by Scott Blum
“Ah, maybe that’s the answer,” I joked. “Maybe I’d be more comfortable having a son if he were gay. It would be so much easier if he kissed boys, don’t you think?”
“Maybe for you”—she smiled—“but society in general still doesn’t treat everyone as equally as we would like.”
“Well, that’s just silly.” I waved off her assertion with my hand. “Why would anyone care what someone else does in their personal life?”
“Look who’s talking.” She laughed. “You’re the one trying to impose a sexual preference on your unborn child.”
“Touché.”
At that moment, a dapper gentleman dressed in a light blue button-down shirt and dark blazer strolled into the kitchen where we had been talking. His salt-and-pepper hair was unkempt like a mad professor, and his flowing gestures were simultaneously childlike and graceful.
“Good afternoon, my dear Martika,” he said with a refined English accent. “The room you have so graciously prepared for me is ab-so-lute-ly exquisite. Those little soaps are magical, aren’t they?”
“Andrew, I’d like to introduce you to my good friend Scott.”
“Ah yes—the expectant father, I presume.” He extended his hand and shook mine formally. “Martika has been telling me about you and your wife’s circuitous journey to parenthood. Will she be joining us?”
“No, my wife’s been having a very difficult pregnancy. With the previous miscarriage and now her unrelenting nausea, she’s had a pretty bad year.”
“Oh, that’s dreadful! Absolutely atrocious! I’m so sorry to hear that. I will pray for her tonight before I retire.”
“Thank you.”
“Andrew,” Martika spoke up, “Scott has been having some fascinating thoughts on the subject of gender that you might be interested in.”
“Um … yeah,” I stammered. “Thanks, Martika.”
I felt uncomfortable sharing my innermost anxieties with someone I’d just met, and was somewhat annoyed that Martika had offered on my behalf without even asking me.
Andrew patiently waited, his childlike eyes sparkling with anticipation. There was something about him that drew me in, although his air of sophistication was also quite intimidating. I toyed with the idea of steering the conversation toward something less relevant, but decided to jump right in.
“I guess I feel most comfortable with women,” I said after a deep breath. “Their gentle demeanor seems to be more in alignment with my soul than many of the men I’ve met.”
Andrew nodded sympathetically.
“And over the years,” I continued, “I’ve found myself surrounded almost exclusively by females. It’s not something I consciously seek to perpetuate; it just seems to happen naturally. Of course, my wife isn’t a big fan of the fact that most of my friends are women, but she also seems to appreciate that I can relate to her on that level.”
“You’re in touch with your feminine side,” Andrew suggested.
“Perhaps … but when we found out that we were having a boy, it ultimately made me question how relevant gender is in this day and age. Splitting the duties between men and women made a lot of sense when our society was less developed. But in today’s world, with many needs being met by grocery stores, technology, and medical advances, it seems like dividing the human race along gender lines is no longer relevant.
“From a purely practical standpoint, females are obviously the ones who bear children, and the process of artificial insemination, gathered from a few male ‘servants’ in a sperm farm, should be able to perpetuate the human race indefinitely. Women are clearly in the driver’s seat now, and it all seems to invite the ultimate question: Are men still necessary?”
“You just said a mouthful, my dear boy.” Andrew chuckled as he sipped the vanilla rooibos tea that Martika had prepared before leaving us alone in the kitchen. “But it’s not the gender differences of our flesh clothing where the war is being waged. It is within each of us that the exquisite tension of both the Divine Feminine and Divine Masculine struggle to find balance with one another.
“Inside all of us are the feminine powers of intuition, patience, and nurturing, in addition to the masculine energies of rule, reason, and protection. Within this division, the ultimate objective is the Sacred Marriage that weds the Divine Feminine to the Divine Masculine and will eventually bear the exquisite fruit of the Divine Androgyne. That is what will awaken us to our full potential and allow us to embody divine love in action.
“As the great Sufi mystic and poet Jalal-ud-Din Rumi committed to parchment:
When man and woman become one, You are that Unity.
You have created this ‘I’ and ‘Us’
To play the game of adoration with Yourself;
All the ‘I’s’ and ‘You’s’ will become one single soul
And in the end melt into the Beloved.”
“That’s a beautiful poem,” I commented. “I definitely need to read more Rumi. But I believe you just proved my point. The human race is heading toward a single gender—and whether feminine or androgynous, it is clearly not masculine. And you can’t deny the scientific fact that the world now has more females than males. If that isn’t a telling nod to Darwin, I don’t know what is.”
“The ultimate goal of balance is not to calcify into a perpetual state of being. It is the very tension of balance itself that is embodied by the beauty of gender.” Raising his voice, Andrew began to gesture passionately and nearly knocked his teacup off the table. “Thank God there are currently more women than men at this crucial time of our evolution! It’s imperative that the pendulum swing in the opposite direction in order to finally shatter the male-dominated society that has corrupted our souls and threatened to obliterate our very species!
“Yes, now is the time for the fullest restoration of the powers, passions, and glories of the Divine Feminine—to reclaim what has been violently ripped from her breast by our masculine brethren.
