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“If we are to recover the part of us that is most human, we must willingly put aside the parts of us that are not.”

Cloistered Away

Earlier this year we went over the evaluation results for my son with the doctor.

weltenwellen

Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase

apoemaday

Song for a Daughter

by Ursula K. Le Guin

Mother of my granddaughter, listen to my song: A mother can’t do right, a daughter can’t be wrong. I have no claim whatever on amnesty from you; nor will she forgive you for anything you do. So are we knit together by force of opposites, the daughter that unravels the skein the mother knits. One must be divided so that one be whole, and this is the duplicity alleged of woman’s soul. To be that heavy mother who weighs in every thing is to be the daughter whose footstep is the Spring. Granddaughter of my mother, listen to my song: Nothing you do will ever be right, nothing you do is wrong.

Kate Jenkins

Most things worth doing don't yield quick results. Patience requires us to bow to the muse within-whether what she seeks is a right society, an unshackled creativity, or any number of other good things. We hold tightly to our dreams while relaxing our grip on their timeline. To be truly patient is to fight and surrender simultaneously.

- Shannon K Evans, Rewilding Motherhood

“The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.”

- William Blake, from “Proverbs of Hell,” The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

“Wash the plate not because it is dirty nor because you are told to wash it, but because you love the person who will use it next.”

- Saint Teresa of Calcutta

On a trip to the grocery store one day, I had an epiphany about me, my son, and the meaning of life.

“It’s because, for so many people, our safest, sweetest, earliest memories are of nestling in our mother’s lap, in her rocking warmth, hearing her sing as we get milk-drunk and sleepy and burrow, heavy-eyed, into the crook of her soft arm. And if you knew that your mother’s journey was, intrinsically, a hero’s journey — if that was in any way an established narrative in our culture — you’d have to accept that this memory of womb-like safety, this foundation upon which so much of our identity is built, was often just an illusion. You’d have to realize that while you were blissed out on your mother’s lap, one of those epic battles, the kind that envelops heroes as they fight their way out of a ring of fire, was raging just above your head. No one wants to believe that in the moments you felt the most peaceful, the woman cradling you so softly was shielding you from a sword that she herself was holding.

Every mother you know is in this fight with herself. The sword that hangs over her is a sword of exhaustion, of frustration, of patience run dry, a sword of indignation at how little she feels like a human when she so often has to look and behave like an animal. Mostly, it is the sword of rage: the rage and shock of how completely she must annihilate herself to keep her child alive.”