Still waiting…

But the signs are saying a new life will be arriving here within the next 24 hours…

Thank you all for your warm wishes.


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This entry was posted in 'tis a gift to be simple, babies, birth, children, collaboration, faith, home birth, light, love, pregnancy. Bookmark the permalink.

19 Responses to Still waiting…

  1. johemmant says:

    Keeping everything crossed for a great labour. Give Naomi my best, hugs to you and Mr B.

  2. watermaid says:

    Hoping that by the time you read this you will have some news. Just to let you know that I am still working on your ‘Venice’ painting.

  3. rantingraj says:

    congratulations!! :-)

  4. rick mobbs says:

    Thanks for the sweet thoughts. Naomi’s labor tapered off so I am going in to work… labor, work, labor, work… hers is the harder work

    But it will happen naturally, won’t it, all you moms out there? I have to keep her from hopping up and down to get things going. I still expect to have news for you within these 24 hours!

  5. marlowe44 says:

    Goodness gracious, I saw the sliver of the crescent moon this morning, and I realized that the great moment will become even greater as your astral cruiser buzzes about looking for the right moment, of wind and current and temp, to descend, to make a landing, and make contact as the latest Mobbs.

    Your painting [God,you are prolific, sir! Do you whip one out in an all-night frenzy?] is so Rickitikki, so wonderful; with the watching, watching, gazing, and waiting, with the great spirit guide hovering, and the daughter already chosing her features and her attire, with giraffe, Teddy, and even the nose of lion, waiting softly and lovingly in her room, in her crib, stuffed warmly in the corner on her pink blanket, waiting, waiting, as Naomi waits, as does Mr. B and the Rickster, and yes, even us out here who more than wish you and yours well; beyond well—the best!

    Glenn

  6. marlowe44 says:

    Rick:

    I got into your archives and reworked some of your fabulous prose. It came out like this; great stuff, sir.

    Dreamtime

    I asked the man
    who stood beside the child
    and held her hand,
    what he called her.

    Both of them were muffled
    in canvas clothing;
    rough,
    shapeless clothing worn
    to soft and muted earth tones.

    He seemed to be wearing
    what had been
    a military uniform;
    one fit to blend him
    into a summer forest
    in a temperate zone.

    And temperate
    and mild
    he had become,
    it seemed to me,
    even as the uniform
    he wore
    had lost its strength
    of color,
    so that he now
    stood out
    like a pillar
    in this winter forest,
    among these bare trees.

    I wondered if
    there had been something
    of that mildness
    in him
    all along,
    even in the days
    of carrying a rifle
    up and down the mountains.

    “I call her,
    Found along the long march home,
    with winter in her eyes,”
    he answered.

    Somehow I knew
    that neither of them
    sensed a threat
    in me.
    I knelt
    and took the girl’s hand,
    her left hand,
    and held it between mine.
    Her hand was cold,
    so cold!

    “Do you want to go home?” I asked her.

    She was small,
    barely half his size,
    if that.
    She was bundled
    in scraps of canvas
    rudely sewn together
    with bits of string
    and soft wire.
    She wore a rope,
    worn and silky,
    as a tie around her waist.
    A hat
    made of bird wings
    and moss
    covered her head
    and trailed down her neck.

    I looked into her eyes
    and immediately wished
    I had not.
    I have never seen such eyes!
    The crystal clear cornea
    was a liquid skin
    stretched across a place
    where weight meant
    nothing,
    time meant nothing;
    and the something
    that was there
    was as far away
    as the moon.
    In her eyes floated everything –
    earth, moon, trees,
    even this man beside her,
    and me.

    She turned her head
    slightly
    to look at her friend.
    As she shifted her gaze,
    snow flurries rose
    from the bottoms
    of her eyes
    the same way they do
    inside a glass sphere
    containing a winter scene.
    I could see
    the snow drifting
    in liquid suspension
    and I wondered if perhaps
    I had stumbled upon
    the spirit of winter.

    “Sweetheart,” I said to her
    and she shifted her eyes
    back to me.
    “Are you cold?”

    She shook her head.

    “Are you warm?”

    Again she shook her head.

