Love Song of a Flower Child
Mary Patricia Anthony
This is a riveting story of redemption in which the author describes her "lost" years as a hippie in Berkeley, and then as a single mother of two children living in a shack on a mountain top in Big Sur where Jesus finds her at the brink of suicide and rescues her from fantasy and hopelessness.

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book excerpt

A rainstorm was brewing as we arrived home with all our goods. We put things away, and made a fire in the stove against the chill. Kelly came home soon after, and we talked about what to do when the baby came. I had prepared a clean sheet to put on the couch, and told her to be ready with blankets, towels, and hot water. She too had never been at a home birth and was understandably a little nervous, and I forgot to tell her about the doctor’s dream. Andy settled down on the floor in his sleeping bag. Aimée and I climbed up to the loft went to sleep. A few hours later a small rush of warm water awakened me. My labor had begun, and I quietly lit the kerosene lamp. The cabin was dark as everyone slept. I reached for The Prophet and began reading and silently praying for the child about to be born. The pains became more intense. I called down softly to Andy, and told him it was time to get the doctor. He left swiftly, and drove like a madman fi fteen miles in a heavy rainstorm, past mudslides to reach Esalen. It was a little after three a.m., and still dark. I climbed down from the loft and carefully carried the lamp over to the table. Kelly awoke and helped me stoke the fi re. I wanted to eat a healthy breakfast, so I prepared liver and onions. She laughed at my choice but knew I needed strength. So we ate together, and Aimée came down to join us, and was excited to hear the news. Soon, I couldn’t stand up any longer, and my breathing became more intense. I motioned to Kelly to get the couch ready for me, and I lay down. I could hardly speak at that point. She frantically asked me what she could do to ease the pain. I placed her hand on the small of my back, and asked her to massage it. The earth moved away from me, and I labored in an oceanic kind of consciousness, where waves began to overwhelm me. I didn’t see the door of the cabin fl y open or the doctor rush in. He called out to me, dropped his bag on the fl oor and put on his gloves. The baby was presenting breech, and he saw her little legs dangle from me. He rushed over and felt for the cord around her neck. He gently pushed it away, and helped ease the baby out. I saw a little round face with bright blue eyes shining up at me, and I called out her name, Lucy! Aimée held the lantern as her sister was being born. It was January 14, 1970, and dawn was just about to break open the sky. I watched the pale blue light turn into a golden shade through the window, shimmering on rocks and trees around us. I wept with joy and gratitude for the amazing mercy of her birth. Andy watched reverently from the shadows. Surely, Lucia’s arrival had been noted in heaven, and protected here on earth. Aimée thought another child was coming when she saw the placenta leaving my body and happily announced, “Mommy, here’s another one!” We were glad it wasn’t true. Kelly asked me what to do with it, and we decided to bury it in the garden. The doctor cut the cord, and Lucy was ready to be diapered and wrapped up tightly for me to finally hold. Kelly helped me to clean myself as the doctor watched in fascination. He was thrilled to have been a part of this miracle, but was concerned that I might need stitches. I remember trying to stand up, even though I felt faint after the blood loss. Still I insisted on trying, after putting some heavy pads into clean panties Kelly had given me. The act of giving birth supersedes every other reality and removes all the normal barriers of modesty. In a daze of wonder and joy, I picked up a fi ve-pound jar of honey I had bought for us to share as gifts. I wasn’t able to hold it, and it dropped, spilling the mass of honey all over the fl oor. Andy valiantly salvaged as much as he could, carefully separating the pieces of broken glass from the ooze, put it into a smaller jar, and offered it as a thank you to the doctor. He silently accepted it. Soon Aimée, little Lucy and I were bundled into Andy’s car and headed for town. We dropped the doctor and Kelly off at Esalen with the latest headline story to tell. It rapidly rolled down the Big Sur pipeline, punctuated with many exclamation points. The miraculous tale of Lucia’s birth soon found a home in many a wondering heart. Our reception in town was one of mixed reactions. Dr. Rydell was so angry with me at fi rst for ignoring his counsel that he wouldn’t see me. A young British doctor named Whitworth took pity on us and examined Lucy for me, pronouncing her normal and healthy. He then spoke to Dr. Rydell and convinced him that I needed medical attention. Soon I was in his offi ce, receiving the stitches I needed. He even asked me how the birth went. His demeanor was politely aloof, but was still obviously uncomfortable having to treat a hippie mother who had been a very noncompliant patient. He probably disliked everything I represented: an independent spirit, a complete disregard for normal conventions, and a naive trust in Mother Nature. But he was not alone. At that time home births were not welcome in the medical community. And certainly, the social mores of Monterey and Carmel were perched far above the fray of countercultural ideas.