On Television!

I had a problem. It was a high quality problem, yes, but a problem nonetheless.

I was going to be on television--Albany's channel 13, interviewed by anchor Benita Zahn about my book, What a Body Knows. I had already recorded the interview at the studio, earlier in the week on Wednesday, after arriving an hour before I was due in my determination not to be late. The interview had been short and sweet, and I did want to see it.

The problem was that we don't have television reception here at Hebron Hollow. How was I going to watch the show?

While this problem was challenging enough, it was compounded by two others having to do with timing. For one, I wasn't sure which day the interview was going to air. At first we had planned it for Sunday morning, May 10th, Mother's Day. However, at the studio I watched as Benita recorded a second interview with a more-time-sensitive competitor for that same Sunday spot. So, I learned, my interview might air on Saturday, May 9th instead. Fine enough, I could be flexible, but how would I know when to tell people to watch... and record?

The second sub-problem concerned the time of day. The interview was supposed to air on the morning news, sometime between 8 and 9 AM. Whose house could I crash at that hour of the day?

On Friday night I hear the news: your interview will air on Saturday, between 8:30 and 9, probably close to 8:45. I am still chewing on my multiple-part problem.

A sudden brainstorm bursts: the health club where I have been swimming through this pregnancy. Don't they have a television in that front conference-area room?

I call. "Sure, we have a television you can watch."

Saturday morning I go to the health club early, pop in the pool for a bliss-stirring swim, and dress in time for my channel 13 debut. I go to the trainer who has kindly promised to set me up with a screen. He leads me into the weight and cardio room. I haven't been in this part of the club before. The curtains are always closed, and it isn't on the route connecting front desk, pool, and showers. He leads me to an exercise bike, which I instantly see is equipped with its own closed circuit television. There is a beautiful flat face, clear controls, and a pair of comfortable earphones. Looking around I realize that nearly every piece of cardio gear has its own television, and on the ones in use, those televisions are on.

I sit up on the seat of the bicycle--not exactly an arm chair--and we find the channel. I am good to go. I look around again. I can only see two other machine-users' screens, but they aren't turned to channel 13. Don't they know?!

I wait through a few advertisements, and then the weather. It is a very long weather report. I hardly hear any of it. Finally, the moment comes. Here I am, alone in a crowd, propped up on my exercise bike, watching... myself.

Towards the end comes the line that I know is coming. I am talking about the kind of bodily movement that can help us shift our experience of our bodies and desires. This movement, I am saying, is not where we treat our bodies like pets needing a walk--or propel our exercise bikes while watching television. At the time, I hadn't meant to say that such exercising is "bad"--it isn't!--only that it is more likely to reinforce than to evolve our felt sense of ourselves as minds over bodies.

Still, the irony persists. Here I am, on a health club exercise bike, watching myself on television talking about (not) watching television on an exercise bike!

Glad I had my swim.

Here is the clip:

A Great Idea

It seems like a great idea, at least at first. It is even my idea. We are all so excited!

We spend days planning: on the fourth anniversary of the day that our offer on this farm was accepted, May 15, we will celebrate by sleeping in the meadow at the top of the large hill behind our house in our beloved tent.

Camping, nine months pregnant? Oh yes! I imagine parking myself in front of the tent, gazing over a robust campfire, admiring the sun as it touches down over the mountains. Nothing to do but sit. No problem!

I forgot. I forgot how much stuff we would need to lug up the hill in order to feed and clothe and bed two adults and four children for a night. I spend the afternoon of the 15th assembling goods and baking bread. The kids adamantly refuse to drive our car up to the meadow. No way. They will take multiple trips, if necessary, all day and night. So Geoff and I pull out our hiking backpacks and load them up. Jessica will wear mine. Jordan will carry the tent.

We are there, on the hillside green, not long after six PM. Chores are done and the house to bed. First step: set up our campsite. While Jessica and Kyra roam for sticks, Geoff, Jordan, Kai and I gather round the tent. Despite our best efforts, it resists construction. There are too many poles of assorted shapes and sizes, supposedly clearly marked with little round stickers that disappear with a turn. After several cycles of trial and error, we finally figure out front from back and lift the roof. We decide not to put on the upper tarp, the better to see the stars.

By this time, I am tired. We sit--finally sit!--on our blanket in a circle and munch a delicious dinner. Pasta and salad, cheese and bread. It is magical—even better than I hoped. The kids collect more wood to burn; our fire starts easily. The kids are in heaven, happy and free.

As the temperature dips and the first star appears, the trembling begins. It is as if my body is cold, though I don't feel a chill. I can't stop shaking. Or cramping. I feel as if I am separating from my self. I try breathing, putting on more clothes, crawling closer to the fire. I finally crawl into a sleeping bag inside the tent. Geoff comes with me, extra heat. By then, the kids are eager to slip into their bags as well.

We all lie there, silent, listening to the night, watching the stars pop out, but I know. I can't sleep up here. Fear edges every sense. I am convinced that I am going to go into labor at any moment. And I am so far away from home—our very best nest. I try to hang in and hang out, for the kids at least. Then the words tumble out, without my consent.

“We have to go down.” My body knows.

I am grateful that resistance is light. I don't want to go either. Everyone rallies. We pull on clothes, close up the tent, bank the fire, pack up the food, leave the rest, and parade single file down the hill on a long narrow path in the dark towards home, with flashlights bouncing along.

So much for our camping adventure!

Actually it is perfect yet again. As the others tumble into their beds, I spend the next two hours getting ready for the small one to arrive. Nesting they call it, a sure sign of imminent birth. I finish washing clothes, arranging towels, putting together the car seat, sterilizing tools, and organizing supplies. I can't stop. By the time I plop between the sheets, however, the cramping and trembling have subsided. They pick up again between 1 and 2:30 AM, then, with a huge contraction at 4 AM, disappear. After that, nothing.

Labor began; labor ended, all at once.

The next day dawns, sunny and blue. Big belly, no baby. We are sorry not to be up the hill, and so happy to be home. The meadow calls again. After breakfast we walk back up to paradise and snap some “good-bye belly” pictures.

It will all happen, just as it should... in another two weeks.

LAUNCHED!

It is done.

On Friday, May 8, 2009, at 7 PM, I appeared at the venerable Northshire Books in Manchester, VT to launch What a Body Knows! Off it goes!

The whole family came along to share in the moment. While the others listened, Kai slept the event away, curled in the corner in a soft leather chair. Oh my small enabler!
*
Even though this book is my third, I had never given a book launch before. Sure I'd given academic papers on the topics covered in my books. I had lectured and discussed, but never had I talked about why I had written a book, then turned from time to time to read sections from the work.

I loved it. I loved the layering of it, the deep pasts, present, and future all coming together. Then the questions came--thoughtful and relevant, exploring the reach of the book's ideas. Something was right.
*
We moved to the farm so I could write this book. I have known this for a while. But as I prepared for the talk, I realized that the reverse was just as true. I wrote this book so I could move to the farm. Writing the book--the desire to write the book--made moving necessary. It wasn't just that I needed to practice what I was preaching, but I needed the experience of finding the wisdom in my own desire in order to discover and flesh out what it was that needed to be said. The book wrote itself through me, as I lived it.

It is a sobering thought.

This Friday is the fourth anniversary of that day when our offer on this place was accepted. Since then, there has not been one moment when we ever doubted or regretted the decision. And as we launch this book, our book, all together, I am awash with gratitude in the wonder of it all. Or perhaps it is just the smell of lilacs bursting.



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