ButterTree & Biscuits

My mom met my dad in a college residence — she would often visit a friend of hers there. My mom remembers the first time she laid eyes on my dad. It was in the morning after a party, and he hadn’t gone to bed. He’d also gotten a perm on a dare and looked dishevelled overall. Needless to say, it wasn’t a winning first impression. 

This past weekend, I had the honour and privilege of watching my friend of almost twenty years  marry her longtime boyfriend. It was a perfect fall day . . . We were blanketed by a quilt of greens, yellows and reds. There were horse drawn carriages, wood cabins and vintage string lights hung in the trees. The bride wore her hair down with a flower crown and a flowy white dress — looking beautiful and whimsical as she walked down the aisle, as her train picked up the fall leaves.

Holidays can be difficult for people — whether it be complicated family dynamics, grieving a loss, financial struggles, or being far away from home. Journaling has always been an extremely powerful tool for me, and there’s always been an increased sense of presence in the fall that lends itself well to reflection. In the way that squirrels collect acorns for the winter, I feel like I can do the same on an emotional level. I can ask myself: What routines are going to help me get through the colder seasons? Who do I want to be around? Who or what do I want to focus my energy on? 

My mom used to tell me about how she always dreamed of being a mother, but also of having a little girl. She said she loved dressing me up and braiding my hair . . . that she especially loved decorating my childhood bedroom. I had a white canopy bed, a collection of porcelain dolls and a Victorian style dollhouse. I had a wicker chair and a shelf with all the classic children’s books. My room was always a talking point when people would visit, and I was often told how lucky I was to have such a beautiful space of my very own. 

My earliest memories are of sitting on her knee, nuzzled close, taking in the scent of her perfume. She was one of the few people outside my immediate family with whom I could feel this level of comfort.

Lily speaks highly of her sister Amelia. She describes her as a kind soul, and says that since they were little Amelia has taught her about seeing the best in people. Lily describes how uncomfortable Amelia would get hearing others being spoken about in a disparaging way. How Amelia would say, “We don’t know about their life, so it isn’t fair to judge.” Lily has always been inspired by Amelia’s innocence, the purity of spirit that allows her to see the best in the world around her.

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.