The Purpose  of   HEALING - K.I.S.S.

- as stated 12 years ago - was and is

  to help me and my potential P E E R s 

"to HEAL ourselves into WHOLEness,

and - by extension - all of CREATion!"
Intro to Healing-K.i.s.s. 2001-2013
and Overview of its main libraries


[If you look for a word on this page,
click ctrl/F and put a word in "find"]


I focus my experiencing and awareness on being
"a   pioneer of  Evolution  in  learning  to  feel":
I let my Body vibrate and my Heart 'womb'

pain, shame, fear, boredom, powerlessness,
so feelings can >heal >guide>fulfill
>evolve,
and ~~~ offer ~~~"goldmines"~~~ to us all!!
"I want you to feel everything, every little thing!"

 

 


Birken-Au
The awe-full Beauty of the Birches'Oasis
"Au" in German means both: "beautiful meadow" and the shriek of pain "Au!" ["Oi!" in Yiddish and Hebrew].

Hermann Hesse

Regenbogengedicht,
Zauber aus sterbendem Licht,
Glück wie Musik zerronnen,
Schmerz im Madonnengesicht,
Daseins bittere Wonnen ....

Blüten vom Sturm gefegt,
Kränze auf Gräber gelegt,
Heiterkeit ohne Dauer,
Stern, der ins Dunkel fällt:
Schleier von Schönheit und Trauer
Über dem Abgrund der Welt

Rainer Maria Rilke

Die Blätter fallen, fallen wie von weit,
als welkten in den Himmeln ferne Gärten;
sie fallen mit verneinender Gebärde.
Und in den Nächten fällt die schwere Erde
aus allen Sternen in die Einsamkeit.

Wir alle fallen. Diese Hand da fällt.
Und sieh dir andre an: es ist in allen.

Und doch ist Einer, welcher dieses Fallen
unendlich sanft in seinen Händen hält.





 

 

 

 


see below - 2013-03-13- about birthing

The concentration camp AU-schwitz served as an R&D lab for the conduction of mass extermination.
When the techniques had reached optimal efficiency,
Brecznia=birch in Polish became Birken-AU with all facilities for the annihilation and liquidation of humans.
There must have been birches there at that time.
For a little sign in front of a birch grove says:
"Here waited women and children for ..."

But then "not a single green leaf could be seen in Birkenau
for whatever would start to grow there, was immediately eaten."
This was said by Marian, the painter of hunger and even cannibalism.

The birch was once my favorite tree, and I missed it in Israel.
But how can this birch be so beautiful, trying to hide the remnants of a crematorium?


Beauty around the Crematorium


The building amidst the beautiful "park" is "the Sauna", a place of mass torture

and the meadows beneath cover mass graves

 

 


I feel the need to interrupt "beauty" and insert a non-beautiful photo that conveys one of my nightmares,
ever since I imagine Anne Frank trying to get to shit on one of those holes,when she suffered the typhoid of her last days.


"They were allowed to use "the toilet" only twice in 24 hours, never at night, and each got only 30 seconds to finish."

 

 



Doesn't it look like a nice excursion in the woods, the walk of our group to the Ashes' Pond?


And then we leave Birken-AU and walk "home" to our good meal in the hostel and our pretty, comfortable rooms.

 



And the form for "feedback", we were supposed to deliver at the end of the retreat, did not shy away from asking like any hostel asks:
"Please evaluate .... accomodation .... meals - "very good", "good", "satisfying", "less than satisfying"."
And I wrote: "very good", for I did, indeed, enjoy the meals - richer than those at home -
and I did savor sharing a room with my friend Yanina for the very first time in 37 years:


See the coincidence connected to this picture on November 9-10, 2009

 

 

For the sake of uniting
the Holy-One-Blessed-be-He and his Shekhina
(Divine Presence in female gender)
to unite Y-H with W-H in complete/whole unity
in the name of all Israel and let's say: Amen.
These Aramaic words are said
before blessing over the fulfillment of
certain kinds of commandments.
YHWH is the so-called name of God,
but is actually a verb: he who happens
 
"Will there still come days in forgiveness and grace" - sung by Hava Alberstein in Poland on Holocaust Memorial Nov. 16, 2008

 

 

 

 

2010

On October 20, 2010,
a significant communication took place in the new home
of Genine Gita-Zohara and Ronni Bar-El - at Rosh-Pina,
after - the evening before - we had "put to rest" my niece's family
in the Bar-Els' Bed&Breakfast castle at Safed,
See a story about me and Genine at "the Ashes' pond"!
The communication was about how to let go of "dispersion"
in order to fullfill her dream of writing, staging and acting,
and in order to let her husband fulfil their common dream
of making their castle into a "Way-Inn" for spiritual learning.

