{origin story/archive} The story of how I became a birthkeeper and a midwife of the long labor
Spin
Inside the Creation Stories of Dancing Mother
Origin Story/archive
The story of how I became a birthkeeper and a midwife of the long labor
by Mother Mother Binahkaye Joy
Origin of this story:
The story of how I became a birthkeeper and a midwife of the long labor is an excerpt from a longer piece that I developed when I was being interviewed for The Lift by Knix blog about my journeys as a birthworker. The question prompt for this story was “what inspired you to become a doula?” At the time I was beginning to move away from the language “doula,” but I still referred to myself as a doula often back then. I am much more comfortable now using the language birthkeeper, and more recently, midwife of the long labor, to describe the way I hold space for birth majesties and sit with the mothers in my village. When I wrote this I was a mother of 4 munchkins, my oldest was 8 and my youngest was 2.
This essay tells the story of how I lived for many years as an invisible mother, labored through many protostar births alone, and how, even on my darkest days, I always found abundant space in the dance to water my dreams of becoming a visible mother. I trace the evolution of my birth consciousness, attending the first births of mothers in my village, and deepening into the dance to amplify my fertility and make a way for my starseeds to come.
Archival notes
Original excerpt of essay published in Seed & Spark: Journal of the Fertility Abundance Garden; mother of 4 at the time; less than a year into a Sacred Return season after a protostar birth
Archive created in Spin: Inside the Creation Stories of Dancing Mother, mother of 5 at the time; less than 2 years into a Sacred Return season after birthing 5th baby
The story of how I became a birthkeeper and a midwife of the long labor
When I first experienced the revelation of my motherself I was in an upside down relationship and felt very much like there weren’t many people in my circle to witness and celebrate my tender dreams of becoming a mother. For years, I lived as this invisible mother, dreaming, longing to be a mother. This calling I felt in my heart was my deepest secret.
I started to translate what I could of this dream into my dance creations, and began developing The Mother Project, a collection of choreopoems for the mothers in my family line. I also facilitated mother-daughter-sister dance workshops and researched the evolution of mothering practices through multiple generations in a family.
It was during this time that I had the honor of attending my first birth. I was in the waiting room because a dear friend had called and asked me to come to the hospital. I didn’t know she was going to invite me into her birthing room. I felt unprepared to be what I thought she needed, but just like that I was sitting with her face to face, holding her hand through the contractions. I was amazed at how much support my presence brought. I listened to myself as unrehearsed scripts of affirmations of her strength and beauty poured effortlessly from me. I just kept reminding her that she could do this, and how amazing a mother she already was.
“I felt unprepared to be what I thought she needed, but just like that I was sitting with her face to face, holding her hand through the contractions. I was amazed at how much support my presence brought.”
It was a heart-warming, middle-of-the-night birthing moment. There was so much love to celebrate, and yet I was very troubled by the way my friend was being pressured to get an epidural even though she repeatedly said she didn’t want one. I was horrified at the rough manner in which a nurse handled her body just moments after giving birth, wrenching her belly to speed up the shrinking of her uterus. Joy, delight, exhaustion, bewilderment, confusion, concern, gratitude, wonder—all of these feelings and more swirled and collided on my first unexpected night as a doula. It was a lot to process, and I felt certain then, birth is sacred and holy. There has to be a softer, more gentle way for me to give birth when it’s my turn.
In the years to follow I began studying more about homebirth, doula work, and birthworker pathways. I attended more births, most of them my own protostar births. I didn’t have the space and support to unpack the complexities of my birthing journeys or be gentle with myself while healing through the intensity of what at the time felt like recurring loss and despair. In my darkest moments, the one thread of maternal intelligence I could always access was my movement practice. I danced whenever I could so as to not be consumed with sadness and anxiety over my fertility traumas. Dancing was how I stayed present with the possibility that one day I would meet my children.
“It was a lot to process, and I felt certain then, birth is sacred and holy. There has to be a softer, more gentle way for me to give birth when it’s my turn.”
