By Linda Weissinger Lupowitz
For Noah, breech at 37 weeks
Lifted Up, photo © 2002-2008 by Kim Donald.
All rights reserved.
“This could feel a little cold,”
the ultrasound technician warns,
warming the electrodes—or something
more benign—to place upon my daughter’s
swelling belly, bringing life to the idea
of her yet unborn child, at twelve weeks
now revealed—
A nimble gymnast, flexing, leaping, kicking
in a dark internal sea…sound waves coursing
tides within the muscular gymnasium,
and There,
Upon the screen, a face appears—
the Face You Wore Before You Were Born.
Cold waves, heavier than light, unveil
the secret sac in which you float and dance:
a private glimpse through some impossible
mystery-technology—
Your face swims into view—an upturned nose
and certain gaze, before your Soul has met
its match in union with such princely flesh;
a clay-vessel bobbing briefly in a red river,
soon to be caught in the rushes and rescued
to our world, this side of deliverance.
“…I’m not saying what you see,” she says,
“but if it looks like a turtle, it’s a boy;
a girl looks like a hamburger…”
Tiny turtle, cozy in the confines of your high-
flying mama, here you find a steady balance
in the sky, pushing with your heels toward earth,
gripping toes and sturdy soles, locked knees and elbows,
navel-numbing with your bony head, competing for her
breath—riding the ups and downs face forward
with the gravity of your purpose.
At thirty-seven weeks, frankly Noah,
you are breech, stubbornly maintaining
your position, firmly planted in the face
of sheer adversity, despite threat of a cesarean
—scheduled now for Tuesday. Doctors
with their knives are sharpening
their plans to take you out.
Ana tells me of a birth-emergency, wherein
a paramedic reached within to check the cervix
of a laboring mother, when a tiny hand
reached down to grip his finger….
Turn, turn, little turtle, nudges your father,
his strong hands circling your home;
airplanes crash into buildings, cities fall,
people leap and bombs are dropping, dropping.
Leaves flee the trees in a Mississippi breeze,
you’ve borne tornado warnings, still you
hold this space.
Your distant grandfather penetrates his healing
message through the ethers, through the density
of matter, to meet you in that space we share,
born and unborn, on higher ground.
“He’ll turn,” he says with certainty.
Ana anticipates a simpler birth, more antiseptic,
less messy than this rush of unpredicted fury…
as suddenly, surprising her, on Saturday
You flip, breaking the womb-waters,
wedging head and shoulders in the pink canal,
diving your unheralded descent towards light,
or from it.
Mamababe, photo © 2002-2008 by Kim Donald.
All rights reserved.
Birthing the Poem
Poetry is a birth process, conceived in love – a glimmer in the eye, a spark, a word that won’t let go lodges deep inside the mind, takes form, gathers strength.
The geometric nucleus, nurtured in silence, swells until it shows, until it is a little embarrassing. It can get out of control, morph into something you might be ashamed of.
Then you must labor to deliver pen to paper, and push the poem out. This transition is exquisite, private, no epidural needed. There may be tears. Waters have broken.
Look at it now, wrinkly and raw. Count the words and listen, arrange and rearrange. Deep breath, let it down, now swaddle and share a newborn with the world, perfect or not.
Like human progeny, rarely do live poems manifest intact from the Source. As I age, few will endure. I don’t know how many might still be left in me, from seeds long dormant.
Mom Asleep, photo © 2002-2008 by Linda
Weissinger Lupowitz. All rights reserved.
Noah Charles Strong was born soon after 9/11 – and he made us grandparents, a great blessing. Twenty-three years before, Ariana Faith made me a mother, and we had become a family.
Born in a tumble-down farmhouse on a back road in South Carolina, she emerged in full voice and power three days after Christmas 1977, caught by her father. We were caught by surprise at the impact such a small being had upon our world. The birthing kit was fifteen dollars, for two midwives attending a then-illegal home birth.
It cost many thousands of dollars for Noah’s arrival in Mississippi, and he pulled off a surprise as well. He was breech and supposed to be c-section, but changed his mind.
My view of technological intervention in birthing is dim, so I was relieved by the choice he made. Robert does distant healing work, and he was confident that Noah would turn, as he turned him across time and space.
The conceptual spark that started a fire in my soul was an ultrasound image, a little black- and-white glossy print of what was inside my pregnant daughter. I was privileged to see within the mystery, to witness the secret face of my unborn grandson.
This stunning vision persisted through post-partum gestation, until one day I sat on the pebbly beach of the Rio Grande, and wrote this poem on the back of a folded shopping list.
