Welcome, our little big light.

Eight weeks after giving birth to our beautiful baby boy, I realized I needed to start writing again. It’s been nearly a year since I posted anything on this blog and almost as long since I’ve taken any time to reflect through writing. For me, early motherhood is pretty non-conducive to spending precious free-time sitting down and writing yet I have a feeling this makes it even more necessary.

To be honest, I stopped writing in this blog because soon after my last post I found out I was pregnant and I was torn between wanting to write about the incredibly exciting journey we were embarking on and also wanting to be modest about our news for as long as possible. I also felt incapable of and disingenuous trying to write about anything else at the time. I feel a similar tug now between maintaining our privacy in these precious, fleeting moments and yet wanting to share this awe inspiring process. Bear with me as I try to navigate between the two.

Generations: My father holding me next to me holding our newborn.

Generations: My father holding me next to me holding our newborn.

I started writing my home birth story this week because I had the sense that it was both utterly important to remember and yet quickly slipping through my memory’s grasp. There is some magical process of forgetting that happens so quickly after birth. The night I delivered, after we were all settled in and alone in our apartment again trying to sleep, my mind was racing. It wouldn’t let me get anywhere near sleep. I could not stop going over every single detail and moment of the 4 hour labor and home birth experience, as if some part of me was fighting this inevitable forgetting and whispering in my ear, ‘dontforgetdontforgetdontforget.’ I feel somewhat nostalgic already for that dream-like, dimly lit night which existed outside of time and space. The utter rawness and intensity of humanity mixed with the undeniable infinity of divine presence, all bundled into a few moments. A piece of me died that night so another could come to life. That sounds dramatic and it is deservedly so. For the days following this mixture of pure life and glimpse of death, I was both haunted by and in awe of it all. My attempt to verbalize that experience which existed beyond all words was attempting the impossible, and yet it sparked something that is motivating me to continue to try to document this journey of motherhood, living in this holy and deeply complex city of Jerusalem, and finding my, now our, place within and beyond it all.

This is my start, I suppose. A peek into our intertwined, sometimes tangled, and ever-changing lives.


Introducing Maor Meron

In hebrew, Maor means light or luminary. Meron is a mountain in Israel across from the northern city of Tzfat, where Ben and I met. We spent many evenings watching the sun set over Mt. Meron and falling in love with Israel and each other so we thought it was fitting for our first child’s name to mean “the light of Meron” – the culmination of which resulted in this little man.

Goodnight for now.