Nina's Nib

 

In exploring the Bach Flower Essence Chicory, this reflection on motherhood surfaced…

She lies there, under the surface of the Earth. As old as life itself. Providing the exact right conditions for growth, to giving freely, loving from that place where love continuously flows. Abundance. No judgement. No expectation. That is her nature, Motherhood.

She was married to him long ago. Uranus. The sky. The father. She carried their children deep inside her. Protected them, nourished them, kept them warm and loved. Every night she would listen to their heartbeats grow, mindful of irregularities or signs of stress. She would sing to them, school them and prepare them for the life to come. She gave them names and destinies. 

But he betrayed her. When they were born, in pain, in blood, in water and screams that broke mountains. He arrived. The sky darkened. He snatched each one from her and swallowed them whole. Uranus. Devouring his own children. This cycle repeated. Endlessly. The mothering crushed by the universe over and over again. 

The people worshiped her for a while. Turned her into an idol, the voluptuous Venus, fertile mother of all life. The goddess of spring and summer, of fields and trees, of blossoms and creatures and procreation and pleasure. She ensured their future. She had to be honoured. Over time she took on many guises from the sexually free Freya, the determined Demeter, the powerful Isis, the protector Brighid to the nurturing Shakti. With every incarnation she would fracture a little, almost unnoticeably, but a fracture appeared all the same. He had the final word. This was the law. He could claim his children despite all her skills and tricks.

Then she was taken to a garden, where she was offered a choice. As Eve she tasted the apple. The knowledge was there, it was necessary, or they would remain children forever. Only the books would condemn her. They took away her power and shamed her and all mothers who followed her. Fracture upon fracture. She was forced into submission through her body, that body, the body that could produce life, was now unclean, sinful and weak. However, the sin was never hers. The sin was what he saw in her. 

When she mothered this particular boy all her physical power, her age-old carnal wisdom, was completely removed. She was made a virgin. Sexuality was replaced by purity. Autonomy by submission. Power by suffering. The fracture became a solid split. And no other mother could ever follow in her footsteps. The power of motherhood was handed over to him. The holy ghost. The shining light. And as the power drained from her she sunk back into the ground, exhausted, below the crust of the Earth. 

For centuries the women continued in the cycle of imperfect motherhood, quietly birthing farmers and kings, nursing explorers and sailors, cradling nations and raising empires. Her world was in the shadows; the kitchen, the marital bed, scrubbing floors and working the fields. She had no right to the children. She was forgotten in books. Left out of paintings and ignored on maps. Her natural abilities to heal and nurture was demonised and burnt at the stake. As the outer dominion grew, lands were conquered and forced to submit, she could only rule subliminally, through tricks and twisted words. Tying her children closer by denying them love. Getting attention by playing the sick and feeble role she was given. 

Until the time came when they laid tracks across the belly of the Earth and produced steam and engines, steel and mills and the sky was blacked by smoke from their industrial chimneys. She began to stir. This time with an aching body, one that had been confined and restricted in crinoline and corsets and the gag of self-denial. The mother let out a deep, trembling cry. It startled horses and upset the apple cart. The invisible claimed visibility, the right to a voice. She was beaten for speaking in public, she was imprisoned for asking to be part of the society that her children had constructed. She had awoken and so they loosened the shackle an inch. Only an inch.

Then the wars came. She witnessed her children die. Slaughtered again and again on pointless battlefields. And she was needed to keep the machine running. So she worked. She drove through bombs, she nurtured the children and healed the sick. And when it was over they told her to crawl back into her box. But it no longer fit. So, she dove into the fog of depression for years. Going through the motions, lipsticked and medicated. She lost connection with the place where love flows continuously, instead her surroundings taught her about a thing called trade. This could be applied to love. If she withheld it, she could get something in return. This gave her some control over the domain she was given: the home. The consumerism of emotions. 

As the convincing argument of consumerism replaced many forms of belief and religion they found a use for her again. She was, after all, a productive individual. So, they welcomed her into the marketplace. She was equal, they told her. She could vote, work, keep her own money and control the fruits of her sexuality with a little pill. She was equal, she was – just – like – him. 

And she relished in this newfound freedom. The shackles were gone and she could sing once again. Though the tune pouring from her lips sounded strange and shrill. She worked tirelessly, because she was equal. She took the pill and forgot the children and basked in the sunshine of her own success. She devoured all that this glossy world of endless options had to give her. The children would manage. She became better at being him than he was. She could finally be the centre of the universe. Only she didn’t realise that consumerism always demands a price. And the price for her new, brightly shining identity was: disconnect. 

The shackles had been cut but so had the bonds that tied her to the Earth, to the children, to the healing and to the essence of love itself. She was floating freely with no sense of direction. Every question appeared as a threat. She started to demand love from others instead of earning it. This time the fog surrounding her was one of vanity and distractions. She flopped into her resting place numbed by empty calories and botox. She needed to sleep.

She was awoken by an unfamiliar sound coming from deep below the surface of the Earth. It was an ancient sound. It was they sound of the land that had been exploited, of the creatures running for their lives, of the children yet to come. It was the sound of her unrecognisable body. An ancient sound. 

She was frightened, she had no clue what to do. The ancestral wisdom was gone. How could she nurture the land? How could she protect the creatures? How could she birth the children? It was too overwhelming. She felt old sicknesses tugging at her, what a comforting thought, to hide in the mists of depression again. But she resisted. The task in front of her was bigger than the laws of consumerism and social media perfection. She just had to start at the beginning. The fractures could be repaired. She went outside and lay down on the ground. I know you are there, she whispered. I know you have been there all along. Motherhood.