Her. or. My Manifesta for Raising A Rising Empress.

I wasn’t expecting this.  I’ll admit it.  And it’s almost crazy.  How she’s growing so fast.  Becoming so much more Herself. Whole. Knowing. Separate. I feel elated.  At ease. Grateful. 

With a huge pang of grief.  And a side of uncomfortable mystery. 

There is a new kind of powerlessness that happens when our children begin to be maidens. 

I dove into the tunnel of love, full bodied and with my heart wide open.  The mothering part.  Not even so much parenting, but Mothering.  A specific kind of way and thing that we do, as mothers. Those early days, weeks, months years… it wasn’t about “learning how to parent” it was becoming the mother I was which meant releasing all grips and allowing for each Thing to Arise.  In my postpartum blur I was initiated into something without even asking or trying. I was initiated into the mystery, from my first contraction to their first steps. It was all them. And also all swollen breasts. Sore yoni. Intuition sharpening like a new knife against the shadows of the world  Waking up 45 seconds before they did, knowing a scream, or a cry, or a shit, or a puke was on it’s way.  

It was my second skin.  Somehow I was better at it then anything else I ever did.  I didn’t even want to be good at it or had any idea there was good to be. I just got thrown into the tsunami and let it take me out to sea.  It was who I was and it became me.  A mother with her boobs hanging out and her pores dripping musky sweat-  and babies, multiple ones, wrapped against my skin, and the ability to be present and function and create without an ounce of sleep running on a new type of energy called exhaustion. 

I look back now and I think.  Holy fuck.  If only I can capture that power and put it in a bottle and sell it.  If only I could tap back into that tidal wave of superpower energy and carelessness and simplicity of doing nothing but surviving in this very specific way- when I just was able to do it without thinking about it. At all. 

Where is the tsunami for now? Where is the wave I can just jump on and ride.  Right now I feel like we, her and I,  are sitting on a little wooden boat, stuck out at sea. Fighting over the oars. 

She is almost 12. TWELVE.  And she is more Herself than I think I ever could possibly be.  To be fair, she has always been and when I look back there has never been an ounce of her that has ever doubted herself.  Her willfulness to not take a breath until we brought her outside and introduced her to the sky and the gray marine light and gave her a name, the right name, in which when she heard she finally decided to breathe a big scream for us.  Her undeniable strength in kicking off that swaddling bullshit because she wanted her long limbs to be wild and free and not bound.  Her magical powers to suck and suck and suck and suck and still suck some more until my chest was so enormous she had to suck even more to let it all out.  And her eyes.  The not quite brown and not quite green and how they looked at the world like the world was the treasure she has been hunting down for lifetimes and finally fucking found, twisting my nipple in full circles to get a good view of everything and continue to suck down milk. 




I want to do this right.  

I have to do this right. 

I am doing this right.

And that is my first lesson in this ancient newness.  There is no right. I know this but it still feels like a want to, like I have to-  be right and true and good.  There was never a right when she was in my arms and her skin was still rose petals.   She was just in my arms.  And she was just at my breast. And she was just curled against me as we slept. That’s all.  And it was everything. And it was no biggie.   

And now she is almost as tall as me and my shoes are a wee to small for her feet and her style is part raggamuffin part pop queen and she sneaks my mascara and red lipstick.  Her hips are widening.  Her sass is burning hot. And her words that are as sharp as the knife against the shadow of this world.  She is a seeker.  A freedom fighter. A righteous bitch. Tender. Soft. Still smells like roses. Still plays in the dirt. Still wants to cuddle at night. 

And I want to do right by her.

Give her space.

Give her ritual.

Give her the grace she is worth. 

Give her the right words at the right time. 

It just feels like I am playing in all new territory and the stakes feel so much higher than ever before. Maybe it’s all illistion. 

Maybe it’s not so different. 

Maybe the edge just has a different view. 

I want initiation.  Like birth. I want another birth. To open the new vision to who I am now as her Mother, my firstborn moon daughter, who is close to bleeding down life force and can stay home alone. Who is this mother I now? And who will hold me through this? What is my birthsong?

