Well, the midwifery conference has come and gone and I find myself neither closer nor farther than before. I found it enjoyable, however nothing like I had expected. I suppose I expected to go, and all of a sudden be fully and completely convinced of my "calling" to be a midwife. I suppose I expected to go and see a world open up at my feet, schools fall into my lap, plans, visions… life as a midwife unfold right in front of my very eyes. Instead I started the day with the adventure of public transit, including a subway, a trolley, a bus, a wrong stop, and a mile and a half walk in the rain. After an hour and a half I finally found the random hotel on a random hill in a random suburb of Philadelphia. I walked in, registered, got my name tag and a goody bag that essentially cost me $150 dollars. I found my class, seated myself, pulled out one of the many pamphlets from my $150 goody bag and began reading random articles to insure no one would talk to me. I am not sure why I was suddenly completely overwhelmed by human interaction, but the thought of talking to another one of those women made me so entirely uncomfortable. There were maybe 15 of us, most of them students and most of them excited about midwifery. I felt a bit like I didn’t belong. I was surprised when halfway through the class I had a "flashback" sort of a vision of a delivery I had in India that immediately brought tears to my eyes, and begged me to leave. I fought for a few seconds to clear the image from my head, and in the end won. I stayed for the rest of the day, and did enjoy the class overall, finding the subject to be very interesting, but never quite recovering from the newly surfaced memory of an old wound. When the day was through I made my way home. Two buses, one subway, and two hours later I arrived feeling completely overwhelmed and utterly confused. At that point I was leaning more towards "never thinking about midwifery ever again", but after a long warm shower, I felt a bit more neutral.

It wasn’t until the next day, however, that I returned back to "Well… maybe." I met with a "friend of a friend’s" from Connecticut who was in town for the conference as well, and had read my blogs while I was away. There are some people in the world that I will never be able to thank enough for their kindness and encouragement. These people usually never know who they are, or how thoroughly they have affected my life. (Rachel, since you read my blog, you will read that you are one of these people, and I thank you.) Her encouragement and knowledge of midwifery in America were both incredibly helpful. I feel like, though I still have so many fears and concerns about school and about midwifery as a whole, I can’t get it out of my head. Every now and then I go back and read my journal from India. I always find myself shocked in these times as 90% of it’s content is full of joy. It’s so easy to remember the painful parts. I’m not sure why that is exactly, as I would much prefer to remember things like this...

January 28^th, 2006

"The other night I was thinking about it [delivering babies] and I felt like I had fallen in love. My stomach filled with butterflies, my legs began to kick under the covers and I smiled so long my cheeks began to ache. I would slip out little giggles every couple of moments. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever done-- one of the hardest, but most amazing."

Granted, it was only going on the third month in India, and I had only just delivered my seventh baby, but I remember this feeling. I remember it well. 25 more babies would come after that entry as well as countless amounts of other stories.

Just as I was re-reading old memories, I found a story a very dear friend of mine shared with us one day as we were discussing "enduring Love". I hope she won’t mind me sharing it now. Reading it again, I find myself broken. She was diagnosed with extreme scoliosis as a teenager and was forced to have surgery to save her lungs from being crushed by pressure from the growing curve of her spine. I remember her weeping as she recalled the details of her first shower in two weeks. She told us of her mom brushing through the matted mess of hair as chunks fell out and down the drain. She then washed her wounds. My friend told us of the blood running down her body as her mother said through tears, "Your scars look so nice."

I remember weeping myself as I heard that story, noting the symbolism. I feel like there are so many scarred hearts in the world… mine being one of them. I feel as though so much fear is born out of these scars. Fear to return to the place they were wounded, fear to move on from the place they were wounded, fear to live, fear to be vulnerable, fear to risk, fear to give, fear to share, fear to invest, fear to love… I have wondered lately whether or not I really have all that much to loose. I suppose if I fail, then I fail. But what if I don’t. I feel as though I’ve leaned on my scars as a crutch for the last however long, instead of using them as one of my greatest assets. It’s amazing to think about wearing them as symbols of strength, testaments of healing, and assurance of humanity, instead of as hindrances.

The conference was not what I expected it to be. It is not what I thought I needed it to be. But it was what it was, and the fact that I invested time and money into this dream again says more than anything I could have heard there. I think at the end of the day that’s all that matters. My expectations were not met, but the risk was worth it, and hope remains. To be honest, I think I like it better this way…