The Birthing Tree tells the story of Aliet Paul, a Mi’kmaw woman, and explores the tension between traditional Indigenous birthing practices and modern medicine. I finished the book in tears, thinking about my own four birth experiences.
I once read that Deepak Chopra believed modern medicine often ignores the mind and the power of awareness, underestimates the body’s natural wisdom, and focuses too heavily on the physical. His words came back to me as I read The Birthing Tree, a book that explores the spiritual side of childbirth.
The brightly lit, noisy rooms of modern hospitals hardly seem conducive to creating a peaceful atmosphere for a mother and her baby. In the book, a laboring mother is given tea to sustain her energy and support her emotions. In many hospitals, by contrast, a woman in labor may be offered little more than ice chips. The difference reflects two very different approaches to childbirth: one that focuses primarily on the physical process and another that honors the emotional and spiritual experience as well.
The telling of a birth story is also important in this book. Birth is more than a medical event; it is a deeply personal experience that becomes part of a woman’s story as a mother. Medication and medical interventions can sometimes leave a mother feeling disconnected from that experience, although for many women, medication is both necessary and welcome. Every birth is different, and every woman’s story deserves to be honored.
I gave birth for the first time in 1975. I was only nineteen and petite in frame. I read every book I could get my hands on and diligently practiced my Lamaze breathing. I wanted to be prepared for the birth of my baby, although I could only imagine what the experience would be like.
My baby was overdue, so my doctor ordered an induction using Pitocin. After two hours on the medication, the dosage was increased to intensify my contractions. Four minute contractions are not for the faint of heart, and I gladly accepted Demerol to relieve the pain. Unfortunately, the relief was short-lived. The medication put me to sleep for a few minutes, but when I awoke and the pain returned, I found it nearly impossible to regain my breathing rhythm and use the techniques I had practiced so diligently.
Thankfully, labor was relatively quick for a first birth. Seven hours later, I delivered my biggest baby, a boy weighing eight pounds and one ounce.
My second birth took place at an Army medical center in Denver. This time, there was no induction and no Demerol. My baby girl arrived in a delivery room under the same bright lights as my first baby. Labor lasted just five hours, from the time my water broke until she was born. Postpartum care included morning calisthenics and healthy, nourishing meals. After forty-eight hours, I left the hospital wearing my pre-pregnancy jeans. It seems remarkable now to think of how quickly I was expected to resume normal life.
By my third pregnancy, I had begun exploring alternative approaches to childbirth. It was 1979, and the Bradley Method was popular. I joined a pregnancy exercise class at the downtown San Diego YWCA, where we practiced yoga and stretching. I was becoming more intentional about preparing not only my body but also my mind for birth.
Labor lasted just four hours at a birthing center in La Jolla. A few short hours after my second son was born, we were home. The experience felt very different from my hospital births. There was no lengthy stay, no hospital routine to follow, and no need to adjust to unfamiliar surroundings. We could simply return to our own home with our new baby.
By 1985, I was living in Hawaii and had found a nurse-midwife to attend my fourth birth at home. Labor was incredibly fast, lasting around two hours. I gave birth in my own bed, wearing my own pajamas and surrounded by family. There was no rush to move to a hospital, no bright delivery-room lights, and no unfamiliar faces. I was in my own space, with the people I loved.
The most extraordinary moment came when my five-year-old son became the first person to hold his newborn baby sister. That image has stayed with me: a little boy meeting his sister for the first time, right there in our home, becoming part of her birth story from the very beginning.
Four births, four different experiences, and four stories I carry with me. Each one taught me something about childbirth, about myself, and about the ways we welcome a new life into the world.
Reading The Birthing Tree reminded me that birth is not simply a medical event to be managed. It is a passage, a transformation, and the beginning of a relationship. Modern medicine has an essential place in protecting mothers and babies, but there is also something to be said for honoring a woman’s instincts, her emotions, her surroundings, and the people she chooses to have beside her.
Looking back, my journey from a nineteen-year-old relying on books and Lamaze breathing to a mother giving birth at home in Hawaii reflects a gradual change in my understanding of childbirth. With each baby, I found a different way to welcome a new life. My final birth, in the familiar comfort of my own bed, surrounded by family, brought me closest to the intimate and deeply personal experience described in The Birthing Tree.
I finished the book in tears because it brought me back to those four beginnings. Each birth was different, but all four remain woven into the story of who I am as a mother.
One Response
Never having experienced pregnancy or personal child birth, these two sentences and their four stories are so representative of the different possibilities. I was lucky enough to attend the birthing of a friend’s baby. And yes, it was noisy, too brightly lighted, the baby removed too quickly to be “cleaned up” and eyes scrubbed to mighty squalls under even brighter lights. It seemed so invasive. Her mother watching intently until her daughter was finally placed on her chest.
“Four births, four different experiences, and four stories I carry with me. Each one taught me something about childbirth, about myself, and about the ways we welcome a new life into the world.”
I know which one I would have chosen.
Thank you, Katherine Emery!