Mother Letters is art in the form of stories, letters and photos from many hearts to yours. Words and images heard and understood in the soul, now articulated about every stage of motherhood.
Mothers are curators. These letters are about capturing the messy, glorious masterpieces that you are creating. God-Art is in the person and the stories lived there.
Find joy and comfort in this collection. Feel strengthened, empowered. It’s a mosaic of authentic life, a living poem. Together, we are encouraged.
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Dear Mother,
I have struggled with what to write because there is so much I would want to share: the pain of infertility and of missing someone you’ve never even met; the whimpering of the 3-year-old mouths; the awe of listening to your own little child’s voice as she reads her first book.
But, the truth is, the longer I am a mother, the less I know what you need to hear.
So I have settled upon sharing with you the truth that guides me— that my daughter does not belong to me. That my job is simply to raise her safely and as happily as I can so that she may fly toward a future of her making.
In the moments when my girl and I are knocking heads over whether she will wear a particular skirt, or whether she will taste the greens on her plate, in those moments when my head really just wants to explode, I have to bring myself back to the letting go. Sometimes, it is an hourly chore, for letting go is not my default, but rather a place I purposely seek.
I grew up in the warm bosom of a tribe that moves with the beat of accents and tildes, a people exiled from its own home and country. It was a childhood of many kisses, big sweaty gatherings with tias and tios and cousins twice removed, and so many delicious Sundays at the beach. I often wish I could give the same loud life to my child, save for some of the rules and expectations.
Even now, I don’t know if it is because they’re Cuban, or just because they are who they are, but in my family there was a lot of “porque, si” and “porque, no,” which basically translates to “Because.” Just because. I am pretty sure my tribe would not embrace Gibran.
While I do not wallow in regret– especially when it comes to the dance of mothering– I have a few “what ifs” and times in my life when I bowed my head, followed the rules and did what was expected, not what satisfied my spirit.
And so, as I look upon my dark-haired child, so curious, so head-strong, so much herself, I know my greatest gift to her is to stand by and watch her grow into whom she is supposed to be. She came through me and I marvel at the knowledge that while in my womb she breathed because I breathed.
But she breathes deeply on her own now.
And the truth of that frees me to trust the arrow will land where it will.
Much love and peace,
Carrie Ferguson Weir
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Mothers Letters is a collection of letters written by mothers for mothers. Curated by Amber and Seth Haines in partnership with Squee!, it’s for every mama who needs to know she’s not the only one. Read the complete story behind Mother Letters and get the ebook here.
By: Amber, The RunaMuck