But that does not mean that she will claim victory in the form of a singular gender. No, she is much too perceptive to fall into that quagmire. She can see clearly that our path leads to the altar of the Sacred Marriage.” “But in this coming age of the Divine Feminine, why would I want my child to be born male?” I asked. “Isn’t it ingrained in every parent to want the best for their child and to provide them every advantage possible? By being born into a time when women are in the process of reclaiming their power previously stolen by men, doesn’t it put the new generation of males at an obvious disadvantage?”
“Now I understand where this is born from,” Andrew replied. “It is because of your very nature that you are blessed with the ability to feel this reclamation in the depths of your tender soul. But what you don’t realize is that the war has already been won, dear boy. The Divine Feminine has claimed victory, and we are already in the midst of transitioning to feminine rule. The only problem is, the masculine elite haven’t realized it yet. All they know is that the old paradigm is crumbling beneath their feet, and they are grasping at the final shards of what had been built on the backs of the less fortunate. Their world will continue to crumble until the old paradigm is finally laid to waste in an inconsolable pile of rubble. Then and only then will the Divine Feminine rebuild the world in her image, and the pendulum will have officially swung in the opposite direction.
“And that is where your son comes in. The world no longer needs any more feminine warriors to fight a battle that has already been won. Now it is necessary for a new generation of souls that embody purity and the original intention of the Divine Masculine to help bring the world back into balance. And it is to your son’s credit that he picked you and your wife as parents, because of your acute awareness of the importance of his charge. You have been given the colossal responsibility of offering guidance and compassion on this difficult and wholly essential mission of love.”
I sipped my tea in silence, letting Andrew’s powerful words sink in. I wasn’t sure if I understood everything he ha
d said, but I couldn’t deny that his words took the edge off my anxiety about the gender of our child. For the first time I felt an authentic optimism about having a boy.
I was finally excited to meet Oliver.
Later that night I had a vivid dream.
I was riding a spotted Appaloosa along the edge of a plateau at twilight. The muscular horse was marked with red clay, and around his eye was a painted crimson circle.
This wasn’t the first time I had dreamed that I was living in the time of my Native American ancestors, but it was the first time I’d ever felt the agonizing heaviness of war in my heart. However, it wasn’t a war of anger and passion that I was feeling, but of loss and sadness. It didn’t concern me that my life might end on that day, but I was overwhelmingly disheartened by the fact that many of my loved ones would also suffer the same fate.
As I approached a picturesque bluff overlooking the valley, I saw the one I had come to meet—a young warrior, dressed similarly to myself. He wore a sleeveless buckskin vest adorned with hand-painted images of eagles and stars, a single eagle feather affixed to his long ebony braids, and two broad strokes of red paint on his face. But his exquisite eyes were most striking of all. They sparkled in the rising moonlight with the depth of a thousand oceans, simultaneously straddling ancient times and the distant future. The handsome warrior was undeniably a member of my soul family from generations past, and would continue to be for generations to come.
Before he said a word, I knew in my heart when I would see him again. The connection was too deep, too immediate, too powerful, to deny. When I looked into his eyes, I could tell I was seeing both my past and my future, like a Celtic snake feeding on its own tail.
“Tonight you will learn my name,” he uttered in a somber voice. His dialect was unfamiliar, although every word was clearly understood.
“I know your name.” I smiled. “You’re Oliver.”
“That is my given name,” he replied gravely. “Tonight you will learn my second name—my spirit name.”
Before I could reply, his painted pony sprinted ahead, and mine skillfully cantered in their wake. We rode along the narrow pathway overlooking the carnage that had already begun in the valley below. Enemies had set fire to our village, and although our families were temporarily hidden in the adjacent brush, little time remained before we would need to join our brethren and fulfill our duty.
We arrived at the bank of a shallow pond that I recognized as a favorite place from childhood. Memories flooded in of splashing the water during warm summer days and drinking from the crystal clear spring that bubbled up from the forest floor. The water remained black as pitch until the moonbeams filtered through the trees and shed silvery light onto the pond’s surface. The full moon continued to ascend until it was clearly visible above our heads, and a rippled facsimile floated just a few feet from our horses’ hooves.
“My second name,” he said as he gestured to the shimmering reflection in front of us.
I paused to let the moment etch itself deeply into my soul before saying the word out loud: “Moon.”
He nodded. “You must carry my spirit name deep within your heart and return it to me when I see you again.”
I humbly bowed my head, and he turned his horse to begin riding across the plateau and into the valley. His distinctive battle cry entwined with bloodcurdling screams rising from below as he galloped toward the burning village. I resolutely followed, without a thought for my safety.
It was my honor.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Time accelerated at light speed during the next month, which was filled with weekly doctor’s visits and a constant barrage of last-minute preparations for our pending arrival. Madisyn and I were both obsessed with making everything as perfect as possible, and every day came with a new list of supplies to obtain and improvements to make on the nursery.
