Geta Bratescu. Medea's Hypostases III. 1980, drawing with sewing machine on textile
July 11 is my birthday, but it is not the day I was born.
The day I was born I blackened my feet on gold sculpted carpet, heavy with coal dust. My gift: Art News and Grumbacher pastels.
The day I was born I felt death in the room, its big energy came to sweep away Mamaw's breath
I was born again and again at those altar calls, but took my first breath when I laid eyes on the Goddess
I was born through my mother's anger and vitriol towards me, how we made each other cry and hurt, and then how we loved.
I was born through a lover's hands and lips, where feeling flowed pure, shimmering; the first time I really made love.
I was born when lying on my back on a clear Canadian night and believed I could touch those stars if I held my hand gracefully high enough.
I was born in front of white, empty things: piano keys, canvas, paper.
I was born the four times I pushed out my babies in my own power. And now, it takes five minutes of mothering to gather handfuls of being-born.
I was born under another white thing: the heady blindness that comes from grief, which is so full of light you cannot bear its heat.
I was born each time I lost everything.
The day I was born was when I knew we loved each other.
I was born all those times you rejected me and I tasted my freedom and the unexpected liberation of the unwanted.
I was born all those times you hit me and called me names and pulled me into your contemptuous dark silences and I decided I would be kinder than that.
I was born when I lost you, when I knew you: uncovered, when I saw you: revealed, when you came to me: unhinged.
I was born today in rain and yoga class. I will be born tomorrow over dishes and a sewing machine.
There is no such thing as a birthday, or reborn.
There is only being born.