My savta, or grandmother, told me that every woman is a mother, regardless of whether she has kids or not.
As women, we are made up of Mother Fire, Mother Stardust, and Mother Earth. Everything we do is Mother. We speak the Mother tongue. When I show up for myself, I am Mother. When I show up for others, I am Mother. After a long day of battling with myself and I let myself collapse in my soft arms and whisper, “you’re still okay,” I am Mother. When I see injustice and growl and fight for that little girl in me and all the other little girls, “I am Mother, hear me roar.”
I am Moon Mother, shifting like the moods of the sea. Delighting in abundant scents engulfing me and frolicking in the Hope of it all. I am falling apart. Falling open. Falling up. As I transform into something richer more vibrant than yesterday’s being. I am Mother when I keep all the selves of me, welcoming them in. And when I can also give grace to the multitudes in other beings. Quietly knowing. Knowing what that’s like. To want to be a part of it and not sure if you ever really were. Because you’re a goddamn mother. They are all a part of YOU. YOU hold them all. The shady shadowy repressed needs, the billowy taking up space appropriateness, the noncommittal fairy dancing in the middle.
Because you know you are the cord that holds the fairy in you who is Magic, the lioness who hunts, the mama bear who protects, and the elements who birth new wonders and Delights at every moment encouraging us to time catch some of them and share with the sleepy others.
Because you are Mother. To be Woman is to be Mother. To feel the wet dewy juiciness swirling inside you that propels you to Creation of song and dance and life because YOU are life.
Wet or crumbly dirt is calling you or maybe you are calling to the potential rattling in your bones. Wake up wake up WAKE UP. Just soften, loosen your grip, I got you, you are gotten. Yes, we get to make up words and grammar too because there are no rules for the Woman Mama Fairy. You choose the color of the sky today — will it be a misty pinkish hue filled with doves prancing beneath your feet or will be it foresty wet overgrown grass day where wearing shoes are the once-in-a-pink-moon exception? Sometimes your belly will choose for you as bellies tend to do.
Apple crumble cake mixed with tomorrows longing and tea full of hope in a jaded sharp mug that’s uneven and uncomfortable to hold but you hold it anyway because there’s gold in those jagged lines and that’s what you do on some days; you hold the uncomfortable and make it warm and soft to maybe break open in your palms.
A blessing and wish to every woman today:
Happy Mother’s Day to you, Mama, who is all things, hard and soft, fire and stardust, and will fight for all good, and also, soften and lean in — lean toward the uncomfortable and let it crack you open on your hands and knees and ask and wonder and cry and grow and mother. Blessing you to hold your holy mother energy. The ability to nurture, love unconditionally, and be a deep well of body wisdom and grace. To yourself first and foremost and to your loved ones and all others you choose.