Like Noah, it came to light in one sudden rush. Then, as we got to know each other, the features became as familiar as the face of one you have known since before you were born.
The Zen Koan
The Monk Mayo asked this question of the Sixth Patriarch: “What is Zen?”
The Patriarch replied that, “when your mind is not dwelling on the dualism of good and evil, what is your original face before you were born?”
This question seems nonsensical, but this is only so when measured against the linear logical requirements of society. The question is intended to open the initiated mind to possibilities beyond the rational. It is also designed so as to waken the student to the possibility that spiritual answers require a different mode of thought.
Zen master Dogen had a saying that is appropriate in the present context. He said that in order to perceive reality we must “drop mind and body.” In other words, it is essential to drop all habits of thought and preconceptions in order to understand the truth.
The Koan forces the student to face this type of thinking. The answer to the question What is your original face before you were born? cannot be answered on the level of rational logic. It points towards the possibility of knowing or understanding without the constructs of reason and habitual response.
The question suggests we have to approach spiritual reality as if we had knowledge of things before we were taught the ways of thinking of this world; in other words, ” before we were born.”
In trying to answer the Koan, the student will come to a mental “precipice,” as it were, where all the methods and procedures of accepted thinking no longer function. The purpose of the Koan is to shove the student over this precipice into an area of experience that is completely new. This is the spiritual reality that the Zen master is attempting to guide the student towards.
Linda Weissinger Lupowitz was born in Philadelphia, moved way out west with Robert to New Mexico, home-birthed and homeschooled three children. She runs a chiropractic practice and a virtual staffing agency, Connect2Pro. A graduate of Smith College, she has been Associate Editor of Taos Magazine, Rio Grande, and Mothering Magazine. The online journal of poetry and photography, C. Little, No Less, was started in March 2003, as a plea for peace.
redravine.wordpress.com 
Linda, what a lovely post. I so enjoyed reading this! Grandchildren are wonderful, indeed. The photos are beautiful! So glad to hear that Noah was welcomed into the world naturally. The turtle that he was!
J was fortunate enough to witness the birth of our Grandson. He just turned 7 years old. It seems like only yesterday. They grow up so fast!
BTW, I check out your blog a time or 2 a week & it is awesome!Your poetry is wonderful! D
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Linda, I also found this to be beautiful, for several reasons. The poem itself is wonderful; I love the weaving in of the technician’s comments. I had not heard before about the turtle and the hamburger. Had you before this?
Also, the gripping of the finger — that little detail just stuck with me. It’s such a powerful reminder of this little person’s will and readiness.
Then to read your process and how you’ve drawn the parallel to human birth, which, of course, is so apt. I’m curious about how often you write poetry. I picture as being something that you just never know will hit you. But do you ever set out to write poetry?
The images are beautiful. Your daughter and Noah are beautiful. Oh, and what is this distant healing called? Is there a technical name for it? I loved the certainty Robert had the little turtle would turn. I think, it must be good to have such certainty that things will turn out alright.
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Thank you, both of you, for the feedback, it is appreciated.
Grandchildren are the reward for all those years of parenting. I was amazed at the depth of the connection, and am still grateful for how much love there is in the exchange.
I will try to answer your questions, yb, briefly – no I had not heard about the ultrasound sex-determination before this. My daughter wanted a girl and she was not happy about the turtle. Second time around, another turtle. She really wanted a hamburger. But that’s the way it goes.
The reason it is so metaphoric is that the technician cannot “tell” you the sex, for liability reasons or something…only give you the clues to decide for yourself. Sometimes it is not accurate anyway.
Do I “set out” to write poetry? Yes and no. I will be preoccupied with an image, as I described, or a thought, and finally will set out to write it down. I am not really prolific, I only feel compelled to write when something grabs me and won’t let go. Like that little finger!
As for R.’s work, it is his own thing. Some description is on the neglected site, http://www.off-the-grid.net — it tells about Alice Woolf, actually…it has been an evolving intuitive process, chiropractic as a mental construct, but the adjustment applied to a higher level, to the etheric plane, Universal Intelligence which works its way down to the physical through Innate Intelligence. There are some amazing stories.
And yes, he was absolutely certain Noah would turn. We had some fear and it was hard to be at a distance, not to be there, when anything could happen. But it all worked out.
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Linda, thank you for writing with us on red Ravine. I read your whole post again as I was preparing to comment and I love the wholeness of it. And the structure of the post. I felt at peace the first time I read it. I feel at peace again.
