I was 19 year old when I went to that doctor.
He scanned my uterus and told me I was pregnant with twins.
Walking down the street some minutes later Mother Earth spoke to me. See, I wanted to be a rock star and/or a detective journalist “but girl, I have other plans for you” she said.
It was the first spiritual experience I identify as a spiritual experience.
Previous spiritual experiences had simply been just life. Reality. Sure. I´m experienced. I´ve seen all kinds of crazy but that time on the street it was different. So clear.
Sometimes I hear people speak of Mother Earth but I don´t think we´re talking about the same identity. To me she is not “nature” or “the planet” or some golden crystal consciousness. She just is.
Kind enough to let me know that my whole life would change, I would change, but it was all right because she had plans for me.
I was not senselessly drifting, wasting my life, no, I was to live a thousand lives in one life, I was to suck out the marrow of life (as one poet puts it)
Ever since then change has been more than my middle name. Deprogramming. Deconstruction. Building. Formatting.
Victoria is visiting us for a couple of days. A while ago she decided to become an adventurer. Now she´s working for a company in Holland who builds pirate ships and transports rum. Fairtrade. Emission free. She´s building a sailboat, maiden voyage in march, she won´t be home for christmas. Viking warrior.
My daughter, the lovely, is exactly the age I was when I discovered I was pregnant with twins and Mother Earth spoke to me. And my son, thunder boy, has these apple cheeks that constantly remind me of the past.
Becoming a mother at a young age means that you are, per definition, in opposition, on the defence. People are going to spend a lot of time judging you, watching your every little move. So I studied Rudolf Steiner waldorf and made cotton angels, hung them in the window, I made all of the food for my babies myself and when I went babyswimming with them to stimulate their senses or yadi yadi I would juggle two fat babies in my tiny little arms and all of the other mothers would hate me. For having the energy, for being young, being capable or whatever.
That´s the first time I realised that you can´t win.
They are going to dislike you if you are a bad mother and they are going to dislike you if you are a good mother.
The minute you stick out from the pack the pack will look at you the wrong way.
This is why you need to make your own pack, a flock, your clan.
It´s basic protection.
It´s almost twenty years ago now.
So much water have run under the bridge since then.
I regret I didn´t take my children to the forest earlier. It would have been better for them. I regret that I spend so much time trying to make the other mothers like me. I´m proud that I turned my sinking boat around and got to work as a child psychologer, I´m devastated by the fact that so many of our children are broken. I´m mesmerised about the fact that I grew these human beings. I´m shocked to realise that as they leave home I have to deal with me.
And I can´t seem to wrap my head around the fact that as I grow old the daily chores of my womanhood does not seem as impossible as they once did. In a way I wished my children were around to see my shiny newly washed floors, eat my surplus cakes, enjoy an organised closet or hang out with me by the fire ( I only have thunder boy left), I have the time now, you see, I´m not running around, headless chicken, I FIGURED IT OUT.
I hated the chores. Jeppe and me have argued non stop for the last four years since we moved into the wild, our genders have been constantly clashing. My job was to keep the family full and happy. His job was to take down trees and rise structures. Which is, basically the same thing, it´s just that I really hated to do the dishes and wash the clothes and he didn´t really hate his jobs which naturally led to my envy and frustration. “You have to HATE doing it otherwise it doesn´t count” as if my sacrifice was defined not by my work but by my own feeling of subordination.
We talked about firewood yesterday and I realised that taking down trees, chopping them up, transporting them to the cabin, feeding the fire is the same kind of constant work as the dishes. You can´t really see the effect of your work other than in a sense… of things being organised, your home being warm.
And it never ends. You have to keep doing it and doing it and no one will really appreciate your work until the work is NOT done and everyone gets cold and/or can´t find a clean platter for their food.
It´s basically the same and my sacrifice is not bigger than his which means that I can´t even cling to my martyrdom anymore.
Horror. Maybe I even like the housework!
Everything is new.
So two things.
Mother Earth spoke to me again. I think I heard her laugh. I think I heard her telling me to go on.
As for the other mothers (you can say they became a metaphor for my general distrust of other people) I read two stories recently which made me think a lot.
The first one is this one by Ben Hewit. He describes how his wife Penny and he lived in a tent 20 years ago, they wanted to build their own house and raise their children free.
The other one is by artist Catrina Davies who lives in a shed.
Both stories made me feel, on a deeply fundamental level, that I am not alone. That I am not weird. That there is nothing wrong with me. That others have the same dreams and aspirations. That others have the same struggles. That stories can always be told from at least two angles. I´m not alone. I´m not alone. There´s nothing wrong with me, no.
It´s just that I´ve been oriented towards the wrong pack. Turns out that there are more.