Mama Rising

I am wide awake on a deeply embodied level. The expansiveness and potentiality of a brand new cycle of life is written along my skin. Inside, my children sleep, worn out and brimful after a night of running through the dark, making new friends and strengthening old friendships. How do I describe who I am at this moment? A mother, a woman in love with my home. Living a blessed life. Starting to warily stalk around the edges of my middle age years, but not yet fully reconciled with this. A wife, a daughter. A dreamer who has strangled her own breath for two decades. My own saviour. A student of the Mysteries. Ego. Obese. Stretched. Open. Ravenously hungry for the next steps on my path of creativity, directed outwards once more after years of pouring it into my mothering. Walking with fragility. Immersed in this landscape. The night until now has been raucous; the convergence of voice and guitar and resourcefully created percussion from spoons and hands and bo...

This post is brought to you by school holiday induced, post-vomiting bug reflections... Why do the children's arguments and dynamics feel like so much hard work for me? Most often, the conflicts they have- for example, this morning, whether cows get nits or not- I don't have a particular investment in. And, short of the effects on their connection with each other, I don't have an investment in the outcome of the conflict. It either doesn't matter to me, or the level of passionate intensity they feel for the issue is much higher than I have. (Do cows get nits? Hit me up in the comments if you know, because it would be nice to solve one problem today). So it's not- generally- the content that is a trigger for me. At least not today, for the internal dynamic I am feeling. And dynamic it is, because it is a mirror of the tension that is birthed in me in the conflict with each other. It's an empathetic but unprocessed manifestation of their 'stuf...

Part One // Part Three Returning to Centre If the medina is an assault on the senses, then at least it isn’t without cognisance of it’s effects. The city provides balm for it’s own salty wounds. The doors here are of a heaviness (and beauty) unheard of in our culture. Once the door is mastered- sometimes they need a special shove or a particular key jiggle, and those grand old timber and metal sentients close behind us, it’s a whole different environment. In so many ways. The architecture, mindfully refined over centuries, is the catalyst for the balm. Just inside those thick ancient walls, and due to the structure of the building around a central courtyard and often a maze like path to the courtyard similar to the medina as a whole, the sudden reduction in noise and heat is amazing. Walking into a riad is like being bathed by gentle saltwater waves of coolness and sensory reduction. There might be the distant sound of children playing, or the hum of a scooter (...

Part Two/ / Part Three Sometimes, what is possible and what is realistic slip into a pocket of dreaming time, and you find yourself doing things you never thought possible. I have recently returned from an eighteen day journey to Morocco, comprising a few nights in Marrakech, a two day journey out to the Sahara Desert via the Dades Valley and Todra Gorge, two nights in a luxury desert camp, and a few more nights in Marrakech. I was taking part in Anni Daulter’s ‘Travelling Sisters Retreat’ as part of her Sacred Living Movement, and I had two or three days of independent travel each side of the retreat, as well as a Sacred Ayurveda course run by Atourina Charles. As I ground back into life here in this little valley I call home, I am left with impressions- the way this amazing country entered me through my senses, through my heart, through an embodiment both vulnerable and brave. I will dream of those lands forever. Arrivals My first vie...

Being born of blood. This is our molecular foundation. It is the basic building block of our physicality, the container for our DNA, and also the first, smallest part of the canvas on which that DNA becomes manifest. Photo by  Matteo Vistocco  on  Unsplash Blood is our first home: when the newly awakened and enlivened union of pure forms of Divine Masculine and Divine Feminine come together, that particle falls into a soft bed of blood, not yet human, but of human, of blood. That form, evolving and catalysing, nests within blood and is then fed, again by blood. Blood as the vessel and blood as the river through which all requirements may be brought. To life. Into love. Photo by  Joel Filipe  on  Unsplash Where is the point where we become repulsed by this symbol of life, embodied? Is in in the medicalisation of pregnancy, where through antenatal testing, blood becomes a readable formula for all that may go wrong (and even that, the...