It’s a strange thing to find oneself called “mother” when one has lived decades child-free not just by choice but by design. Biologically, I am no mother, having no uterus, having never given birth, having never even been pregnant. Moreover, I’ve never wanted a mother identity. It was less of a “choice” and more of an “orientation.”
And yet, in my decades as a school teacher, and now a couple years into living with children, MOTHERING DOES OCCUR.
I am deeply confounded and confused by this turn of events. I have no idea what I am doing. It takes a tremendous amount of energy and labor (emotional, spiritual, intellectual and physical) to navigate the complexities not just of parenting, but parenting someone else’s children. Unless you’ve lived the stepmom life, you have no fucking idea.
Not to mention parenting someone else’s children in the midst of widespread climate fuckery + ecocide, end-stage capitalism, the rise of fascism and the collapse of empire. NBD.
I mean, this shit is no joke.
But if you watch my stories on Instagram it’s also funny as hell.
Emphasis on “hell” — J/K IT IS A VERY REWARDING EXPERIENCE.
It has certainly forced me to ask myself: What is being called of me? How can I show up more fully? What medicine can I bring into these relationships, and into this often maligned, erased, diminished and unspoken form of Mothering?
These questions and more I will grapple with as part of the Wild Soul Wellness three-month virtual conversation series WILD MOTHER, which begins August. 22nd. Assuming we all survive the eclipse, omg.
>> bit.ly/wildmother <<<