Lindsay's (belated) Summer Solstice Reflection
Earlier this month, I brought Heron to the ocean. This was his second visit. For his first, I was well into my third trimester. I hurled my body into the ocean, desperate to feel weightless. The waves were so large that Jonathan googled, “Will body surfing hurt my baby?” But the waves felt comforting to me, even in their gargantuan might. I imagined I was one drop of a gazillion, surfing with my two babies. One the eternal unborn, the other yet to be born. Both sides of the veil, existing side by side. Braided together for the rest of this life.
During Heron’s second visit (his first earth-side), I was surprised to find that the ocean, which was such a comfort to me, frightened him. He cried at the sound of the waves, which were loud and unpredictable. When I placed his feet on the sand, we looked out over the vast expanse and I briefly saw the world through his eyes. This ocean was indeed a very big and overwhelming thing. I squatted behind him and wrapped my arms around him while he took in the sand, the tide, the infinite horizon.
While Heron recoiled from the waves, I thought of a moment in Postpartum Yoga class with Ellen. Each class she would remind us that the sound of Om was too much for a baby to hold, so instead she led us in a close-mouthed hum. The ocean is such a powerful expression of Om, which represents the totality of divinity.
In the Bhagavad Gita, Arjuna asks Krishna to reveal his divine form, and he does. Arjuna beholds God as infinitely beautiful and infinitely terrifying. It is so overwhelming that Arjuna begs Krishna to return to his human form; he asks for his friend back. Krishna grants his request, and then says,
You’ve experienced my deeply problematic, difficult beauty, a beauty that the gods too seek to experience. Not by Veda, nor by austerity, not by gift or by sacrificial ritual is it possible to see me in such a way as you have just seen me. But it is possible that I can be known and, in fact, be seen, even entered into, Scorcher of the Foe: by nothing other than love. Doing my work, putting me first, loving me without self-interest, and free of enmity toward all beings: one comes to me, Pandava.
Last week we celebrated the Summer Solstice, honoring our closeness to the sun. In her yoga class, Sara reminded us that in this time of heat and light, the sun is sometimes too much to witness. We need to balance its blinding light with cooling introspection. In this way, the antidote to the summer solstice is the winter solstice. Just as during the winter solstice, we must hold on to our inner light— the possibility of summer’s fullness. Each informs the other; all of it divine.
It is tragically fitting that in this time of intense light, there would also be a large and lurking shadow. On June 24, the Supreme Court overturned Roe vs. Wade—our bodily autonomy stripped from us in many states; a ruling that will disproportionately affect Black and Brown bodies.
As someone who recently experienced the loss of a baby in-utero, the Supreme Court’s ruling sits viscerally within. The first day of my Dilation and Evacuation procedure was the worst day of my life. I cannot imagine this experience being worse for others. It is an inevitability that makes me nauseous.
In response to this ruling, Ellen taught on the ethical tenet brahmacharya, which literally means “celibacy.” Since yoga has always been a tradition of monastics and householders, the interpretation of this tenet has varied. For a householder, which we are, it might be interpreted as the intentional choice to use our bodies as we see fit.
The day after the Supreme Court’s horrific decision, Heron turned 9 months old. He has now been in my body as long as he gestated inside me. And Rowan—the baby that I conceived and lost, the baby that would have been born on the spring equinox—would be a spunky toddler by now.
Like you, I am an adult now. I am not overwhelmed by the sound of Om or the ocean or the blinding sun. Although I bow in reverence to that which I will never understand. And I have agency over some things—how I speak and how I act.
There will never be a time when we all agree. Perhaps there will be a time when we skillfully hold the vastness of experience, like the deep churning of the ocean or the blinding light of the sun. More likely, we will forget and remember, over and over, because we are the forest dwellers, moving through shadowed terrain, occasionally stepping into a speckle of light that shows us what to do next.
As the earth starts its journey away from the sun and we embrace the warmth of summer, let us also be vast enough to both the beautiful and the terrifying. Let us look directly at injustice and take thoughtful, concrete steps toward freedom. And let us balance this work with rest and play. Let us hold the paradox well. And when we are overwhelmed, let us ask for our friend, in whatever form she takes. For me, she is taking the form of this passage from Krishna, the divine on earth: Doing my work, putting me first, loving me without self-interest, and free of enmity toward all beings: one comes to me, Pandava.
If you are unsure of what to do after the overruling of Roe vs. Wade, I invite you to listen to this podcast, which outlines the history of this decision and what we can do next.
