THE MOMENT OF BIRTH

Night puts us to bed and starvation lulls us to sleep. But before falling asleep, while we lie like the city silent under the chill vault of pure exhaustion, suddenly he comes out of us, having laid low all day, that starved, muddy, ragged dog, to scavenge for god-pieces.
-- Attila Joszef, from the prose poem "The Dog"


Dear Reader,
          I suppose I should hand out cigars, but in the excitement of bringing this baby into the world I forgot to buy them. Would you settle for a note? Good. Thanks.
          Not counting my own, I have been present for one labor and one birth --but not for the same child. As these things tend to happen, the labor came first. I believe it was in the Spring of 1991. The birth occurred more than a year later.
          Some friends I knew asked me to videotape the home birth of their first (and, as far as I know, only) child. I suggested that videotaping the events might reduce the child's experience of birth to the images on a TV screen -- that the external point of view would supplant the internal, cellular-level memory. The couple said that if I didn't do it then they would hire a stranger. So I did it.
          I remember a hazy, predawn drive across town, the crunch of gravel in the driveway, a light in the kitchen window. As I hauled my gear inside (video cameras were big in those days), the mother was pacing the house in a nightgown, clutching her belly, breathing hard. First shot. 
          Over the course of the next twenty hours, I shot the entire house. Cats, books, meals, friends, family, even the television set. I got the father's nervous smiles, the mother's pained grimaces. Her hand clutched blankets. Her feet dangled from the bed. The midwife furrowed her brow. A drama played itself out. Something went wrong. The chemistry between mother and midwife turned sour, then toxic. The midwife --apparently new to her profession -- lost confidence. The baby refused to come. Tensions rose. The mother screamed. The father made phone calls. Soon, the midwife was sent away and a more experienced woman arrived. This woman clearly knew what to do. Everyone breathed more easily. I got all my shots.
          And still the baby didn't come.
          Deep into the second night, a decision was made. We piled into cars and went to the hospital. The couple was taken through thick metal doors. Somewhere back there in the bowels of the hospital, a knife was used. I didn't get that shot. I handed over the videotape. My job was done. 
          A year or so later, I was at work. My sister called. My other sister was in labor at the hospital. I sent my love and went back to my job. Half an hour later, my body jerked like a fish on a line. I asked for permission to leave. My boss granted it. I sped across town in my car, reeled in by the line that tugged me, and arrived at the birthing center around noon. The receptionist said I was probably too late, but she led me down a hall. She went into a door. She came out and told me to go in but be quiet. I did. 
          The room was dark. I saw shadows of people huddled around a bed. My sister screamed. At the center of the room was a patch of light. My eyes focused. The baby's head emerged.
          What I saw was not recorded, but it is an image I will never forget. 
          In that moment, that instant, a shock wave from some utterly inexplicable, supremely powerful force blasted over me. Around me. Through me. I do not know how to describe it. I cannot know.
          That afternoon, as I held my beautiful niece in my hands, I told myself the shock wave must have been a force from The Other Side -- a momentary ripple as another world opened into this one.
          That still sounds right to me, even now.



          This birth -- the birth of this journal -- may not make such shock waves. It may not be the result of one world opening into another. And I can't speak for the authors whose fine and brilliant work appears here; but I feel safe in saying that we will make a few ripples of our own.
          The name of this journal does not refer to a particular god; nor does the term's origin in physics imply a rejection of the spiritual in favor of the scientific. (For an explanation of the god particle, check out Bob Arter's essay in this issue.) Rather, I hope, the name suggests a place, a moment, where the spiritual and the scientific meet -- an instant when both religion and science ask unanswerable questions. A mystery.
          The stories, poems and essays here in this issue and future issues will represent a broad range of styles, genres, perspectives and opinions. I'm not out to prove anything as an editor. There's no overriding thematic thrust to the work here, unless it's a tendency toward the highest quality. In short, The God Particle will be what we make of it; and you, the reader, are a crucial part of the "we" that do making. So, please, read. Respond. Let us know what you think. Tell us how these pages make you feel. Drop us a line to say why you're here, where you're going and with whom you're sharing these words. I, for one, look forward to hearing from you.
          And I look forward to the issues and the births to come.
          Thanks for joining us.

Best Wishes,
Eric Bosse
Editor



PS: Speaking of dreams, births, fathers, etc., I want to add a note of terrific thanks to my Dad. He stepped forward and offered his skills as a designer. His hard work and patience have made the realization of this dream possible. So, Dad, thank you.
          Also, a note of thanks to the fabulously talented writers who contribute their work to the journal, without pay. May good fortune rain down upon you. Thank you!