After Gita had brought me at 2:45 PM to the bus-station ,
from where my travel to Arad would take almost 7 hours,

she had intended to go to her swimming pool, yet ...........

Dearest Christa Rahel,
I so enjoyed our time together. Your visit inspired me to write.
After you left I sat for 3 hours and wrote the following:
(I never even got to swim!)


I asked her, if I could insert her poem, so as to give her yearning more energy,
and this despite her projecting on me what she yearns for in herself,
thus making me "an angel" and even "a goddess".
I had just becried this attitude, which has caused me such suffering in life,
and there I'm creating it again:
people projecting on me, instead of accepting me as their sounding-board.
See the note at the end of "Day 38, Oct. 15, 2010 - of THE WAVE OF WORLD GRATITUDE"

"Christa Gut" [my family name was "Guth"]

An angel came to me today.
Wrinkled and worn, tall and strong,
carrying her 72 years with grace and dignity
her battle scars doorways to realms of knowing,
she has learned from life,
turned sorrow into song
pain into poetry
rejection and loss into a dynamite website.

I thanked her for coming to visit.
"No thanks due me.
You drew me here.
It was your power, your unconscious that called me.
I am just a sounding box, resonating your voice,
a reflection of yourself."

Yes, we are so alike.
Strong, wild, willful women of fiery dreams and desires.
Daughters of the Holocaust,
we yearn to heal the world
when we must first heal ourselves.
We want to give so much
we overwhelm with our passion
and are left standing alone
clenching our bag of gifts.


Oh, Christa Rachel,
my beautiful German goddess.
We met at Auschwitz,
what a place for a first date.


Standing with a group of Zen meditators,
very well behaved,
in a moment of silence at the execution wall
a wailing sound breaks the grave quiet.
Louder and louder, it grew more insistent
.
"No more silence," you cried.
"Enough silence there was.
It is time to SOUND OUR PAIN.
Wail, scream. Express your anguish.
Release the outrage, bewilderment, shock.
Don't just stand there, do something!

Move, cry, dance."

See this "incident" in "Sounding-not Silent",

 


In the vaulted castle, where my guests would spend two nights,
and were we closed our encounter by singing German canons,
I discovered this German El-Al poster of the Sixties:
"Once wise men at Safed searched for the secret meaning of the Bible,
now painters endeavor to find colors. Fly with us to Israel!"

You howled. Over and over.
A shofar of channelled suffering.
Appreciation shifted into discomfort
when the shofar kept blowing on and on,
and the meditators struggled to return to their program.
Only you could upset Buddhists at Auschwitz!

My role model!


Now you've come again into my life,
7 years and one child later.
Your hair is shorn,
the long white black forest braids are gone.
But your smile is radiant and wide as ever.
Your energy is calmer,
you sit deeper in your center
snuggled in your bowl.
Seclusion becomes you,
finding comfort in your womb.

You have learned to limit
what and to whom you give,
You have learned to receive
from the bag of your own gifts.

And today you share
your well-earned wisdom with me.
As I suffer and struggle against myself,
not knowing what to do with all my energy,
how to channel myself in a limited form,
one talent at a time
through (the constraints of) time and space.
I want to do it all, all at once.
I want so much to heal the world
but my wound bleeds "not good enough"
and my perfection compulsion clots the flow.


Must accomplish something,
you can DO better!
Save the world! Save yourself! One 'tikkun' at a time.
So much pressure I cannot enjoy the simple things.
Breath, air, smiles, children's cuddles,
true love from a wonderful man.


A vine in the court of the 'castle' at Safed, old, very old, but alive,
and then - very similar - a rail made of olive wood - fresh but dead.


ADD - A difficult Daddy.
Oh he was hard to please.
Hard on me.
But really it all begins with MOTHER.

I think I was a normal baby for the first few minutes.
I had ordinary baby needs,
but they were denied satisfaction
and my wants became yearnings
my desires, demands.

I wanted to suckle at my mother's breast
to return to her body, to reconnect.


But instead of a soft fleshy nipple,
a cold plastic bottle was inserted
into my waiting wanting mouth.
Playtex parted my tender lips,
still wet with amniotic fluid
while a nurse, her white uniform blindingly professional,
glowed against the dim green hospital walls.

