Embracing Darkness
Winter Solstice is a time when I usually rejoice because it’s the shortest day of the year and the darkest night of the year. So, I tell myself, it can only get better from here, right?
As a child, I couldn’t sleep with a night light on but, I was also afraid of the dark, so I insisted on sleeping with my teddy bear. It was a transitional object that reminded me of my mom’s love and allowed me to sleep in comfort. At 39, I’m still afraid of the darkness, but the depth of my fear has evolved. I’m afraid of the darkness which has come to plague my soul, as I struggle to understand why God has not granted my one simple wish: to give birth to my own child.
I’ve prayed, meditated, clenched my fists and banged my head up against the wall countless times in protest against my infertility. In an effort to find peace, I’ve consulted several ’spiritual counselors’ and ministers who have all told me the same thing: everything is in divine order.
Well that might be true. I am powerless. I am human. I am frail. But how do I come to accept that? I need a road map, a bridge from here to acceptance, not a catch all phrase, a bridge that leads me nowhere. Part of our challenge as human beings is to learn to accept our powerlessness, to accept our frailty, to accept our morality in the face of fear.
As a seminarian, studying to be an ordained minister, I’m really struggling with the fact that I will never experience the joy of childbirth. From a young age, I always knew in my heart that I would join the ranks of my mom, my aunts, cousins and, my namesake, my grandma, Eva, all of whom gave birth to numerous children. It was my birthright. In the face of my last IVF failure, I’m grappling with my morality and the dissonance between my dream-filled prayers and the stark reality of the last three barren, TTC-filled years.
How do I accept the fact that I will never be pregnant when it seems to have happened for so many of my relatives, friends, relatives, co-workers and, let me be frank here, even some of my enemies? Ad it seems as if every time on turn on the TV, or surf the web for news, I am assaulted by another celebrity pregnancy. What water are they drinking? And where can I get some?
Things may be in divine order but it sucks. Even in the midst of moving ahead with my adoption planning, even in my finest hours, when I’m excited about adopting a newborn, I’m angry about my infertility. I’m furious about it.
I don’t want to be the kind of minister who sweeps things under the rug. I want to inspire people to embrace the darkness. The problem with infertility is that it’s hard to talk about. People get embarrassed when talking about menstruation, sex, sperm, the birds and the bees; besides people get emotional when talking about sexuality. It’s taboo.
So imagine the discomfort when my situation is presented. I’m an infertile lesbian who tried to get pregnant using frozen donor sperm. My infertility is invisible in a culture where we can’t talk about sexuality. It’s hard for people to wrap their heads around my struggle.
Several ministers have said to me, “well, just take a break and relax and it may happen for you because my niece relaxed, went on vacation, and ‘pouf’ she got pregnant; or “it happened to my sister, she adopted and the next thing you know, she was pregnant.” Well, I’m pretty sure that it won’t happen for me.
Given the fact that I’m a lesbian, I told them, I just just go to bed one night, have relations with my husband, or boyfriend, and wake up pregnant the next day. Once Nadia and I decide to stop trying, that’s the end of the road, which brings me back to the darkness.
This summer, I went on a seven day meditation retreat. I went by myself, stayed in a stark (by my city-girl standards) tent cabin with a sleeping bag and minimal electricity. And I really didn’t talk to too many people. I just wanted to be alone and sort of ‘get away from it all’. Well, it was a great trip, but it rained a lot. One night, I was walking back to my cabin with a flashlight because the lights went out on the campus. It was pitch black.
When I was about 50 feet from my cabin, my flashlight went out too; the batteries died. “Holy crap”, I thought. “There is no one in sight. And I hate the dark. I’m wet and I’m lost what am I going to do?” I was trembling with fear. Suddenly, it started to thunder and lightning and, I’m not kidding, I used the lightning bolts as a guide. I was able to get to my cabin safely, dry off, and I actually had a pretty good night’s sleep that night.
Tonight, I will lean on my faith to help me get through this night. The winter solstice is a time to embrace the darkness, to embrace our fears, to embrace our depression, our grief, our anger, our sadness, and to be one with it. Tonight, I’m going to try to accept the darkness and not try to explain it away or turn my back on it. I’m going to try to come to terms with it, remembering that for thousands of years, both women and men have celebrated this pagan holiday because they were certain of a one thing: no matter how dark it gets, the night will be followed by daylight.
“I used the lightning bolts as a guide.” -wow. this is such a powerful statement within such a beautiful post. xoxo
1Amazing post.
This past week at a work event, I overheard someone talking about a recently married friend and new homeowner and how she was struggling to get pg, and how she had told her when the stress of buying the house was over and she could relax, she’d get pregnant. Right there in the middle of the room I wanted to SCREAM at her that it was the worst advice to give someone struggling to get pregnant. I wanted to run down the litany of things that can be the reason and that relaxation was not going to solve any of them. I absolutely loathe when people say that. When my wife and I were in the midst of IVF, someone said to me, “Maybe you just weren’t meant to have children.”
You’re right, it’s hard to talk about, and I think sometimes we are so overburdened by the pain of trying and failing that who could expect us to even manage to try? I want to send your post to everyone I know – so they know that infertility isn’t just “hey maybe we should ‘just adopt’” but it’s the evolution of a dream, from what you thought it would be to what is, and that the process to accepting that evolution is not something you get by flipping a switch.
You are brave, and honest – and while your family may not be made the way you thought it would, it will be made. Much love as your darkness turns to light.
2Beautiful post.
3Embrace it, swim in it and know that lighter are times just round the corner. I am lighting a candle for you.
4wow. What a powerful and honest piece. I, too, was thrilled that today is the Winter Solstice for similar reasons – every day is a bit brighter. And, I hope that the same is true for you, too. Here’s to brighter days.
5I said this elsewhere but it fits here: You reminded me of the sermon two weeks ago about the themes of darkness and light during this season. My pastor talked about how we need to stop the train of thought that equates darkness with bad and lightness with good. but seeing the darkness as a necessity for without one there is no other, they are two sides of the same coin. How we must embrace the darkness as a way to renew our energies for what lies ahead.
Looking at the holiday season from that angle we can create rituals of looking at the darkness as a time for reflection and recognizing what lies beneath. Where you think there is barrenness and death there is life. We can see our wombs as barren but remember that our hearts is the organ that brings life.
6“Remember that our heart is the organ that brings life”. Thank you. I needed that.
7I think that one of the things that has comforted me the most is to let go of the idea of a universal plan for me, or even a god, or a reason for my infertiliyt, and my hsuband’s infertility. I love Greg Epstein’s version of humanism where he says that being human is a messy, painful experience, and there is no reason for the bad things that happen, and all we can do is love and support one another as we bear our pain and mourn our losses. Somehow, for me, that is a relief. I am not bad. I did not ‘bring this on myself’, I can’t reverse it, it IS. I thing that the darkness that is so hard to face is the abyss–if there is no reason, how can it be bourne? If there is no reason, there is no way to ‘un-do’ it. No can do attitude will touch this.
When I think of Jesus, and if I were to call on Jesus, I would need to do it in the spirt of abiding love, not fate, not a plan. At ‘his’ best, Jesus walks with us as we bear our pain. As an atheist/humanist, I don’t really call on Jesus, but if I did, that would be my sense of it.
8Popping in from the crème de la crème list.
This is a very evocative post, I enjoyed reading it – though I don’t enjoy the grief that’s behind it, of course.
I’m with Sarah, the previous commenter, on the ‘divine plan’ bit. But I try not to get into discussions about religion.
9Very beautiful, well written post.
Sonja
10~Creme