral blessing from Dorrie’s lineage and baskets of beauty.

Unwittingly my body dropped to familiar ancient ground. Upon rising, saturated with strong blessings, drumming, and song, I wiped my face with my shawl and listened. I felt a calling.

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One of the few photos I took to remember our ancestors calling

She was still in her wheelchair in front of the antler rose altar, the skin on her hands was thin, folded on her thin lap — her body complete, eyes closed — alone in a trodden field of emptiness. I walked to her and like Libby Joy, she felt me coming. She lifted her head and smiled. The drums were calling ...

Do you want a blessing? There is time and space for you.
I knelt before her, slowly closing the space between us, and learned her name. I will name her Cee Joy.
Ah nah. I’m okay. I don’t need a blessing.
Are you sure? The drum is a powerful blessing from our ancestors. I will help you to the tent.
No, I’m okay.
Cee Joy. I have a daughter who uses a wheelchair but she can’t wheel herself like you can. I imagine it is not easy to get through the tent door. I will help you.
Her eyes fell to her lap. She didn’t say anything.
Hmmm. Pause. Okay. We’re going. I’m bringing you for your blessing.
I didn’t say exactly that. I didn’t need to. She heard the bloodlines of women singing. I’m calling your heart, calling you home, calling you home… hey nah-nah-nah-nah hey nah-nah-hey … beauty in thee … beauty in me … I belong to thee and you belong to me …
Like my Libby Joy, her eyes glowed with laughter as if tickled by a feather while she rolled toward the tent careful to quiet herself at the entryway.

This tent was beyond capacity. What happened next went something like this. I squeezed in, tapped the shoulder of a drummer, and whispered

There is a woman in a wheelchair here for her blessing. Can we make space for her?

Healing Photography by Rebecca Colley @REBECCA’S SUBSTACK

Intoxicated to the core, body vibrating, I moved slow, real slow.
Heal-toe, heal-toe — soles sinking in soft grasses, kissed by rabbit droppings.
Knee deep in Mother Ground.
Arrival — a space called the welfare tent (England’s term for mental health support).
Had I lost my mind?
Yes, please.
Undone in the best way possible.
Belly down, held by the Mother
Soft pillow for my head
Shaking, sobbing, releasing through this door …
Voices came to fix me.
No need. I’m good — so good.
Epic full-body smile — Unbridled.
Holograhic golden thread stitching
Echoing backward forward around and through
Ancestral Web — Belonging.
Holotropic breathing myself back before myself
The souls, the places, the people, the beauty, the dance …
The living and dying I backed away from
That fluttered cold isolated alone for too long inside
The wide space that includes all of who Libby Joy … Cee Joy … is
All the Joys not yet lived …
All the beauty not yet spoken …
All the pleasure not yet felt …
Unexpected gift
A pulse titilating, damp juicy Belly Joy Womb
An orgasm that can’t be faked.

Cee Joy received her ancestors’ blessing. I know. I felt her shimmering mirror across the spacious ground at a food tent. Her smile, like Libby’s — spread far and wide.

If Libby Joy could speak, I imagine she would say what Cee Joy said as I stood beside her.

Thank you for making space for me.

Or Libby Joy’s response in a dream when I asked her about tomorrow?

Mom, there is no tomorrow. You ought to know that by now.

Or how she nearly busted out of her wheelchair with contagious laughter when a little girl ran to her from the playground sandbox, held her hand, and whispered

Will you be my friend?

Healing Photography By Rebecca Cooley @REBECCA’S SUBSTACK

On the other side of the pond, water flows, birds sing, ducks waddle, dogs’ tails wag, moss weaves, winds carry, colors change, moon waxes — wanes, Autumn follows summer warmth, springtime blooms us home to the wintering dark Mother to revive half-lived lives—our connective tissue—our innate wholeness.

Libby Joy spent the first six months of her life in a semi-coma, the result of not one but two resuscitations. When she woke, I sensed she could feel distant traffic, hear pins drop, and absorb voices like shards of glass piercing her bones. My nipples were too big for her mouth.

She cried inconsolably, day and night when not wrapped tight to my body, bouncing, swaying, rocking. We traversed skin to skin, day by day—really, moment by moment—given the time it takes for the myelin sheath to grow a protective layer outside the womb. Living that way took every ounce of sweat and blood to muscle through, a grind without tears, a white-knuckling. Numb, wary, unable to process waves of not-so-lucky events. Joy was arrested.

First, my body was hijacked by helicopter to Stanford without my delightful toddler, a friend, or consent. What still burns through my brain from time to time—twenty-seven years later.

Your midwife is not allowed here. You are our patient now.
Her brain is damaged, more gray than white matter.
She may not be able to use her legs.

These are the words spoken by the diploma-bred physicians after I asked:

What happens when the sedation wears off?

Sedation—a side effect of captivity to a ‘power-over’ culture that is more or less compelled to push on heroically saving lives only to extinguish them to feed a pharmaceutical beast while denying the heart womb wisdom inherent in our bodies that connects us to ourselves, each other, and our Earth Mother.

Feminist thinkers such as Silvia Federici, Barbara Ehrenreich, Susan Sontag, Adrienne Rich, and Vandana Shiva have critically examined medical systems, power dynamics, and the complex relationships between bodies, politics, institutions, and natural resources with far more nuance than I can convey here.

Libby was not the only one sedated. While she drifted in a medically-induced haze, I, too, was sedated—isolated. Traumatic shock repeatedly injected an emotional IV anesthesia, a slow drip sedating sensations to the core of my womb—disconnected from my earth body until fairly recently.

In hindsight, I saw myself hiding or pulling back from joining unsure where I/we belonged.

Maybe I felt I/we to be a burden. Our sensitivities unsheathed—a hindrance. I can passionately play the role of healer/therapist/mother with a wide capacity to be touched by and be with others’ pain/suffering/longing—perhaps believing it did not weigh on me or that it crafted a fine ‘spiritual persona.’

Bloody hell, who gives a f*ck about healing reviews that ‘help others’ if you are not tending your womanhood?

Mastery of overwhelm, exhaustion, and medical conditions inspires some people. I was given a Full Stop when I broke my leg. I came to recognize the imbalances I have lived in an unbalanced world. This festival allowed me to be a recipient, a participant, a casual equal without a role to play—a friend who bathes in both masculine structure and juicy feminine care—who connects and belongs.

No more. The verdict is long overdue. I am not guilty of the crimes committed to my womb, to my babies—that arrested a deep untamed joy that travels forward and backward.

I wonder sometimes to Libby Joy.
Did you choose to be here?
If she could speak, I hear her loud and clear.
Of course, so you would know Joy in the belly of the beast.
Hmmm, I’m still digesting that one.

‘Burden’ is never yours or mine to carry.

Libby teaches us to unbury Joy and rest at home with who we are.

I want to hear from you in the comments

I am curious to hear what resonated with you. Use these prompts if you like:
Is there a burden you wish to set down or transmute?
Have you been in a space to help someone belong or to let them support the blessing of Joy in belonging?

The Salty Crone ✨ Prajna O'Hara

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