New Born Mother

I share in the belief that after giving birth a woman goes through an intimate and silent birth, all on her own. One that happens behind closed doors, within the walls of her own home, under the fullness of the moon and the relentless hours of daylight that bring her to her knees, digging for reserves she isn’t even aware she has. It happens spontaneously and unexpectedly, transforming every fibre of her being into a mother.

The surges are both long and brief. Ecstatic and excruciating. Instinctual and mysterious. The silent birth is a labour of the soul. The liberation of a woman. The evolution of humanity — grown in her womb, fed by her hands and loved by her ancient heart.

Over and over she is willed to surrender. Invited to allow life’s longing for itself to move through her, surging with it the radical transformation of her entire human nature. The invite is both deeply familiar and terrifyingly foreign, as she witnesses herself in the furnace and the heavens all at once. She is the cycle of life and death. The nucleus. The devoted yet fierce force that enlivens life to move.

She is experiencing a whole new way — shedding a thousand aged skins while flowering a thousand splendid more. Her eyes deepening to see more than that which lays before her. Her heart expanding to love in a way that she has always longed. Her intuition ripening to unveil all the conditioning that has educated her away from herself.

It is a rich and fertile awakening that leaves no door open for return. These motherly hands, silently pouring a lifelong current that she finds herself at the mercy of. The only question — will she remain hardened and rigid blocking the river’s flow or will she release what once was and move toward the ocean?

It is her — the new born mother — who decides.

Love,
Alanna