In my seasons of invisible grief I also wished with all my heart to at least be seen as a mother. Instead I had become known in my village as the one who can help mothers when starseeds were returning to the light before they could be born as human. It was not how I ever imagined I would serve, but the loneliness, shame, and heartache I experienced in my unnamed protostar birthing moments led me to support other invisible mothers with love, compassion, and tenderness.
Mothers confided their hurts and hopes to me. They knew their tears were safe with me. They would not be rushed to get through their labors, to get on with the living before they had finished the dying. They knew I understood that birth is not linear or predictable. We have to feel it, to live it as it comes. None of these were wisdoms I prayed for, but this was how I was becoming a mother. This was how I recognized I could contribute to the ever-evolving spheres of maternal intelligence. We mothers all do our part to source and sustain this vital intelligence because our existence as a human family depends on it. However we labor as mothers, we each have some divine insight into creation majesties that can be a resource for ourselves and other mothers.
Nine months before my first born was conceived, I had another protostar birth. At the time it was my shortest, and least painful birthing journey. I didn’t call a midwife. I didn’t go to the hospital. I didn’t need to see another ultrasound. I remember crying that first day, and then there were no more tears. Only quiet bleeding labors for the next few weeks while zoning in and out grief with the help of Netflix.
“None of these were wisdoms I prayed for, but this was how I was becoming a mother. This was how I recognized I could contribute to the ever-evolving spheres of maternal intelligence. ”
I had enthusiastically welcomed and then mournfully parted with so many almost-babies by that point. I was weary in my spirit from hoping, but also felt that something was shifting. For so long I had looked to external remedies to make my babies stay. Sensing new possibilities in my healing, I tuned more deeply into my power as a creator, and my intuition as the mother I felt myself to be, even if no one else could see. I had put more faith in supplements, hormone creams, and vitamins than I did in my own body, than in my own being. I knew I had to let go of the illusion that the way to my children existed outside of me. I had to feel my way into motherhood. Any children born of me would have to come through me, through my womb. I had to trust my body to show me the way.
“I had put more faith in supplements, hormone creams, and vitamins than I did in my own body, than in my own being. I knew I had to let go of the illusion that the way to my children existed outside of me.”
Coming into this new frequency of relating to my fertility took time, and was full of turbulent reckonings and delicate awakenings. Part of what expanded my journey was feeling called to deepen in how I held space for mothers. I thought, if I can’t yet be a mother that the world can see, I can be as close to the labors of motherhood as possible. I can support mothers who are giving birth and discovering their new lives as mothers. I looked into doula trainings, assisted mothers in my circle as best I could, studied the intricate layers of mothering work that extended beyond the moment of giving birth, danced with mothers and women in prisons, shelters, and rehabilitation centers, and found creative ways to be present for mothers and their families. The more I learned, the more I understood that mothering happens in community, and that if we can cultivate strong communities of mothers, we can improve the lives of mothers everywhere. I continued to root myself in this motherwork, and embraced my calling to serve mothers in everything I did.
“Part of what expanded my journey was feeling called to deepen in how I held space for mothers. I thought, if I can’t yet be a mother that the world can see, I can be as close to the labors of motherhood as possible. I can support mothers who are giving birth and discovering their new lives as mothers.”
Photo by Colin A. Danville
“The more I learned, the more I understood that mothering happens in community, and that if we can cultivate strong communities of mothers, we can improve the lives of mothers everywhere. I continued to root myself in this motherwork, and embraced my calling to serve mothers in everything I did.”
About the Origin story/Archive series
I am reading, sifting, and rediscovering more than 2 decades of creation materials. From these archival adventures I am bringing stories to light that help me see and understand the many dimensions of my evolutions and mothering journeys. Being able to look back over my life in these creations, stories, songs, performances, and films is a generative dance, each memory takes me back to some sweet, tender reckoning and brings me into deep gratitude and celebration. It is such a holy arrival to reveal so much of myself in this way. I can always see who I was then, and all I am still reaching for now. When I comb through my archives I am looking for pieces that beautifully and artfully capture an honest moment of my becoming. The archive is alive and as much a part of the experiments shaping Dancing Mother as everything else. Every time I touch part of my story, it creates more light for future creations, gives me space to dream a little wider, and reminds me of all there is to celebrate about what has been, what is, and what can be.
