The world swayed gently, warm and mellow; smooth and soft, cushioned deep in velvet, lit sun red.
The soft regular beating was a sweet lulling sound; sea beat murmuring and rise and fall of humming music. The temperature was an even, all pervasive wash beneath which she felt self as soft and open as the petals of a flower beneath the sun. It was good. In that medium self was perfect, all important, all pure of pain. Badness was unknown, unknowable. There was no possibility of hunger, of tiredness or thirst. No bodily needs. Self hung, in its proper place, at the centre of the universe, in command of the universe. Unnamed she was all. 'I' was the only name.
Self was sweet, pure, without anger. There was no hunger, therefore no greed. No bounty could be withheld, therefore no frustration, no striving. Mere being was all.
Drifting in her warm sea she grew imperceptibly. The warm cushioning walls were nearer, as she turned and moved she encountered them. Self shone in the warm lulling light. She felt that all warmth, all light grew from the centre of her being. all good emanated from that cord which bound her, by the centre of her being to the universe.
I am perfect. I hang in my golden shell. I am good. I am all. Self sang.
The universe sings to me. It spins around me in its splendour of red and gold. It worships me. I give it my beauty, my goodness. It praises me. It exists because I exist. I have made it. It is mine. It is me. It is all. I am all. I touch the edges of the world. I made the world to hold my being. It is all because I need no other.
Then the pains began.
NO. NO! THAT IS NOT GOOD. I am good. That is not me. STOP.
My beautiful world is moving it is not right. It is not what I made. It heaves and storms. I do not like it. I am not all. STOP. The noise! It is loud . It hurts. Stop it. Where are the softly singing praises.
Pain. Fear. Noise. I am not good. I am not me.
Self shrank back like the withered petals of a crushed flower.
There is no good. No longer do I hang in my beautiful world. Its waters are burst and gone. My soft couch storms and heaves - I am constrained. I no longer sway in the centre of the universe. I am crushed in this unbearable confine, iron walls squeeze me. I am torn and bruised. All is bad.
This colour is bad. Like a loud noise in my eyes. Hard. White. Bright.
"Its a girl!"
"Is she all right?"
Pain. I must have . . . ? Self could not endure this world, for a time self abandoned all knowledge of self, it was too painful, the loss and disillusionment so great. They just saw an ordinary new born.
"Yes she's all right. Got good lungs. She screams well enough."
"Please. Can I see her, hold her?" She took the helpless thing, its first nakedness wrapped, into her arms.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The baby girl lay on her back in a carrycot; it was placed on a plaid woollen blanket which was spread out on the grass. She was naked.
The afternoon sunlight slanted down through the branches of a cherry tree that overhung the lawn. Although the season was yet early it was pleasantly warm, even in the dappled shade beneath the tree.
The naked baby wriggled her toes, lifting her legs in the air. She stretched out her starfish spread fingers, trying to grasp her toes.
The branches above her waved in the gentle breeze and now and then pink blossoms drifted down, to catch between the blades of grass, or lay scattered upon the dark colours of the blanket. The blossoms pink clusters appeared very bright against the navy blue and bottle green.
She screwed up her eyes in pleasure and reached out to the dancing branches and drifting petals. She grasped the sides of the carry-cot in her groping fingers. She pulled, trying to draw them towards her. Unintentionally the opposite happened, pulling hard, bending her elbows she heaved herself into a sitting position. Upright.
She saw over the boundaries of the cot; saw the green grass stretching away to the patch of multicoloured flowers by the wall.
Content, warm, fed; unconstrained by clothes or blankets she looked down at her belly, her legs and her toes. The warm feeling of self flooded over her in waves; self re-discovered after months of struggle and loss in this new world.
She looked down at her belly, the centre of her being, where the cord no longer held her. Awkwardly she felt towards that centre, hands jerking in the effort to control movement, touching self. Self was good. Self was all. Her belly glowed with the knowledge that she existed. She had touched self and it was good.
She caught sight of movement and looked jerkily round towards it. A familiar figure appeared in her line of vision. Self ebbed away a little, the warmth in her belly subsided, but she smiled and waved her hands before her face, sitting upright unaided; reaching out to re-take command of the universe.
Her mother stooped down to pick her up. The woman swung her baby high above her head, toward the dancing branches of pink blossom. The petals fell into the growing child's dark curls, where they clung even as the mother swung her down again and hugged her.
"Who's mummy's clever girl then?"
emma woodrow
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