It should come as no surprise that mothers make me happy. I am a birth doula and the joy and agony of birth are ever present in my life.

My own mother died two years ago today. This does not make me happy. Ours was a fractious relationship. At times  loving, joyous, gentle, cruel, intimidating and abusive. We reconciled in the decade before her death and I was with her in the days before she passed on. I will be forever grateful for those last hours we spent together.

My happy comes because no matter the tainted memories stain my psyche, they are balanced by memories of joy and gentleness and in the end respect.  I have come to recognize a place I had never considered might exist. I honor the feminine and the divine  of my mother who gave me life.


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