Where are the rites for us? For the mothers who embark on this new journey, as we are witness to one of the most powerful and confusing times of our daughter’s lives? When I was her age I began a long path of wandering lonely for years. I was miserable and sad and felt ugly and abandoned by God.  I felt like I would never be good enough or skinny enough or wanted enough. Certainly I was sure I would never be smart enough.  And my daughter? She isn’t me. I know this. She is far from me. 

And yet here I am, reliving it all. 

Who holds this emerging between mother and daughter? Where is the healing?  Because if I don’t heal those years now,  I will just pass them on to her.  The healing between my mother and me and me and her and her and her daughters and my grandmothers and their daughters and all that is before and all that is after. The motherline.  Must be healed. Must be honored. 

Must be trusted. 

Beyond the patriarchy and into the new paradigm of this bloodline, of newly rising empresses, I am working on trusting: myself, her and the world.  Even with the sex at the supermarket line and in the insane lyrics on the radio and the scriptures of the media that are preached without even a word being heard and held in the tender hearts of our girls, I am practicing trust.   Despite the internet and immediacy and the accessibility, I am trusting the slowness and the mystery of the forest in the morning.  I just have no idea, about anything, and I am trusting that. I come from a long line of Mothers, and in that, I must trust. 

And so I sit here and type this out and I think: fuck.   I am exactly where I am and she is exactly where she is and it’s a beautiful place to be.  I just need to remember.  What I believe.  My ceremony is my own re-membering of my manifesta of motherhood. My rituals are these words hitting the page without knowing what will come next but allowing new stories to be born. I can just show up.  Knowing my heart.  Knowing my children. Knowing my love.  And even though I have no idea, I have every idea.  I know what I believe.  At least in this moment, I know what I believe to be truth. 

My Manifesta For Mothering A Rising Empress. 

I believe in freedom.  

I believe she is fully her own and not just an extension of me. 

I believe in comfortable and uncomfortable containers, big ones and smalls ones. 

I believe in flexibility of boundaries. 

I believe we can make up rules as we go along. Break them. Make them. Break them. Honor them. Re-make them. Call them anything we want.

I believe in the power of nature and when we need to get back to ourselves we go to the sea or the forest and we lie on the ground and we remember what silence is like. 

I believe in music and playing it loud and dancing our aches out and laughing our pain through.

I believe in art. In making it. In witnessing it. In living it.

I believe she is learning without being taught. 

I believe she is listening without being silenced. 

I believe in stepping out of the way. 

I believe that when I step out of the way, I learn more about her, her wants and needs and path and desires.  

I believe when I learn more about her I learn more about me.

I believe in good night’s sleep and the healing power of sleeping in. 

I believe in late night movie marathons and the medicine of popcorn in bed. 

I believe in whole food and that a lovingly prepared meal can forgive a bad day or celebrate a great one. 

I believe in open windows and burning incense and letting her name the houseplants. 

I believe in surrounding her in as much beauty as possible.

I believe in her style of beauty,  even if that means letting her hang hunger games shit all over her bedroom walls. 

I believe that she is ready to also see the ugly in the world in a deeper way, to know her privilege and stand with her fist raised for humanity. 

I believe that she will see the ugly and pain with her most precious and loving eyes and her heart will be safe and sound.

I believe she needs to see me owning my own shit. 

I believe she needs to see me taking the time to live my visions. 

I believe that taking the time for me will give her permission to take the time for her.

I believe this act will heal so many wounds passed on and on.

I believe that wine is a good thing as soon as the sun begins to set. 

I believe there is limitless truth and endless space for us to be all the things we are. 

I believe it’s important to be manic, to be willing to make all sorts of choices and express all sorts of feelings and not box ourselves in. 

I believe she can put her own laundry away.

I believe she will learn how to fold someday. 

I believe in reading books that are paper. 

I believe in the words thank you. 

I believe in experiences over things.

I believe in conversations over demands.

I believe in silence. 

I believe she is empathetic. Compassionate. A whole hearted daughter of love, a wild being of the moon. 

I believe eventually she will not plug her ears when I try and talk to her about sex. 

I believe all is well and as it should be. 

I believe she is more than well. 

I believe in my no{s} and my yes{es} 

I believe in my fierce and gentle mother power. 

I believe in my gut as the most important parenting text there is. 

I believe in not knowing

I believe in The Mother. 

I believe in The Daughter. 

I believe in our Blood.