This is Her.


I have tears in my eyes as snow flakes swirl outside my window. Wind blows wisps of white in circles of stark beauty. It is the month of May and Mother’s Day weekend falls amid winter’s welcome.

Sedona-Grace is outside bundled to the hilt.

She sails past the front of our home on a hot pink scooter.

Morning started first with an adventure to find what kind of animal left footprints deep in snow. My little explorer then transitioned into faster movement with the aid of a side-kick — wheels maneuvering through mixtures of slush and mud.

She is undeterred.

I glance up every now and then to see her push her little body forward – propelled by music sung from the top of her lungs. I feel emotion rise further as Sedona-Grace perseveres in elements leaving most of us cozy — inside.

Not this one.

Not living proof of my own scarred and haunted womb.


Like a comet shooting towards the endless atmospheric universe, she trail blazes upward and I’ll be lucky if I can grasp the tail end of her glorious effort.


This is the fearless, limitless Sacred Feminine inherent within a vibrant, joyful Soul.

I remember Her, too.

As a little girl, I used to ride my purple bicycle and explore the neighborhood streets near home. I felt both freedom and curiosity about life beyond confining restrictions of home, rules silently stifling spirit.

Somehow, at some point, this part of my Soul fell quiet – retrieved in small moments gathered up from tears falling.

The reclamation of ourselves is no small feat.

And as I watch my own daughter unfold, I wonder if I can swallow past a deep ache.

She will face so many (more) challenges and though I can access ferocious protection — it won’t be enough. She will be further exposed to events I cannot control – events which may carve their own scars across a chest of Innocence.

How often I hold her in my arms – rocking her back and forth like she’s still no more than a few minutes old. I cover her head, face, neck and arms with kisses upon kisses. As if these imprints can protect all I cannot.

A candle nearby flickers. My coffee grows cold as minutes pass. I contemplate sentiments of Mother’s Day from a vantage point new to me – also.

For many, many years I chased Maternal need, longing and reparation. I could not conceive of mothering myself. Necessary, yes. Capable? Never quite sure.

Until now.

She awoke amid molten lava rising within –  from a piercing eruption I thought would destroy every piece of life held dear. How wrong I was. Although the burning lasted, and lasted, and lasted – it did not annihilate.

In the center of layered ashes, a golden heart gleamed. My own maternal, feminine, discerning knowing formed in the shape of Love eternal. I picked up this unexpected manifestation and held it close to my chest.


Dearest daughters, there is a home within no matter life’s detours and it expands outward in wildly beautiful trajectories.


And in the reclamation, I invite savoring of awareness to all the ways our/your woman/ness includes maternal gifting not only to your own heart, but the hearts of those around.

Uninhibited by any pandemic, the Great Mother, reaches down, out, and through into any receptive spirit.

More than ever – She soothes and comforts those who might weep on a day when others can feel the warmth of their children.

More than ever – She reveals our ability to inspire, connect and encourage despite the isolation and disruption of life as we ‘knew it.’

More than ever – She brings awareness to beauty while holding any type of hidden heartache.

More than ever – She lights up any space and inhabits it with Grace.

This is Her.

And She is here…here…here.



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