happy mother's day to the world

"Science has shown all the follicles a woman will ever produce are already present in her body when she is in the womb. The spark that is you was born long before you came into the world. And if you quiet your blood, you can feel a flame that reach back even further. Inside every one of us is a long and often unsung history of women. Fire makers and clay shapers, priestesses and caretakers, those who walked long miles and withstood many centuries of silence. Those who kept the old songs alive." - Asia Suler




I come from a summer-line of women and a shadow-line too. Women who were quiet, although brave in their own admirable way - and women who got it wrong more than once. I can not trace either line back very far, because I didn't listen to those women who did the geneological work and wanted to tell me when I was too young to be interested. But I know there is a dream of Hebridean mists and a rumour of English power back there in the past-dark. And I know there were women who crossed the world for love.

Both of my immediate grandmothers gave me small, broken stories for a heritage, some of which turned out to be only their dreams. Oddly enough, I inherited one or two of those dreams, and now I wonder what other wishing and sorrowing flowed through the blood of my great-great-grandmothers to stir my own heart these days.




I also come from another matrilineal heritage, and if I'm honest I must say it has influenced me more than any human stories. There are hills in this world that rose out of meadows that once lay beneath the long dark sea. They are my grandmothers, and they sing to me of deep, luminous peace, and  upheaval, and settling into a heaviness that hums beneath the feet. There are forests which wrap their fingers around the buried stone and lift their leaves to coyote-spirited, ocean-coloured winds. They are my grandmothers, and they whisper tenacity, grief, community, to me. And there are dirt-scented shadows, love-lit skies, small birds, wet nights, hunchbacked old moons, cicadas, faceless watching things. They are my aunts.

They keep a long song alive, weaving it summer-sweet and shadow-wise with old, old voices and older, so much older silence, waiting for their human children to come home to the world.



6 comments:

  1. Happy mother’s day, beautiful soul. xo

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  2. aye, and aye, and aye. happy mother's day to all the mothers, bone and stone...

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  3. Beautiful. Happy Mother's Day to you. xoxo

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  4. sometimes i forget to mention how much i enjoy your photos
    for your words
    wrap me in my magic and i am spell bound.
    i also was moved by the top quote you shared.

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