Everything comes together emotionally, physically, spiritually — your poem, your process around writing poetry, the birth of a poem, the birth of a daughter and grandson. Beautiful.
I love reading about the birth of your own daughter, then your daughter birthing her son, your grandson. The continuity, as if something irreplaceable is being passed down, mother to mother. Those who came before us; those who pass everything on.
I like the way you describe your poem — This stunning vision persisted through post-partum gestation, until one day I sat on the pebbly beach of the Rio Grande, and wrote this poem on the back of a folded shopping list. — And then go on to talk about Zen and the koan.
These are some of my favorite lines –
Turn, turn, little turtle, nudges your father,
his strong hands circling your home;
airplanes crash into buildings, cities fall,
people leap and bombs are dropping, dropping.
Leaves flee the trees in a Mississippi breeze,
you’ve borne tornado warnings, still you
hold this space.
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Linda, I wanted to ask — did you live in the South for a while before coming out to New Mexico? How do you like New Mexico compared to Pennsylvania where you were born, and then, the South? I like to ask these questions because sense of place seems so important. Everyone seeks out where their ancestors are born — and where they are buried. And I’m curious about how place has played a role in your life and your poetry.
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What a lovely post and I especially like the way in which you tied the ultrasound to the Zen Koan, “What was your original face before you were born?”
I remember clearly getting the first ultrasound of my oldest child in 1981. It was a fuzzy speckled Polaroid photo. I did not want to know the sex and had not heard about the turtle/hamburger distinction. The photo showed the little being with fist to mouth, sucking a thumb. I could see it so clearly.
I remember, as a proud mama, showing this ultrasound photo to many people, showing where the little fist was. People were polite, but I could tell they humored me, as their eyes glazed over a little, not seeing at all what I described.
I’m at the other end of life now and I wonder, “What is your original face after you die?” Will it be the same face from before you were born … or a different one?
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Linda,
Your writing leaves me breathless…it is so beautiful, so full of brilliant imagery! “The Drs. with their knives sharpening their plans…” and “grandfather penetrates his healing thought… through the density of matter…to higher ground…with certainty.” That is so very spiritual, no wonder he does good healing work!
And the “Birthing the poem” is awesome. May I share that with my writing group? They would love and appreciate it so!
The photos are lovely, as well. As QM put it, left me with a feeling of peace.
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QM, thanks for the thoughtful comments and encouragement. We did live in the Piedmont of South Carolina, for a few years while R. went to chiropractic school.
I was surprised how much we liked it, the lush beauty, laid-back atmosphere and the friendliness of the people. I worked for a printing company doing paste-up/layout and was a part of the family. The school was a close community, nothing since can compare.
We had lived in Santa Fe previously, but when it came time to go back to New Mexico, it was Taos that got ahold of us, then we moved south to live on the Rio Grande.
After nearly 30 years, I feel like I am at home, though I always long for water. I do believe a sense of place comes into play in my writing, and that is where the southwest shines – the seasons and the sunlight, ever changing. Walking and watching, I don’t think I could tolerate the dark long winters and grey weeks of the northeast. Although sometimes I feel burnt to a cinder here.
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Just curious as to what prompted you to move away from Taos (where I am headed this afternoon — Taos Solar Festival).
breathepeace, I like your new question, the one about the face you’ll wear after you die.
I just finished a couple of days ago the book Beautiful Boy by David Sheff, about his son who becomes a meth addict. The book starts with such a clear picture of this beautiful boy, creative and bold. And throughout the book, as this son plunges into drug addiction, which starts young — by the times he’s 21, he’s completely strung out — the father reflects back on his child’s beautiful face and beautiful being. It was a powerful book, and this idea of a face, the face you wore before you were born, somehow reminds me of that father, searching for his son’s face.
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oliverowl, sounds like a great idea to share Birthing the Poem with your writing group. Hope you’ll let us know if your group has any other thoughts. I was drawn to that section of this post, too, about writing as process, especially this part:
Like human progeny, rarely do live poems manifest intact from the Source. As I age, few will endure. I don’t know how many might still be left in me, from seeds long dormant.
breathepeace, — I’m at the other end of life now and I wonder, “What is your original face after you die?” — Me, too.
ybonesy, I have a friend whose brother is reeling from an addiction. She is out East visiting him this weekend. It has consumed him and really put a strain on the family, especially her aging parents who are in their 80’s. This is a man who has come from a middle class family with every opportunity and advantage – yet he finds himself here. I imagine his parents are searching for their son’s original face, too. There is a kind of death of the Spirit that happens with alcohol and drug addiction. Heartbreaking.
