I sit with my grief. I mother her. I hold her close and whisper simple truths. ‘I know it hurts, but this will not kill you’ - ‘you are safe now.’
My mother
My mother came today to help put together womb kits for campesinxs. We mixed medicinal herbs together to make anemia tea and filled containers with a handmade medicinal salve.
My mother, a wholistic midwife and doula, who has spent her life advocating for people in their birthing process. My mother who gave birth to four children ~naturally~ (and will never fail to mention it).
My mother, who when she carried me in her womb sang and whispered poems to me, who when I was welcomed into the world and diagnosed with a rare heart disease did not leave my side at the hospital for days, whose embrace and voice elevated my oxygen levels — listening to her, being near her, I could breathe again. My heart beat strengthened with her presence.
The bond between life-giver and child is unique, and I am blessed to have had the opportunity to continue this bond. My mother. My unique, tender, imperfect, and strong mother. She taught me to know my body, to listen, to care for my womb with tenderness, and respect the sacred process of our cycles, however they present. We watched live birth videos (on cassette tape 😅) to show me where life began. Hers was the first woman’s body I watched move in the world.
My mother, whose own history stings with abuse, yet reminds me of the beauty of love and pleasure. Having my mother here today felt important — my first instructor of womb health, advocacy for womb carriers, and love of self. We felt the presence of her grandmother, my great grandmother, who was also a birth worker and midwife in her community and has always served as a guide for my mother.
My mother, a downright character with a smile that won’t quit. And of course, she brought cookies.
Breath
Salmon are to rivers as hearts are to blood vessels.
Playing hooky
Playing hooky
This story is dedicated to Evie Kinkade, my (initially unwilling) accomplice.
We drove to school in silence. It was raining and dark, the sun only a soft glow cloaked by grey. It had been four weeks since dad died, and there isn’t much more to say about that. I watched as schoolmates bounded to class, laughing emphatically with friends. Without saying a word, I stopped the car in front of the school and flicked the hazards on. I dialed the number for the school nurse while Evie stared at me wide-eyed in the passenger seat.
Yes, hi this is Nanette Kinkade. The girls wouldn’t be attending school today. They were very, very sick.
Evie protested, we had to go in. She begged me to call back. My refusal was made clear as I drove us away without a word. Perhaps I kidnapped her that day.
We drove deep into the Santa Cruz mountain fog and cut holes in trash bags to use as raincoats. We found railroad tracks and followed them through the mountains for a long time. We pointed at lichen and newly sprouting funghi. I sketched some. We ate our packed lunch sandwiches quietly in the back of the car, trunk open with our legs dangling out.
I don’t remember much, but there was a subtle joy in that day. I don’t remember much, but it was a silent time in what felt like a very chaotic, loud world. And silence, that day, it seemed, was the medicine we needed.
(Mom if you’re reading this, please forgive me 💘)
En el dolor y enamorada
Dibujo basado en palabras escritas en 2014:
“Todavía me da alegría. Todavía me da pena.
Hay días en los que siento que nunca voy a sanar. Pues, sanar si. Pero una recuperación total, no, suena imposible. Hay días en los que creo que me van a amarrar hasta que me ahogan. Mi alma llena de noche. Solía pensar qué después de diez años—si es que llegue a diez años sin ti—voy a estar bien. Tengo que estar bien. “Con el tiempo todo sana,” verdad?
Y es cierto, voy a estar bien.
También, admito, hay momentos en los cuando estoy en los sin fin bosques, inclinada escuchando la canción de la flor, que ya no existe esta tristeza. Al contrario, estoy plenamente satisfecha. Ya no es día de llantos. Bueno, te digo estoy bien pero también un poco triste. Las emociones así contradictorias y complejas coexisten. Así que — abrazo mis sentimientos salvajes. En el dolor y enamorada.
Y digo que si, todavía me da alegría. Y si, todavía me da pena.”
-Winsor Kinkade, 2014
“In grief and in love”, pen on paper, 2021
Photo of my dad painting at his easel with Merritt Kinkade, Placerville, CA, c. 1988
This drawing came about during a weekend that I received training in administering Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy. EMDR aims to access and reprocess traumatic memory networks stored in the brain from traumatic experiences, creating more adaptive thought processes or information. It is a powerful form of mind-body medicine, yet is gentle in its approach to healing deep trauma wounds. Throughout the training, we had opportunities to experience EMDR for ourselves (although I have been fortunate to experience it previously and can testify to its healing ability). This naturally created an opportunity to dive deep into stored memories and experiences of childhood. Dreams became vivid and exploratory as my body and brain continued the hard work of processing these memories in REM sleep. What a beautiful creation we are! We truly are made of stars.
The memory of drawing with my dad continued to tunnel its way into my conscious thoughts, along with an excerpt from a few years after his passing that I had written. This drawing was completed after day 2 out of 3 of the intensive training, where I felt I needed to give space in this world for these special, magical, and persistent memories.
“In grief and in love” reflects on the dual realities that exist when we lose someone close to us, especially someone who caused us great suffering. “Bueno, te digo estoy bien pero también un poco triste. Las emociones así contradictorias y complejas coexisten.“ I’m okay, but also a little sad. Contradicting and complex emotions such as this coexist. It is a strange and wonderful gift to be alive. This excerpt and drawing aims to give voice to all of those experiences.
Big hugs to all.