All I can make out in the blurry world of my newborn eyes
are busy figures bustling efficiently

about their routine
in the sterile, chilly halls of the birthing room.

My mother is out cold.
She's sleeping off the anesthesia
and I am alone. Alone. ALONE.

Moooottthhherrrrr, I wish I could scream.
I want to return to you.
To be enclosed again in your body.
Enveloped in your warmth.
Safe, protected.


Find me. Hold me.
Be with me.


"Trust that they're making their lives work in the way that they're making their lives work.
And just teach through the power of your example. " Abraham/Hicks 2002, e-mail quote 2010_10_26

 

 

BIRTHING

2010
From Gita's Play -
about Tsfat-Safed and about birthing her son at home


Scene VII
The journey to Tsfat became the journey to the feminine,
to the realm of deep knowing, of sensing, feeling.
Without words, beyond his-tory.
A place of being, of connection, containing everything and its' opposite.

Tsfat, home to our most masterful mystics,
is a place of Kabbalah, of receiving.
We (humans) were created to receive, but not for ourselves alone,
to receive in order to give, to share. [the same in Hebrew]
The feminine receives.
She is the vessel, the ground
from which the will -masculine energy- can spring.

Tsfat is a city that beckons you to stop, surrender.
As you get lost in the maze of her circular streets, you are found.
She takes you up and down stone staircases that never seem to end,
like an ancient stairmaster,
past huddling houses clinging to the slopes of the mountain,
with no street signs,
but turquoise gates to mark the waylike fairy tale breadcrumbs.
She leaves you no choice but to wander,
discover her from the inside
,make friends with locals who, with God's help, will point the way.
I come from NY.
A city of vertical steel towers straining to scrape the sky.
Grids of crisscrossing streets and avenues.
Linear. Masculine. Ambitious.
A city of doers, striving for success.
Tsfat is about slowing down.

Stop rushing through life.
No distractions here.
No movie theaters, no clubs, nor malls;
but neighbors, community, God. I and thou.
An experience of presence
.
Tsfat is embraced by the curving slopes of Mt. Meron
which rise and fall like 2 breasts, folding us in to her heart.
Around her, the green hills of the Galilee,
their deep wadis sheltering precious flowers
and springs ancient mikvahs
peeking through the wild brushgraves of tzadikim dotting the landscapes
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Page 17
their shining domes like upside down chalices,
holding the prayers of tearful pilgrims,
a reservoir of hope and longing.
Tsfat's rhythms are of a different time.
The stone alleyways haven't changed in decades
stores still close for siesta between 2 & 4.
Tsfat is a resting place
Just as Shabbat is a resting time
Tzfat is the Shabbat of modern day Israel.

It's not surprising that the most famous Shabbat prayer,
in fact, the entire Kabbalat Shabbat service,
sung in every synagogue in the world on Friday night,
was composed in Tzfat.
(Sings):

The Holy Ari would sing this song
as he and his disciples, dressed in white,
would go to the woods at the edge of town
to greet the Shekhina, the Goddess, the Shabbat bride.
Ah.. Shabbat in Tsfat - the holiest of holies.
The last hours of the afternoon,
you can already feel her standing at the door.
All the shops have closed.
The streets are deserted.
The smells of cooking waft down the alley:
from my Tunisian neighbor
the scent of couscous bubbling in the juice of chicken and kurkum.
From my Hungarian neighbor- goulash,
and from my California neighbor,
the delicate aroma of an organic quinoa-pesto dish.
There are many former hippies in Tsfat.
Berkley folk who became religious and now wear socks with their Birkenstocks and make tofu chulent.
We have converts from every corner of the world,
a Zulu prince from South Africa who became a Torah scholar,
a bald Chi Kong master
who delivered her babies under the grapevine in her courtyard,
and even a Shiite from Lebanon,
who is raising his seven children in Tsfat as orthodox Jews.
A mosaic of seekers.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Page 18
The smells of freshly cleaned houses, of warm halot.
The mad rush in the last moments before Shabbat descends,
to put away all the reminders of hol.
Covering the computer, unplugging the phone,  putting away the pens, emptying pockets of change,  leaving on certain lights,  turning others off, setting the Shabbos clocks,  filling the hot water urn,
pre-cutting the toilet paper!
The energy builds, the frenzy of those final moments ...
and then it all stops.
The Shabbat siren sounds, signaling the end of the workday week.
A huge collective AHHHHHHH goes up to the heavens.
For 25 hours we shift from human doings to human beings.
Nothing to accomplish.
No pressure to create.
Just enjoy what is.

