I am no longer content with the idea of motherhood as martyrdom. The long suffering, self-sacrificing patience of Hallmark cards. How did the image of a powerful earth goddess slowly become drained of her agency and fade into secretly nursing our children in hidden corners and willingly accepting solitary confinement in our own home?
Oh, fickle myths and fairytales sunk deep in the skin, deeper than a tattoo because one does not see their mark etched deep in the soul. I lay myself bare before you, mother of all. Is this what you intended? For women for generations, centuries to be subtly converted, cowed and limited by the mark of motherhood then wear it like a badge of honor?
I want to experience motherhood as a celebration of life! A freedom. Artwork of the deepest sort. Creation set free in the world to dance its own dance and in turn surprise the very artist by its moves. Why should we stop living to give life? It makes no sense.
No. I want to explode like fireworks in the sky! I want to shower my love down upon my children while expressing color and vivacity, not docility and confinement. I want to break the skyline so they know they can soar even higher! That it is ok to wander the earth unconfined. To blaze their own path.
And there in the wilderness I will meet them. There in the storm and bent branch and whispering wind. I will surround them with knowing wings. Oh, owl of my dreams, guide me. So I can in turn guide them. Not out of a sense of duty, but from an overflowing of joy. May I initiate them into a world of wonder and awe. Teach them to surrender to their deepest calling not the easiest answer. Live their dream, not their fear.