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bp – What is your original face, your true face? Would you recognize yourself in some essential way? I don’t know, but the face I see now in the mirror often startles me, it looks like someone else, surely not me…
OO – I would be honored if you shared Birthing the Poem with a writing group. The amazing thing is this ongoing process, bubbling up and rippling out.
yb – You ask why we left Taos? That seems more like an essay than a comment on a comment… Taos was very intense, a challenge on every level. R’s first practice was a box-on-the-wall – pay what you can – 200 hippies a week. It was time for a change, with little kids, and the school situation was an issue…maybe we just wanted to get out of the mud. I love that mountain, it just blows everything away to look at it.
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Beautiful writing that really moved me, especially the poem……those ultrasounds are incredible; first time I saw my eldest son he was six weeks old, then again at eight weeks when we watched him dance, perfectly, I will never forget it……so glad he turned and I fully believe your husband had something to do with it.
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I love that mountain, it just blows everything away to look at it.
That it does! It is an intense place. I love getting my fix, and sometimes I wonder whether we could ever live there. Jim and I talk some about possibly moving there some day. I don’t know though. I kind of like where I am. A little more sleepy, oddly enough. Although you just can’t beat the weather.
Linda, I also wanted to thank you for being out latest guest. Like you, this post had so much depth to it. Again, thank you.
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Thank you, jo – it is quite incomprehensible that you could see your son dancing in there, to experience the wonder of it, like looking into another dimension.
Buzz says this about his work:
Healing Is
No Matter
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…and of course, thanks yb, and QM – for inviting me so graciously and allowing me to share something very intimate with you all. Your example, and that of all the contributing writers and readers, blazes the trail.
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Linda, thank you so much for writing with us. Like ybonesy, I am grateful for your presence here. And still get a sense of peace reading and viewing this post. The photography is wonderful, too.
And now I’m longing to sit under Taos Mountain again. I guess I’ll just have to settle for my photographs (for the time being). Perhaps we will all meet in Taos someday to write near the mountain.
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[…] here for the rest, and go here to look at that little […]
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[…] Linda Weissinger Lupowitz lives, works, and writes in Corrales, New Mexico. She has been walking in the bosque since 1982. You can see the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers Fire Restoration map and plan for the Corrales Bosque Preserve here. And you can read more of Linda’s writing on her blog, C. Little, no less, or on the red Ravine post The Face You Wore Before You Were Born. […]
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[…] The Face You Wore Before You Were Born by Linda Weissinger Lupowitz […]
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Your site is lovely!!! (in presentation and in content – Thank You). I am a fledgling blogger and would like to use an excerpt from this article on my ‘quotes’ page – which I have not yet posted (am preparing it this morning).
This is what I would like to post – with your permission:
The Monk Mayo asked this question of the Sixth Patriarch: “What is Zen?” … The Patriarch replied that, “when your mind is not dwelling on the dualism of good and evil, what is your original face before you were born?” …Zen master Dogen … said that in order to perceive reality we must “drop mind and body.” In other words, it is essential to drop all habits of thought and preconceptions in order to understand the truth. (excerpted from https://redravine.wordpress.com/2008/06/26/the-face-you-wore-before-you-were-born/)
I use this in the context of coming to know oneself, in such a way that one begins to use self/independent thought in civil/societal action.
Your article gives me wording to focus on the koan. In order that you might notice the focus of my entire blog, I plan this morning to post the quotes page – and will remove the above proposed quote if you ask me to.
Thank you in advance if you are able to say I may do this. (I appreciate the article is written by a guest writer and am not sure how to direct my request to the writer.)
MaggieAnn
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Hi MaggieAnn, thanks for the compliment and for requesting to use the quote. I’ll send a note to the author and ask her to comment with her response.
BTW, your link in the excerpt does not work because it includes the closed parenthesis in the reference. You might want to fix that before posting it.
Again, thanks, and looking forward to seeing your new blog. (Hopefully Linda will respond quickly, although I know she’s working today given that my husband went in this morning for a treatment.)
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Hi MaggieAnn, we heard back from Linda, the author of this Guest post, and she gave her permission to use the quote from her piece. Thanks for asking and for visiting red Ravine. Here is the link to link back to her post:
The Face You Wore Before You Were Born
https://redravine.wordpress.com/2008/06/26/the-face-you-wore-before-you-were-born/
Will look forward to checking out your blog!
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What did Noah have to say about this? I bet the face before he was born smiled…
A miraculous journey beautifully described.
Thank you! Write more!
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