Mama.

Mama, I promise, that despite everything, that’s still you.

I know how connected you are to that word, and how much it would mean if it were true. 

But mama, I promise, it is.

The entire fucking world is mirrored in the blue of your eyes and you can’t see that it’s you? Mother Earth, Gaia, the universe… However you might want to identify with the fact that (as one Queen might postulate in vocal runs) God is a Woman. 

And that Woman is You.

And I know about the sharp tug of pain deep in your belly when your baby nephew looks into your eyes and a smile washes over his whole face. I know you would give anything for a babe in arms to pull on your curls, grabbing the strands and balled-fisted pulling them to her mouth.

I know there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to have to clean up the fruit squeezed out of a little hand instead into a little mouth. 

But mama, we all feel that love when you look after each of us, just like you feel… something when you stand barefoot on the earth or complete your calendar-regimented 15 minutes of meditation. 

I know you’re not fully woo-woo yet, mama.

I know you hate the smell of sage and you shrug off the stirrings when you pick up a rose quartz because it’s just a rock. 

But mama, I’ve seen the way you dance when the music shakes you to your core even when the emptiness of your womb is most pronounced. When your core is a fish-bone skeleton of emptiness and, honestly, in need of a little music to fill up again.

The drums will fill you up and we’re encompassing you in our dancing circle to let you know that there isn’t actually an empty space inside you mama. The whole fucking universe fills it up!

You read about it when you were younger but don’t you remember? You are made of star dust, and those ancient stars sparkle from deep within you all the way to the pores on your face. 

It’s true what they say, when you have nice thoughts they shine out your face and you’ll always be beautiful.

And you don’t need the treatments mama. The facials, the lasers, the ‘work’ that maybe, maybe, maybe will hold you together because when you look in the mirror at least you still look like yourself even if you don’t feel like yourself.

Because while you might not have tiny feet running around at least you don’t have crows feet running around your eyes.

You’ve been eaten alive to the core, mama. Nothing is left but the spat-out seeds.

But you’ll grow again. 

You’ll press up out of the earth and you’ll bloom.