Grace to her – for she wombed me

I have hurt the woman who brought me unto this earth.
For years, I have been a pain to her and I am still one. My ideas, my beliefs, my choices, my paths, my questions, my queries stirred her world. She believes that I was sent to bruise her. And I did bruise her bad. I rubbed and brushed all that she ever believed in life.  I still do. I was not and I am not a gentle one and I have not stopped shaking her world since.
Not that I was a rebellious child, not that I spent nights and days outside the house; not that I was into drugs. Just a little wavy head immersed in her own world; just a little laughing heart who knew things were not what we were told of; just those little shiny wings who believed, she could fly to create a different world, a better world.
Some daughters will bring rooted pains to their mothers. Some daughters’ paths will bring more chaos than anything. Some daughters’ lives will scare more than anything.
For some daughters will break off from the tyranny of this oppressive system; for some daughters will choose sacred solitude over socially constructed relations; for some daughters will embrace meaningful purposes over lifeless jobs; for some daughter will learn to poise; for some daughters will re-member their truth, their light, their breath and their hearts; for some daughters will tread this unseen and unknown path of inner love.
For some daughters will mirror the depth, the magnificence, the beauty, the glory, the grace, the love, the Divine back to their mothers. A mirroring that discomforts, displeases for it hisses to our mothers the limited choices they granted themselves with.
 Mama, our choices are influenced by you. My choices were and are influenced by my mother.
Each time I have looked at her in the past and in the now, I have seen my own reflection, that little girl’s eagerness to learn, her excitement at the discovery of something new; her own need to love and to be loved; her unacknowledged wounds; her deepest desire to fly; her battered worthiness; her shaky legs; her emptiness; her bruised heart.
Some daughters’ paths will be shaped by their mothers’ path. Mine was shaped by her.
I do what I do because of her, not that I am trying to save her or me or you or us. I do what I do for I made the choice to honor the gift of life within me. I do what I do for it was no easy task for my mother to raise a stubbornly strong headed child.
I owe it to her, maybe this she will never truly understand. I do what I do so that those mothers, sisters, aunties, grannies, nieces and friends that I will never meet – will have a different life. A life where they will not be asked to hide, to shy, to sacrifice and belittle themselves for the sake of a fake harmony. A life that they will not waste reclaiming that what is already theirs.
Some daughters’ paths do bring pains to their most precious part, their mothers.
I have hurt the woman who brought me unto this earth. A hurt that I now gracefully embrace. A hurt that I choose to consciously repeat every day, for what I do is a reminder of her magnificence; for who I am is a reflection of her strength; for my songs carry the rhymes and rhythms of her dreams.
Some daughters are not good at speech, so they choose to write instead, for some daughters will love harder than they may ever say, for their love come from the wombs of those warrior-mothers who brought them unto this earth.
Some daughters are born to the most untypical mothers and I am one of them.
Some daughters will keep going for their faith in life comes from the ones who wombed them and I am one of them.
Some daughters’ blessings come from the resistance of their mothers, mine come from there.
Some daughters’ training started within their mothers’ womb, mine started the day I was conceived.
Grace to the mothers, aunties, grandmothers, sisters, nieces, those I have met, those I will meet and those I will never meet. Grace to the women who committed to birth me, you and us.