Heart riff: Mumma's home

I returned to my Untamed manuscript today, the book I was writing 17 months ago when my mumma and pops died.The one that that became my refuge, my sanctuary through those early days when the pain felt like a tight clamp around a bruised and fragile heart. I returned to it because today is my mumma's birthday. It's also a week to the day since the Viking and I moved into our first pile o' bricks that we now own together. Emotions are high. Since being in the new house, I've been feeling not good enough, not worthy of this gorgeous pile o' bricks, of the love that Rich and I have and of the live that we're creating together. I've desperately been seeking my mumma's validation in this massive transition, and when I've not received it, I've looked for it in others - in the Viking's parents, in my friends, even in strangers when they come to the door - 'hi, what do you think of my new carpet?' I just want proof that I'm not fucking up, that I'm doing okay. Except no one can give me that. This coincides with what I am currently experiencing in this body. A time when it's expected by societal constructs that I 'should' and 'could' be a mumma - it's the now or never - I don't know if that's even possible in this body, and I'm not entirely sure if I'd want them if it was, and if I did, there's an underlying fear, that...well, I'd totally fuck it up. I am deeply charged by helping others to birth and become mummas - from the practicals of lady landscape-loving and fertility health and well-being, to birthing books, stories, creative projects and true callings - but since my mumma died, I've really been questionning how I step into the mumma phase of my own life and whether you need to actually make a person to do it.

france prayingThe Viking recently drove me to Chartres (yes, that's real from-the-heart LOVE) where I sat before the Black Madonna, one of the many incarnations o' the Great Mumma and I prayed, I prayed like my life depended on it, because in all honesty, in that moment, it did. In the days after SHE and I hung out, she whispered words that were weaved into books that I read, and conversations that I had and even Instagram feeds that I followed: be your own mother. I had no idea how to do that. I had no clue as to where to start with something like that. It was only last year, re-living my menarche experience, whilst in ceremony that I realised I'd not stepped into the role of woman, and that I was still playing out life as that 13 year old girl, now I was being called into the mother role? Jeez, give a girl a break. But SHE, the Great Mumma, doesn't give us anything we can't handle and today, when I'm feeling and sensing my mumma all around me, I get it. I really get it. I need to take that feisty, rebellious, totally vulnerable, broken girl who misses her 'rents and wants her mumma and pops to tell her that everything is okay and that she's doing really well, I need to wrap her in a soft, warm red blanket (because they're the very best kind) and love her. Love her hard. And keep loving her. As tears flow and shoulda, woulda, coulda's rise to the surface. As fears and anxiety bubble in the cauldron. As regrets and things that have been said play on loop. And still, keep loving her. Harder than before. Because when I love her and I keep on loving her, I love me and in that place of fierce, fierce unconditional love, mumma's home and outside validation is no longer required.