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...

In this moment, I can only see the things undone, The things not completed, or even started Those abandoned a bare scrap past intention, Because the argument, or the sick child, or the bottom that needs wiping or the phone call that I can't miss again or Mostly, the dragging fatigue Calls me away Photo by  Ricky Kharawala  on  Unsplash The things undone, they undo me The lawn needing mowing The weedy vines that are creeping with dexterity and speed across a growing circumference of the yard The dirty rug that needs washing The potato crisp crumbs mashed into the carpet that needs vacuuming The child who had a fever last night, who is running around naked and snotty, The dirty cut on a toe that needs cleaning The sheets that need changing and oh God, the washing, the dishes, the lunch boxes the child now crying because I lost my temper, and for a moment, my temper Made me lose connection with my heart. Photo by  Shrey ...

The Muse, it has been dormant for so long, slumbering within the dark and profound space of my womb. Now she stirs and awakens with eyes alight. With slender hands that betray her agility and strength, she pulls me down towards her. I have been opened; and once more the words, they flow- down through my crown, up from the womb, converging at my heart space and sitting there, growing in power for just a little while--  Until they spill, like fresh and energetic headwaters, out through my hands and flood my world. Photo by  Ahmed Saffu  on  Unsplash And here it is: this cycle's manifestation of the interaction between the Muse and I- the Mama Rising blog. I pray that this project takes breath and grows from the cellular upward, that it may become, with beneficence and light, a fertile, expanding thing. Dynamic, alive, alluring. I humbly ask for the divine light of creation to stream through me, for the support I need in this path, for rest an...

I spend a lot of times not being heard these days. Although that isn’t completely accurate- the incidents of my words spilling out to the vastness of space beyond my children’s attention, priorities and awareness are fleeting, of course. But hanging there, as they are, in space, divorced from me but unanchored in the sea of suspension that is the beyond my children’s hearing and acting; they become potent in a way that is not healthy. They begin to fester and rot and before I know it, as is the way with the silent and omnipresent microbial forces that coat everything in our world, infection sets deep. And thus those unheard words return to me. They have become heavy in their failure to be witnessed. They come running back to me, tear stained, red eyed, snotty all over, and demand my intention. “They didn’t listen!” They wail. “They don’t care!”. (This, of course, the voice of my wounded, wailing inner self combines in cacophany with my actual children’s own wailin...