A transmission from several recent Re-Mothering and Writing from the Womb
A wide pathway stretches out before me, softly curving between unfenced green meadows preparing to burst into bloom. I feel the ache of grief still sore in my lungs as I breathe in this fresh air and reach for the hand of my companion behind me. My uncertainty about the path forward sends a shaking jolt down my arm as I grasp behind me for support.
The hand of my inner mother is there, readily taking up my grasp, meeting my squeeze. I feel another hand on my back. And another one on my shoulder. Yet another one takes my other hand.
All of these unexpected touches pull my gaze back to see not just the owners of these supportive hands but a whole congregation of supportive allies, all assuring me that I am on the right path, just where I am meant to be. Without words they are telling me, with their eyes, their breath, their smiles, their grim looks of determination, of insistence, that I am meant to step forward, to carry on, that my doubts and shortcomings, my dissatisfactions and unfulfilled desires are all inconsequential, that my true purpose is steadily guiding me and has always been doing so.
They assure me that I can be at peace in this knowing and trust in their support. They have given me great gifts at great cost. All of their most ardent prayers and earnest longings have culminated in the life I am living.
I cannot make a wrong step for the road will rise up and receive it and curve back around with my foot upon it to collect me back onto this path made of living stone and earth and roots that weave together all that came before into what now must be and what must come.
A great peace comes over me as I see this path stretching out before me. All of my questions are answered so thoroughly by its long meander towards the horizon that I forget I had any to begin with.
I sigh into this knowing that rises up through my feet into my womb and directly into my brain. My skin softens under the touch of my own inner mother who radiates this knowing, this peace, melting any sharp edges of worry or concern that I might feel inside or around me.
The songbirds play and chirp close by, just feet away from my face, reminding me how to find my voice, how to find my joy. The ravens and crows sit high up on tree branches nearby and croak and trill as they ruffle their shoulders, letting me know they are with me.
As I rest in the company of this unhurried gathering, I feel the vastness of the meadows, the sky, the woods stretching out in one direction, and the sea in the other filling me with spaciousness. The road stretching forward and back beckons not for a hurried journey to some destination, but for a wideness of perspective, a recognition of its infinite length.
Each stone underfoot has its own shape and place and is next to another stone with a different shape and place. Each speck of dust has a whole universe within it and reminds me that I am filled with universes.
I can travel farther in one breath than any round the world airfare ticket could get me. The dust on my feet reminds me that more is happening in this moment of stillness the longer I let it stretch out than can possibly happen in whole lives lived in busy distraction.
The trees remind me of my own roots spreading out below the surface, snuggling with worms and centipedes, intertwining with the fungal network, receiving wisdom messages from the entire universe.
It doesn’t need to be quiet for me to hear the silence, the trees remind me, transmitting the roar of the nights’ windstorm into the emptiness of my dreams. The marching of ants tickling their rough skin in silence is louder to me now than the motorcycle rumbling by.
The whole gathering dissolves into the pulsing of breath I feel passing through my nostrils. Everything is contained completely inside of nothing and I am refreshed.
My inner mother lets me know she is with me always. If I ever forget this peace, this aliveness, this infinite fullness, this exquisite emptiness, she will remind me. She will take my hand and trace the lines and dots on my skin, awakening my senses once more. She will open a jar of honey mead, flavored with roses and costmary under my nose. She will open one peach blossom after another and follow that with cherries, pluots, and nectarines, apples, pears, and jujubes. She will ripen as richly inside me as the garden surrounding me.
Sama Morningstar is the founder of the Womb Centered Healing Temple and the Bio-Mystical Womb Apprenticeship program within which the source practices of this writing can be found, Re-Mothering meditation and Writing from the Womb. If you would like to join Sama for weekly Writing from the Womb workshops, you can sign up here: