I planted or rather buried little M’s placenta a fortnight ago. It was a grey afternoon with drizzling rain. I buried it on the property I grew up on (my Dad still lives there), next to the old chicken coop, under a half dead apple tree.
Perhaps for some, this may seem overly sentimental or even a bit strange. For me it is symbolic, and intuitive; a ritual I imagine my maternal grandmother’s ancestors performing hundreds of years ago.
After little M was born, my placenta (little M’s really) was put in the freezer while I decided what I would do with it. As the post-natal-sleep-deprived haze began to wear off after the first month, I began researching things to do with my placenta. One such thing was placenta encapsulation, which is the process of process of cooking, dehydrating and placing the dried and ground placenta into capsules. It is best done within the first week,or ideally within the first day or two to get the full benefits.
By the time I got around to phoning someone to encapsulate little M’s placenta, it was a little late at almost three months postpartum. Since my recovery had been quick and easy (thank you prenatal fitness class), and my milk supply ample, it was only a small loss. Even before I began researching placenta encapsulation, I had already been thinking about burying his placenta.
Burying little M’s placenta coincided with a downrush of other events in my life. Circumstances unfortunately resulted in the whole process being somewhat hurried and not as I planned. Now as I reflect back, I am glad that it happened serendipitously when it did. If anything, it serves as a powerful marker for a particular juncture in my life. I am also thankful that I was able to bury it in a place that has much meaning for me. After all, is the place I once called home.