    I released her hand
    and it rested
    in the air
    for a moment
    before she raised it
    to the man
    who had named her,
    Found.

    There was a spot of color
    in her palm
    and he cradled her hand
    in his own
    and began to rub
    the color in.
    A blush of rose appeared
    and spread to her limbs,
    her face,
    her cheeks
    and the silent woods
    echoed
    with the sound
    of a beating heart
    coming back to life.
    Her tears came then
    and spilled from her eyes,
    instead of into them.
    I was mesmerized.
    I don’t know how long
    he rubbed that spot
    of color in her palm,
    or how long she wept.

    The man thanked me
    and said
    he would take her home
    now.
    She was sobbing
    and clutching at his coat.
    He lifted her
    into his arms
    and she threw hers
    around his neck.
    Her tears darkened the collar
    of his old, worn overcoat.

    He adjusted her weight
    and as he was turning
    to go back up the mountain
    in search
    of the road home,
    he saw me staring
    at my hand
    in disbelief.

    “Don’t worry,” he said.
    “It’s a gift.”

    Rick Mobbs 2008

  7. Lakota says:

    Auntie Kota checking in…. blowing you kisses that i hope reach the new babe.

  8. johemmant says:

    Tapered off……..I found walking made me start, but who knows if I was going to anyway………I heard the sex thing too, but frankly I was so bloody huge by the end of both my pregnancies that no way that was happening. Relaxing, that’s the trick…….I’m sending those labour vibes, Naomi, lots and lots of luck!

  9. annieepoetry says:

    The earthquakes creates new life -so it is with a woman
    when the rubber band snaps -there life unfolds the blood of generations and cleans the canvas for another hero of color and the lung breaks the world and all its time game, and laughs so hard
    the living bow back and let the light remake the story -one more time again the golden peace is named a child and mercy is remembered.

  10. marlowe44 says:

    Rick, yeah, I know, if you had wanted to write “long” poems, you would have done so–but I tell you your archives are a gold mine of tremendous prose, rife with poetry; like Naomi is with child. Here is another of your nuggests I have unearthed and gently tweaked.

    Glenn

    Simple Truths

    I’m here
    to find the simple truths
    that I knew
    as a child.

    The dogs make a game
    of me,
    the cats curl
    and sleep
    upon my body.
    The daffodils await
    the rising of the sun.
    They draw their color
    from the world
    arriving.
    The world I watch
    now
    takes its color
    from the setting moon.

    These February trees
    excite me.
    I crave
    their dark and frozen zig-zags,
    the hardened lightning strokes
    of trunk, leader,
    limb and branch.
    They pierce the moon,
    seem to snare it,
    over-lace it,
    hold it fast –
    but look again
    and the moon has moved.
    The bare trees darken further
    at the rising of the sun.
    My hands know
    this simple way
    of waving and releasing,
    too,
    but too often I want
    to hold onto
    the passing things.
    What is this restlessness?

    A candle burns inside
    the house.
    It represents things
    I cannot name.
    The spaces in the weaving,
    the colors I have yet
    to see.
    It also speaks to me
    of the way that fear
    takes loving hands
    and turns them
    into weapons.
    The mysteries of anger,
    joy and sorrow,
    love.

    Here comes the sun.
    A mockingbird screams.
    A shaking leaf transforms
    into a mourning dove;
    an explosion of flight.
    The river below
    has the look of ice,
    spilled from the dawn
    and frozen.

    And what of intentions?
    Do they spill from the sun,
    from the moon;
    do they rise out
    of the wide space
    in between?
    Do we find them,
    recognize them,
    or create them?
    I need gloves;
    I type without them.
    I need money;
    I work.
    I need love;
    I share it
    where I can.

    Every tree, bush, stone, dog, person,
    is a mystery deeper
    then I can fathom.
    All the particles of being
    dance
    to a sound
    the whole
    makes.

    I am only a moving part
    of the dancing machine.
    Oil me,
    I am squeaking.
    I try
    and tune myself
    and listen.
    I try
    to catch the rhythm
    and move
    deliberately,
    in keeping with the pace
    and pulse
    and measure
    of the music that moves
    through me.

