January 23 is the due date of both my daughters.
In their place of birth, it’s a time when stultifying heat ends with storm. Flashfloods sluice through frangipani and lawnclippping slurry. Mangoes hang heavy like swollen uteri. Fat maggots coat the wheelie bins. Heavy. Ripe. Engorged. Pregnant. The tipping point between expansion and contraction.
At dawn, I meditated on all of this by the birthing pool behind my house. Surrounded by salubrious green. Everything the opposite of antiseptic without ever tipping into sepsis. What a cheek!
My daughters were born into this climate of ‘too-muchedness’.
The Italians and musicians call it ‘troppo’.
The pain of labour (troppo) acting as a humility-recalibrator in preparation for motherhood. My enormous pink pupae (troppo) benisons which felt too-good to be true.
I love this time of year. January 23 will always be my quiet little pagan celebration of too-muchedness. A time to steel myself for the upcoming birthday celebrations, which without hyperbole, really are way too much.