The gift of life, the gift of breath. neshimah feeds our neshamah [breath - soul] God breathes us into life, and we witness it with gratitude.
As the Shabbat services begin,
sounds of tefilah from the many houses of prayer float up,
join together and dance around me on my roof.
The sun is setting over Mt. Meron.
Glorious crimson colors the sky.
Bands of rainbow colors wrap themselves around the moutaintops.
I close my eyes.
Sacred time, sacred space.
Fully present in the holiness.
Taking in the gentle brea(d)th of sky and earth.
I become a vessel expanded with She-khi-nah.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Page 19

Scene VIII
And then I really expanded ... I was pregnant!
This wandering Jew (ish princess)
was finally ready to settle down (into her castle).
We found ourselves a beautiful old house with domed ceilings,
whose curves and arches come together like hands clasped in prayer.
A womb of stone.
I felt safe, secure and loved.
That is... until a warm July day, 2 summers ago,
when Hezbollah shattered our illusions.........
...............
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Page 22

Scene IX - BEING

The home birth of my son
is one of my greatest treasures.

Pleasures ... eh.
It was after reading "The Red Tent"
     [I, too, delighted in this book. ---- Info which I found on 20213-03-13:
     the Hebrew translation       the play in the Arab-Jewish Theatre of Yaffo

that I was inspired to return to the old ways
and have my 3rd baby at home with a midwife.
Birth is such an important rite of passage for women.
I wanted to share and celebrate it with my friends.
I invited a group of amazing women to join me,
to reclaim "birth" as a feminine ritual.
I wanted to embrace the experience.
All of it. The pain, the fear, the joy.
Birth in the primal state.

As Havah. Khavayah. Experience.
(inserts pillow under dress)The labor progressed quickly.
By the time my friends arrived there was only one hour of birthing left.
I didn’t get to do half the activities I planned!
Never got to the belly dancing or the shamanic drumming.
The contractions were coming so close together I couldn’t speak anymore.
(For those who know me that's a first).
I could only cry out to God. Yaaahh, Yaaahhh.
The pain was overwhelming.
I couldn’t hold any thoughts in my head. Except for one:
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this myself.”
"Yes," cried my holy friend Adina.
"Now you understand. Just surrender."
I let go, and my ego, my mind, retreated.
For the first time in my life I was fully in the present moment.
I was a channel, a vessel for the life force moving through me.
I had prepared a CD of music for the birth.
In the final moments, as the baby was crowning and I was pushing,
a song from Tehilim encouraged me:
(sings) Ivdu Ivdu Ivdu et hashem besimha. Serve the Lord in Joy!
I was doing Hava’s tikkun, birthing in pain.
I stopped struggling.
And sang:(sings) Ivdu, ivdu et hashem b’simcha. Bo’u l’fanav bir’nana. (2x)Come into the Presence with joyous song.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Page 23
Joy, pain.
It’s a world of tikkun.
We are co-fixers with God.
I am co-creating.
Co-fixing.
It's not perfect.
It's not pain-free.
It’s a process.
Pain is the gateway.
Birth-death-rebirth.
Creator-destroyer-sustainer.
I love you God.
I am one with you God.
Adir Yahel slid from my womb into a pool of water,
surrounded by joyous women and one pretty stunned man.
Murphy and his law had arranged
for 40 women from the Cincinnati Federationto
be dining with us that night.
We didn't cancel.
The beauty of a home birth.
Rony prepared dinner downstairs while I got the baby ready upstairs.
When Adir hit the final stretch I sent one of my girlfriends down to get him and Rony made it just in time to catch the baby.
He cut the umbilical chord,
washed his hands
and went back to chopping vegetables for the salad.
Ten minutes later, the ladies arrived.
Leaving the womb is like being expelled from Eden
- a time, a place, where all our needs were met.
Birth mirrors the hero’s journey:
It starts with being warm and snug in a safe place
then comes a signal that it is time to leave.
Staying beyond your time is stagnation,
Without the tearing and the pain, there is no new life.
I was at a summit in my hero’s journey
and my new baby was just beginning his.

