At the Feet of Our Mothers

The last 6 weeks have felt like I'm walking through fire.

Like so much has burned through me and off me on some deep, fundamental level. Why? My dear mother passed away. 93 years. Her passing was gentle and quick, and for that, we’re grateful. We were fortunate to see her grow into her elder years.

Going through all the photographs and letters, I felt like her life's journey was being filtered through my heart. They wove their story into mine.

I can say that I have entered that portal that many of you have already been through. To lose the Matriarch.

Stepping through that portal, we are transported into some liminal space, the in-between world, for a time.

Somehow, I feel changed. Like a part of me is growing up. At 64 years of age, I am an adult, finally, no longer a child of a mother and father in this physical world, so to speak.

It makes me wonder about life and death and the space in between. And how we fill it.

As her daughter, I’ve been reflecting on how Mum shaped me — not just through what she did, but how she lived and loved.

I could boldly say that she is the reason why YOU are here. She didn't know anything about 'perimenopause or menopause' but this gentle soul dropped seeds into my unconscious at an early age, about womanhood, birthing, being a mother, being a wife, and later in life, being a grandmother.

My mother used to cringe when I would cheekily tell her she’s the reason I wrote the book Tantric Sex and Menopause. Many generations of catholic guilt and shame run deep in our veins!

Growing up on the farm, she felt it was logical to choose natural childbirth, a forward-thinking decision in the late 50s and 60s.

When I was 15, Mum started yoga with the infamous Roma Blair. She took me to a naturopath, a practice she kept up every time I came home. When I was 23, she gave me a book about womanhood. It set me on the path of alternative thinking and well-being early. That book taught about looking after a woman’s body, about pregnancy, motherhood, and even about menopause. I devoured it.

With every baby she had, my Grandmother gave her a bunch of roses, carefully de-thorned. That care, that beauty, and that ritual of giving, was Mum too.

Mum was the glue of our small, close family. Just 7 days before, we were lucky to share her 93rd birthday with her — the whole family made it. She was tired that day, but full of quiet joy, just watching her family laugh and love.

I'm so glad that I gave my her a long, extended, tender hug that day as I was leaving. To hold her for the last time, feeling her tiny frame in my arms, I felt I would crush her if I held too tightly.

When one of my granddaughters became so upset at hearing the news, I suggested that she draw for Great-Grandma. So the two eldest created cards and wrote words for her.

When I read the words out to Mum, her quiet, faint, feather-like breath began to heave, to become more labored, as if feeling the emotion of it. Even though she had lost 90% of her hearing, somehow she heard it all. Loud and clear.

Death makes you think about life and how you live it.

So what about that space between life and death? The only thing certain for me is that LOVE is what is in between, and HOW WE LOVE EACH OTHER.

Mum taught us to live gently, love fiercely, and see beauty in the everyday.

She was — and remains — our matriarch, our steady sky, our rose without thorns.

Treasure every moment with those you love, like it is your last.

Kiss like it is your last kiss.

Hug like it is your last hug. You just never know.

It's at these times of deep transition that it's important that women take the time to honour our lived experience of being a woman. That's what Womantime Retreat is for. I know this one will be a very special one for me. I invite you to join us as we sit tenderly, lovingly, and with reverence at the feet of our womanhood, our mothers, in whatever form they are in our lives, and those who have paved the way before us. Read more here - Womantime Retreat