Last night I dreamt I was caring for a baby who grew younger by the minute. When the dream began, he spoke words to me... but in less than a minute's time he became infantile, shrinking in the folds of his blanketed bassinet. I grew frantic in my efforts to save him. Yet even as I pumped his small chest with my index finger to resuscitate his tiny heart, it grew smaller and smaller. Then I watched as his bright blue spirit rose up and out of a now fetus-like shell.
Since waking, I've been reflecting upon the backwards beauty of his return.
October crept and then leapt upon me. It's been unseasonably warm here in Portland, and yet even still... Fall. She knows her place. Autumn has always been my annual pivot point... I shed with her far more psychic weight than any so-called "new year" ever warrants. What exactly this next clearing will invite to die and bloom forth I won't pretend to know. Yet I feel myself slowing down... shaking my head no... backing away from the spotlight and the need to perform.
We live in a world that is chronically expansive. One where we validate our existence through productive advances. As a result, we have vilified the sacredness of contraction.
When did growing smaller become so unholy? Be it an economy, a womb, or a long-term relationship... all things move through seasons of fear-laden tensing and tightening in order to generate the strength to push through with more integrity and greater power than ever before. This year I won't fight against autumn's love for me, nor she will have to wrestle me to the ground as she's done in so many years past.
I will settle in. I will allow. I will await her naked and hearty contractions.
When you feel yourself growing smaller
and it's not yet time to push
What will you do?