ButterTree & Biscuits

I’ve encountered various symbols of motherhood over time, of what it means to bring life into the world. Some depict women as portals to another side, between the thin veil that separates the physical and the Divine. Or motherhood as the ultimate form of creativity — life growing inside a woman’s body, formed by pieces of each parent. Or the depiction of raising a child . . . as the feeding of a spark that becomes the flame of consciousness. Motherhood as a symbol has always resonated with me. So today, I want to explore the transformational effect of motherhood, the shift in perspective, how it connects us to Life and to ourselves. 

I don’t know about you, but the way I talk to my boyfriend is completely different than how I talk to my friends. Which reminds me . . . of something my mom used to say that used to drive me crazy. Anytime I’d yell or let my anger get the better of me during a discussion, she’d always reply, “Save it for your friends!” And that one comment frustrated me beyond belief. Because my immediate thought was: “Why on earth would I speak to my friends like this?” Now that I think about it, that was probably her point. 

Mia met Sara twenty-three years ago, when she was eight years old. They met through Sara’s older sister, who would sometimes bring Sara along to sleepovers. Eventually it was just Mia and Sara who would hang out, who would have sleepovers every weekend, alternating between each other’s houses. Mia says they can communicate an entire thought with a glance — one of the benefits of knowing each other so long. 

Anna says her grandma is the most caring person she knows, and that this realization was made nine years ago. Anna was recovering from back surgery and her grandma stepped up to take care of her. She stepped up even though she was in her 70s at the time — no one asked her to do it, but she did. Anna was 100% dependent. 

Can relationships with loved ones continue even after they've passed on? That's a question I’ve been asking myself a lot over the last year, since I lost my mom.

My brother signed my twenty-seventh birthday card, “You old. Love, Jon.” And in all our pictures together since childhood, while my arm is wrapped enthusiastically around him, he looks away with theatrical disdain. Yet people used to ask my mom, “What do you do to make your kids get along so well?”

When I think of my dad, I think of car rides and listening to Queen. I think of side hugs and bear stories, his patient listening and my incessant talking after the caffeine hits during morning coffees.