The due date was scheduled for two days before the end of winter, which had always made me slightly uncomfortable. My favorite season was springtime, and it seemed so much more poetic for our first child to be born when nature began its own cycle of rebirth. If we could convince Oliver to hold off a few more days, he could celebrate his birthday at the same time that Mother Earth did.
However, when the equinox passed and the cherry blossoms were fully in bloom, we had a much larger concern.
“You’re no more dilated than last time,” Dr. Carducci noted after our fifth weekly checkup. “We can go a few more days, but I’m concerned that your body won’t naturally be able to initiate labor. It seems likely that your fibroid has shifted and is preventing your baby’s head from pressing against the cervix to begin the process.”
“What can be done?” I asked, although we had already discussed all the possibilities at length during the previous visit.
“At this point there are two options,” she repeated patiently. “We can induce labor with medication and hope the body takes over—or we can prepare for a C-section.”
“Is he ready to come out?” I asked pointedly, not trying to hide my concern. “Are you sure he’s fully baked?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “I’m absolutely confident he’s ready.”
“What happens if my body doesn’t take over after you administer the Pitocin?” Madisyn asked with the inquisitiveness of a medical student.
“That’s what I’m concerned about. If your fibroid is blocking the cervix, like I believe, then we’ll end up having to surgically remove him anyway.”
“You mean I’ll go into labor and have a C-section?”
“Unfortunately, that seems likely.”
“When’s the earliest we could schedule the surgery?”
“I called the hospital just before you arrived and reserved the delivery room for tomorrow morning. You don’t have to take it, but you’ll probably need to make a decision in the next few days.”
I looked at my wife sitting on the examining table, and was surprised to sense a wave of serenity wash over her. Ever since we had first discussed having a baby, she had been steadfast in her insistence that the birth be as natural as possible, and a Cesarean section was the absolute last thing on the agenda. Since I had been born via C-section, I was less against the idea; however, I wasn’t the one whose body was being cut into. I had expected a huge fight if this day ever came to pass, but to my wife’s credit, she had fully surrendered to whatever was going to happen.
“Okay, let’s do it tomorrow,” Madisyn said calmly. “It’s time to get him out of me.”
March 31, 4:28 A.M.
Neither of us was able to sleep that night, so it wasn’t difficult to get out of bed before the alarm began its annoying assault. Everything had already been impeccably organized into Ziplocs and duffel bags, so it only took a few minutes to pack everything into the car.
As I stood in the driveway under the starlit sky, I looked back at the house Madisyn and I shared and realized that our life was about to change forever. We were leaving our life as a couple behind, and when we next returned to our home, we would officially be a family of three.
When I saw the silhouette of my pregnant wife standing in the doorway, a profound sense of loss welled up inside of me that nearly drove out the flock of butterflies that had taken residence in my stomach. I was excited to meet my new son, but I also felt a sense of sadness about losing the exclusive relationship that my soul mate and I had built over the years.
Neither of us uttered a word as we got into the car and silently drove through the empty streets of Ashland. Language couldn’t capture the intense emotions we were both feeling.
5:03 A.M.
Martika met us at the emergency-room entrance, and the admitting nurse was already expecting us. After signing a small forest of paper, we were led through a labyrinth of fluorescent-lit hallways to the maternity wing.
We crowded into a tiny room, and after Madisyn changed into her backless gown, a blur of hospital personnel shuffled through the room with the precision of an assembly line. Each person ha
d a distinct job to do; one inserted a large needle into the back of her hand, another attached an intravenous tube to a bag, and another affixed a plastic-covered ID bracelet that held two additional tiny bracelets for Oliver to her wrist. By the time the fifth assistant squeezed into the available space next to my wife’s bedside, I was no longer able to track all the tasks being executed by the floral-print army.
5:51 A.M.
After Madisyn had been sufficiently readied, a nurse handed Martika and me each a bundle of folded blue hospital scrubs. She directed us to put them on promptly and be ready to go in the next half hour.
“Also, be sure to have the music ready that you want to play during the birth,” the nurse casually mentioned as she was leaving. “We’ll be asking for it soon.”
Panic overtook me as I tried to remember if I had brought the disc with me. I had been given one simple task to be responsible for—and I’d already screwed it up.
“I’m going to get the bags,” I said, feigning confidence. “The music’s in the car.”
I hurriedly followed the illuminated exit signs through the linoleum maze until I found the double glass doors to the parking lot. I sprinted to the car and shuffled through the luggage before finding the disc in the bag that Madisyn had packed herself.
R. Carlos Nakai.
We had both wholeheartedly agreed that an instrumental album by the Native American master flutist would be the first music Oliver would ever hear. There was something ineffably divine about the musician’s soulful breath that felt wholly primal and worthy of such a momentous occasion. Even the song names seemed appropriate to welcome a new soul into the world, beginning with “Song for the Morning Star” and ending with “Homage to the Ancient Ones.”
I clutched the jewel case with my left hand and gathered as many bags as I could carry with my right before run-waddling back to the room.
6:07 A.M.
After finding my way back to the maternity wing, I entered the room and saw Martika sitting on the corner of the bed dressed in blue scrubs.