Tuesday, 1 February 2011

The Birth of the Mother

I know the precise moment, when the embodiment of being Mother, their mother, came into being. 

It was a beautiful warm summer, when they were two. They were running around on their stumpy chubby legs, tirelessly, so it seemed. In particular, there was a constant on and off the potty, one bright red, the other white with a yellow duck on the front, and cheers all round when finally a poo dropped into their container. 

We staid in a big renovated barn in the countryside with a group of people. And although everybody went off in the morning to do their creative work, which previously would have filled me with unbearable yearnings, and I was left alone with my two girls in this infinitely big barn, harbouring the energy of beasts and hay, something clicked, and I started to embrace the challenge of being in charge of them and making the best out of this holiday for the three of us. 

Daily I packed them into the trailer and discovered the countryside by bike, pointing out the abundance of nature, and stopping for treats;  croissants and ice cream - of course. A memorable moment  was when I was hauling them up a hill full of sheep, trailer and all, getting mucky with sheep turd, and the two them, in their rudimentary two year old language babble, cheering me on from the back of the trailer! 

And in the evenings, as the fifteen or so of us were all gathered around the massive oak table fit for a medieval castle, enjoying food I had volunteered cooking, I swelled with pride and love, as if I was looking onto my very own big family. 

In that moment I became the mistress of the house of life, one of the many names Isis is known as. Mother, the source of life, the hearth of creation, the creator of life and death.

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