Beginning my Relationship with Women & my Dead Mother.
This is a personal story. A spiritual story. These words will have a hint of hurt and anger in them still…. but the edges of hurt are a softening.
This is about women… and my mother.
To be honest – I haven’t liked women all that much. That’s a big harsh statement… one I’ve sprouted flippantly from time to time. It’s me being brash and tough even. It is my armour.
So.. let me rephrase that statement. I have been scared of women… all women, pretty much most of my life. Since, well, forever it seems.
I have been so afraid of women at times that I sit now and wonder how it is I have female friends at all!
Crazy I know. Because I adore and love to death my female friends. Old and new… and I am so grateful for them and their initial “befriend-ment” because I was too scared to act and cultivate a connection first.
And when I did act first, it was awkward, over the top and embarrassing. (Oh god, this is so hard to share.)
Just recently, the Universe has been delivering me a very BIG clear message and shove along in regards to healing this. No bullshit surface gloss and polish here, but the real deal.
This is where 3 stories merge.
2 weeks ago a fellow beautiful, wild, inter-web friend invited me to be a part of her interview series. We exchanged a few emails back and forth happily.. and then she sent me the questions. Good lord. I felt like I had slammed into a brick wall. Anxiety ran like a drug through my veins hitting me instantly. Doped. In a shaky stupor.
The interview series was all about women, sisterhood – female connections, friendships, and how I celebrate them. All I could say to myself was “oh no, oh no, oh no, over and over. Suddenly I was at sea. I didn’t know how to respond other than to say that I didn’t think I was suitable to participate in the interview series, and again with my silly “armour” on I shared a string of stories briefly explaining why…
But I just knew – right then, on that Friday evening, something was underway. The Universe was at work on this.
STORY TWO. KINFOLK FESTIVAL
Well wow. Words cannot explain the beauty of that day.
The seamlessness of it’s formation.
The undeniable beauty of it’s intention.
The magic and power of the setting.
I was so humbly grateful to be able to be a part of it. And yet… I felt so unsure. So afraid.
I would be surrounded by 80 women. Wonderful women. Women like myself, full of grace, passion and contradiction.
I felt out of my depth.
Instantly, upon arrival I felt awkward. My interactions were stilted and self conscious. I wanted to hide.
I sat mesmerised and bewildered as streams of feminine energy rolled into the woods. Susana Frioni sat next to me, and I muttered something like…
“I’m not used to this.”
She asks – “Use to what?”
“This. All these women.”
She just looked at me and smiled.
Thankfully (and gratefully) she didn’t ask any further – and I didn’t need her to. Simply having her hold the space for me to be able to open up to this truth out loud, allowed a wash of soft energy to seep in.
And Kinfolk women… you did the rest. It was like having a milky rose petal, sage and lavender bath. You got me naked and made me clean.
Universe… you’re a kicker. A great one. I love you… But geez – you like to get me by my short and curlies!
And this is the hardest to tell. The start of my female betrayal. And the key in healing it.
It’s about my mother. The mother I do not know.
And, the mother I have been refusing to know.
She died nearly 26 years.
That’s a long time, right?
And you know, I am really okay with her having died. I think death, although sad is a beautiful thing. Something to embrace and celebrate. I am not angry for her dying.
But I carry anger for this…
That I am now older than she was. She died at 30.
I am angry I cannot call her. Now, or any time in the past when I have needed a woman.
I am angry my children miss out on knowing her.
I am angry that I don’t know what she was like. Her laughter, her strengths, her weaknesses. Her grace. Maybe we would have been close. Maybe we would have clashed. It lies within the arms of Unknown.
I am angry for a bunch of things…
Including this.. Especially this!! – That she has been and is near me now, reaching out to support me. Standing behind me – This. Very. Moment.
And I want to reject her. Again. Like I have always done. Like I do all women. (There you have it.)
But… her hand on my shoulder, her face softly smiling, her head nodding with acknowledgement and encouragement – holding the space, letting me cry as I write this. Just as a mother would.
I want to say Fuck you. Fuck you!!!
But I don’t. I soften, I open. I reach for her support – for the first time in… ever. I can feel myself lean into her. My mother. Gail Elizabeth Crawford.
You see… I’ve been ignoring her presence for months. Years even. But especially and purposely ignoring her energy, her presence recently.
Why? Because I wanted a “real” mum. One I could touch. Talk to in the flesh. Admire.
I didn’t ask to have a relationship with a dead mother.
Or did I? …..
But she’s here to help me. She’s key.
To support me in my spiritual and energetic work. For my mother was a healer. She was psychic too… it runs in my matriarchal linage.
To support me in healing my distrust of women.
To transform me. Like mothers do. To grow me up.
Universe thank you. It is time. You always know. And I am ready.
Mum… I love you. We have to go slow. And I am going to cry and swear a lot in our initial exchanges. Apologies ahead of time.
To all you beautiful women. To the divine feminine… Thank you. I love you. I see you. I always have. I’ve just been scared.
No more armour… or at least I’m beginning to take it off. And thank goodness for that.
It was heavy. And I’m ready to love harder and fly higher.