The Pregnant Nun: A Story Within A Story
The lopsided stone sat on my bureau for almost two years. It was the last thing I saw before I surrendered to sleep and the first thing I saw as I greeted the morning. I circled the nondescript stone for months, sensing the sculpture within the stone stalking me. The name, The Pregnant Nun, shouted to me from the white alabaster stone weeks before I had a clue about her form.
Some days I would file for hours uncertain who or what would emerge from the stone. Eventually two curves that looked vaguely like mounds and gradually transformed into breasts faced me. The gigantic breasts reminded me of the stone sculptures of the ancient Paleolithic Goddesses.Creating art is one way I integrate unfinished personal business. It does not matter if the unresolved issues are connected to my recent lifetime or a past lifetime. When I allow my hands to be an extension of my heart, I connect with a larger perspective.
In July of last year, I brought her to my month-long artist retreat. I placed her carefully on a circular turn-style in my studio. She beckoned as I learned to co-create with clay in the morning. I returned to work with her in the afternoon. I figured out how to form a belly that bulged with pregnancy, but the proportions were wrong. The breasts were massive and the tummy was too small. Plus, the head was shaped like an alien.
I struggled with her head for weeks. It tilted the wrong way. It was too big. It resembled a cone more than a normal head. Each time I refined her head, I also had to adjust her swollen breasts and protruding belly. Then I realized that her spine was no longer in alignment with her new head.
I do not enjoy attending to details, whether in writing or creating. I fantasized about running away and floating in the nearby pond, inviting the sun to melt away my frustrations. In the end, I lopped her head off and was delighted when part of her back also separated. I chose to leave her upper back raw and unsanded.
My persistent inner critical voice chided, “How can you possibly think you can sculpt a nude woman’s pregnant body when you have never had an art lesson or an anatomy class? No matter how loud my self-doubting voice screamed, I always returned to the emerging Pregnant Nun. My soul would not permit me to abandon her or myself. I understood from a deep inner place that this piece held both freedom and healing for me.
I stood for hours in front of my bathroom mirror examining the contours and angles of my breasts and how they were attached to my body. I twisted and turned my body and tried to remember how my belly looked when I was pregnant. Later I joked with my friend, Ed, that I bet I was as fascinated with breasts as most men are. He quipped, “I don’t think so, Rosie.”
About two weeks into my retreat, I asked Squidge, my pottery teacher, to look at the imperfect, emerging pregnant nun. She picked up the stone, studied and caressed it from all sides, and said without judgment, “Hmmm, she has no arms. That is why she looks unbalanced.”
I was stunned. How could I have missed that? Then I almost gave up again, because I knew, unlike clay, I could not add arms to stone. In the midst of my frustration, my heart opened up. I realized the pregnant nun without arms was perfect. This unfinished woman could not reach out for support because she had no arms.
Spontaneously, I decided to relate to sculpting as my spiritual practice. I reminded myself to breath, file with awareness, let go of attachments, release blame and judgment, and be curious — without expecting anything. Each time I considered giving up, I replaced resignation with breath and filed deeper. At night, my dreams opened up and showed me how to how to look at the emerging woman from all directions before I picked up a file. I surrendered.
Sexuality has shadowed me this lifetime. I remember the past lifetime when I was the pregnant nun — the passion, devotion, excitement, soul searching, shame, and death. As a pregnant nun in the early 1200’s, I lived on the ancient island of Iona in the Inner Hebrides off the western coast of Scotland. I explored the separate calls of spirituality and sexuality and was murdered because my lover, a priest, was not able to reconcile the twin calls.
In April, she flew with me to New Mexico, my soul’s home. I knew my sculptor friend Jonna would remind how to round her too square belly. “File deeper,” she laughed, and told me to get rid of more stone. I breathed and said, “Oh, I get it: less is more.” We laughed. Then I centered myself in my belly and used my strong right arm to penetrate the stone. White dust covered my face and I continued to file. One hour flew by. The pregnant nun emerged in her final form.
I was aware that a two-year restoration project was close to completion. I took a breath and reminded myself to savor this precious moment. Sanding, sealing, and polishing were the final steps. I hesitated and reminded myself to savor each step. The endless blue sky of Santa Fe felt like a spacious container as I buffed and polished the pregnant nun.
I decided to create a solid place at the bottom of her body to peg her to a base in case I decided to mount her. However, I sensed that she desired to be held — not pegged.
Upon returning to Maine, I visited Squidge, my pottery teacher, whom I had not seen since last August. The sparkling pregnant nun sculpture came with me. I was eager for Squidge to see the completed woman. She examined her thoroughly in the sunlight, and complimented me about the beauty and the simplicity of the sculpture.
She whispered, “She is not complete until she is held in your hands,” as she caressed the polished stone.
“Yes, I replied softly, surprising myself, “I plan to use her as a speaking vessel in my workshops.” I surprised myself by my words and then I realized why I had not done the final act of pegging her to a pedestal. “She is my version of the Native American talking stick that is passed from person to person as they speak in a circle. She is a symbol of the deep feminine.”“Yes,” we both said in unison.
I have yearned to live in the sacredness of love my whole life. Being in a conscious, loving relationship is one of my goals. By bringing the pregnant nun into form, I have reconnected to my body, my sexuality, my sacredness and my wholeness. My gifts to the nun are freedom to choose, play, curiosity, and creativity.
Her gift to me is blessings of body and spirit. Together we heal.