After the high of Adir’s birth,
it was inevitable that I would meet up with my old friend void.
I understood why so many new mothers suffer from post partum depression. I was facing the void on so many levels.
I looked down at my empty belly.
There was a physical void in my body.
A vacated space where the baby had been.
My midwife advised me to keep my torso tightly wrapped
so my internal organs wouldn’t slip out of place.
There was an emotional void.
I was no longer one with my baby.
Sure I could rock him in my arms, hold him close.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Page 24
But he was a separate being now.
I was facing a kind of aloneness again.
The tzimtzum.
The empty space.
I longed to return to the state of wholeness, when my baby and I were one. Like before creation, when there was no separation from the Creator.
But really there is no separation.
There is nothing but Gd.'


aekhad is the gematria of ahavah.
Each one's numerical value is 13,
and "one" and "love" add up to G-d: YHWH
- the holiest name of the creator. 26.
The date of Adir's birth: The 26th of Adar.
Adar is the Hebrew month of joy - of Purim. The happy Holiday.
The sages say that the only way to reach Gd is through simcha, joy.
Anger, sadness, block us from unity with Gd.
[2013-03-17: Ya Gita! Ya Genine, Ya "Sages"!
What horrid denial of God's Will, God's feelings!
How come, I did not counter these lines in 2010?]


2010- 2013DELICIOUS      DELETION



2013-03-13

This column stayed empty - as if waiting for a complementing content -
until I came -on 2013-03-13 -across this oh so relevant article
about Frederick Leboyer

"The Guardian", 2011-06-25 ----Hebrew translation in "Bet-Yoldot"

'Babies are overlooked in labour'

In the 1970s this French obstetrician enraged the medical profession by suggesting a baby had 'rights' during labour. Despite initial resistance, his ideas for less medicalised birth changed the face of the labour ward

Frederick Leboyer: 'Babies are overlooked in labour'

Almost 40 years ago, a French obstetrician had a revolutionary idea. Perhaps, he mused, those most closely involved in childbirth – obstetricians, midwives, even parents – were ignoring the person who mattered most of all. To make his point, he gave up being a hospital consultant and turned to writing instead. His seminal book followed soon afterwards: on one of its first few pages was a photograph showing a newborn, his mother, his father, and the doctor who had just attended his delivery. Everyone was smiling: but at the centre of the picture was a face that, far from being joyful, seemed contorted in pain and agony. "Everyone is radiant with happiness," the author explained. "Everyone except the child. The child? You hadn't even noticed the child, had you?"

Thirty seven years on from the publication of Birth Without Violence, you might imagine that its author, Frederick Leboyer, who is now 93, had moved on to new concerns. Not a bit of it: his book is being republished this month and, like all true revolutionaries, age has not withered him. Especially not since he believes his creed is as relevant now as it ever was. .... "Birth is all about the child. Although everywhere you look, it seems to be about procedures and doctors and women."

Leboyer hasn't much time for doctors and even less for procedures. While he has plenty of time for women and their role in childbirth, he does rather despair about them failing to "get" what he sees as the central point. "What you have to understand," he says, "is that birth is a challenge for a woman. To do her best for her baby, she has to face up to that challenge and not chicken out and have a caesarean instead."

Does Leboyer really equate a caesarean section with "chickening out"? "Yes, I do, Having a caesarean is like reading a book and missing out a crucial chapter of the story – the most important chapter, in fact."

Of course, he says, he is completely aware that caesareans sometimes save lives – for both babies and women (he nods vigorously when I tell him I had a section because of pre-eclampsia – yes, he says, that was a good reason). But women who choose to give birth surgically are, he thinks, much misguided... " Just as I cannot breathe for you or eat for you, or sleep for you, so I cannot give birth for you. Only you can give birth, for yourself."

And how can women achieve that? "All pregnant women are frightened –... What a woman has to do is admit her fear, and look at what she is really afraid of. Only then can she begin to work through it and embrace the physical challenge of giving birth."

... He likens labour to a storm, through which a woman must sail her boat. "She has to remain the captain of her ship – it's that straightforward," ..."childbirth is a woman's secret garden ... it's the moment when a maiden dies and a mature woman is born".

But his enduring contribution to childbirth, and the idea that ensured his place in 20th-century obstetric history, was his groundbreaking contention that a baby has "rights" at the delivery; that the baby, in a nutshell, has feelings and these feelings must be taken into account. Birth Without Violence told the story of birth from the baby's point of view – and in taking that perspective, Leboyer was able to raise powerful questions, for the first time, about how the delivery room would look and what it would feel like to the infant who emerged into it. The brightness of the lighting; the hubbub of the delivery room; the idea that the child was taken from the mother straight after birth – all this was put under scrutiny by Leboyer, for the first time in history. "Imagining birth as the baby experiences it was an entirely new way of looking at it," he says today.

