There is a difference between not being able to give birth anymore and choosing not to have children of one's own. I never wanted to have children. In fact, there are only two distinct times in my life when I wanted to get pregnant. Once, when I was in high school, I simply felt so happy in a random moment with my sweetheart. Then, in my late thirties, after getting divorced. I realized pretty quickly it was not that I wanted another child, but wanted a child that I would not have to share custody with. Get a cat, I told myself.
So it came as quite the surprise that when my eggs dried up, I grieved no longer having the option to conceive, even though I never felt the proverbial biological clock ticking, let alone the biological urge to procreate.
I found myself thinking about empty vessels. On my altar is an empty birch bark basket, made by my Nona Linda, my maternal grandmother. It sits on a piece of embroidery from Nona Theresa. Next to that is an empty bowl. Where is there sacredness in the absence of all? I find myself contemplating the black hole in the middle of my uterus, which is not just blank but somehow sucking in all of my life force within. When I succumb to the abyss, I allow myself to wallow in the nothingness. Sometimes this looks like staying in bed for hours on end. Maybe it is this hollow feeling that we try to feed with posting on social media, gloom scrolling (what I like to call doom scrolling), or endless NYT crossword puzzles. I take a moment to imagine being hollow like a drum, still resonant, still beating.
(Excerpt from Laphrodite's Guide to Mindful Menopause or the Adventures of a Baby Crone)