    I think more of my ancestors,
    I say,
    “I love you”,
    more often.
    I look differently
    at my mother,
    my father,
    my son.
    My friends are intriguing,
    strange, mysterious
    and enchanting.

    My hands absorb
    and hold
    the sunshine.
    I feel it
    circulating.
    The moon makes me turgid.
    It rocks me.
    In the rise and fall
    I see
    the flotsam and jetsam
    of my life.

    Wreckage and raw material
    are the gifts
    of the currents and tides.
    We draw beauty in
    with our eyes,
    and our senses.
    We find it
    and recognize it.
    We hold it up
    and name it,
    call it our own.
    We set it down
    and wonder
    where we left it.

    There is beauty
    in hatred,
    love, grief, and war.
    In the way the morning comes,
    the people go.
    Fear and cruelty
    are passing.
    Love carries
    and bears up
    under it all.

    We all know this.
    Our stories will be
    spun out,
    and all our stories,
    all that we have ever known
    and done
    will be recycled.
    No other thing
    makes sense.

    Rick Mobbs January 2008

  11. angryballerina says:

    BABY BABY BABY!!!!!

    YAYYYY!

    A BABY!

    Where is it!???!??! Tell it to come out NOW!!!

    Wait, those things don’t respond to commands do they……..

  12. nande says:

    To you, Naomi, Broadus and the new one I send many well wishes, merry thoughts, smiles and peace.

    N

  13. Heather says:

    I feel your pain Naomi! Those days I was overdue were the longest of my life. I tried every old wives tale to get that boy to come out, but the only thing that worked was waiting- and he was certainly worth the wait! I am sending love and good thoughts your way.

  14. marlowe44 says:

    Annieepoetry, your comment rocks! It is poetic, and it scans like a poem hidden, like the way Rick writes. And the sentiment is grand, and heartfelt, and spiritual.

    Glenn

    P.S.: the 24 hours is up, and possibly something has occured but the Rickster is way too busy to inform us of the results yet. If not, then we will go with Heather’s assessment. The child has its own agenda, but it will be worth the wait.

  15. marlowe44 says:

    Hey, here is another poem dredged up from the archives, hot and disturbing, ready to serve to the Mobbs mob:

    so this is recovery, you claim (unfinished business)

    So this is recovery,
    you claim
    you found something new
    today
    to name
    but all I hear is
    birds, birds, birds.

    Last week’s New York Times
    sits
    still unopened.
    You were interested,
    you said.
    The schizophrenics
    you have known
    all led front page lives.
    The one
    or two
    you tried to reach
    succumbed
    to misery,
    or death,
    or sleep.

    TEACH ME DEATH
    you say
    they dreamed,
    yet
    you dreamed of fish.
    Now it’s birds.
    Birds, birds, birds.
    All I ever hear is birds.

    Ain’t
    you got no sense?
    Sometimes Frankie
    I think
    the Devil got you.
    I think you think
    too much
    or not at all.

    How come
    Frankie
    all this talk
    of names?
    EVERYTHING HAS DONE BEEN NAMED
    already, Frankie.
    We both know that,
    except these damn
    birds
    your house is full of.
    It ain’t enough
    to name them
    Zimri
    as a bunch
    like that.
    How they tell themselves apart?
    That’s how
    schizophrenics get their start,
    end up calling theirselves
    us.
    How you think
    that feel,
    a whole damn flock
    within one skull
    and furthermore,
    Frankie?

    Rick Mobbs January 2008

  16. Tina Trivett says:

    I saw a double rainbow yesterday…a good omen. Your daughter is probably already nestled in your arms. :)

  17. Jane says:

    Has she come?

  18. johemmant says:

    Any news? I hope she/he is here…….Thinking of you all, especially you Naomi, you’ve got the hard work to do *grin*.

  19. nanda says:

    Rick, Fernanda’s Bday was the 30th, can you imagine your new daughter being born the same day? This is too much.

    Anyway, she will be very much like Fernandita, and just as lucky to have you guys as parents.

    It took me 52 hours of labor to deliver, so tell Naomi to hang in there!

    Love to all of you, keep you in my prayers.

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