...........................

But others – especially midwives, and mothers – took heed, and things changed. It is thanks to Birth Without Violence that delivery rooms became quieter, calmer places with dimmed lighting and, sometimes, music playing quietly. Most importantly, perhaps, the baby was placed on its mother's belly as soon as it was born, and the medical establishment began to agree with Leboyer that – unless there were life-and-death medical reasons – the need to "bond" was more pressing than the immediate postnatal checks. Provided a baby was breathing, and its life wasn't in danger, what mattered most after birth was skin-to-skin contact – and gentleness.

Leboyer also believed it was important to bathe a child as soon as possible after delivery. "Water, for a newborn, is a friend, For example, imagine that you go to Beijing. You don't know anyone and you don't speak Chinese. And then across a street you see someone you know, and that person's familiarity makes you feel safer. That is how water is to a baby: because he or she has been in the fluid of the womb, water is a known sensation. It's friendly. It calms."

Because of Leboyer baths, as they became known, it is sometimes assumed that his ideas led to another obstetric innovation of the late 20th century, waterbirth. Not so, says the nonagenarian fiercely: in fact, paving the way for waterbirth was, he says, the very last thing he would have wanted. "Waterbirth is completely wrong, To give birth, you need to be on dry land."

He confides that there is no love lost between him and the other leading French obstetrician of the 20th century, Michel Odent.

Odent, says Leboyer, was originally his disciple, but "misunderstood" everything he was saying, and – as the chief architect of waterbirth – has taken things in entirely the wrong direction.

Leboyer's decision to dedicate his life to childbirth came about, he believes, because of the circumstances of his own arrival, in Paris at the end of the first world war. "They used forceps to get me out, and four people held my mother down because there were no anaesthetics,It is because of that, the manner of my arrival, that I have spent my whole life fascinated by birth – because I always knew there was a better way."

After quitting obstetric practice, he travelled widely in India – and what he saw and learned there influenced his ideas on birth hugely. He is an enthusiastic proponent of yoga, and puts his own remarkable health down to daily sessions of t'ai chi, which he learned from a master.

What, though, of his other direct experiences of childbirth – has he, I ask, had children of his own? He looks at me with, for a moment, a twinkle in his 90-something eyes. "Not yet," he says, enjoying the wickedness of the idea that, even at his great age, progeny might be possible.

But then he shakes his head slowly. "It's one of the greatest sadnesses of my life, really," he admits. "To have children is one of the greatest privileges that life holds."

• A new edition of Birth Without Violence by Frederick Leboyer is published by Pinter and Martin,

 

2013-03-17

I want to strengthen the midwives, on whom it depends,
if a human enters life on this planet whole in body and soul,
by doing the very least, which is to present the BET-YOLDOT ,
to which Ra'ayah, my daughter-in-love,
contributes part of her blessed work, experience, skills and time.

B E T - Y O L D O T
,
Israel, Gedera

HO U S E    F O R     B I R T H I N G     W O M E N

[the terrible term in English is:obstetric department, birthing center]



Who are we?


Links to wonderful people, places, organizations

where encouragement and empowerment can be found
for birthing, growing and dying ,
as birthing, growing and dying should be done!



Links to 19 home-birth midwifes,

one of them Ilana Shemesh, who accompanied the birthing
of my firstborn granddaughter Elah in 1987, mentioned e.g. in Succah-Stages 1


Stories about pregnancy and birthing


A library of what I would call "Nourishment from Others":

Quotations - including a passage from "Momo" by Michael Ende,
a fantastic book I read 30 years ago,

and a saying by Nelson Mandela, which appears on this website several times
Articles [ma'amarim] and articles [katavot] - among them the one about Leboyer.



Among the services given by the midwives.

the one which is so badly missing in "usual" deliveries -
is already described on-line:
Accompaniment after delivery


And a gallery of scenes
,
that demonstrate "All you need is love"

[Though this claim is credible in the case of these midwives,
I feel critical towards it.
Too often "love" is mingled with denial....]


My question is:
Are women-in-labour encouraged to voice and scream their pain?

After I had birthed Micha, my third child, now Ra'ayah's husband,
I heard a midwife say to another, while pointing towards me:
"Today our job was easy, for since this woman kept quiet,
the other women did not dare to scream either."

And I, exhausted by an incredibly painful birthing process, felt proud!

YHWH , when giving birth, does no longer keep quiet , but screams:




Put into tune by me on January 20, 2011


Be Sounding! -Be Sound - not silent!