Echoes of a Mother’s Soul: Songs Half-Sung

Maybe we’re all trying to finish the songs our mothers never got to sing. Maybe that’s what mothering is.

Art by Dorrie Joy @ www.dorriejoy.co.uk

We’ve all been raised by patriarchy—our mothers, our feelings about mothers, even our choice to mother or not—shaped by its grip. Patriarchy echoes through our ancestral bloodlines. It was never my plan to be a mother. I was the fifth of eight children in an Irish Catholic, working-class family in the late 50s, shaped and sorely defined by patriarchal culture.

Male bodies were trained to pledge allegiance to power-over: suck it up, take what you want, shoot to kill. Mind your curves, your lady voice, entice the male gaze—groomed the ‘second sex.’

My father became addicted to booze, gambling, and to his assumed rights over my mother’s body. Even now, I hear echoes from nights past—his threatening voice cutting the dark: “Camille, I want my supper!” Despite the societal expectation that wives obey their husbands and the weight of internalized patriarchy, my mother found strength and power. Initially, she left us to find her way forward. She was worn down, finally compelled to distance herself from my father’s compulsive, violent behaviors. After a year of judo lessons, she returned and tossed him out. I applauded her for that. But at thirteen, without her protection, I ended up in some gnarly places—hungry for love and connection.

I wasn’t ready for any of it. Scarred by traumatic incidents and unbecoming behaviors of my own, I swore I would never be like her. Not the woman who laughed at billboard propaganda, cried out loud at religious brainwashing, taught me to swim and rollerskate, made sure I knew how to earn my own money. No—not the person who danced in the kitchen, but the role she was consigned to. I wanted nothing to do with a life that diminished, abused, silenced, and confined women. No, thank you.

By fourteen, I was violated by a trusted adult. The silenced—unspeakable, etched itself into my body, a scar of unworthiness, a betrayal of trust that shattered my faith and belonging in a pool of shame. Unhomed. A trauma-induced distortion that grew rapidly and exponentially, like a tsunami. A shame shield that intertwined with spiritual longing, an insatiable hunger for connection, and an unrelenting urge to flee.

Imagine the relief I experienced when my college roommate woke me from an alcohol induced blackout and said, “Your behavior is not normal. I know someone who can help you.”

Alice stood over me like I was an earlier version of herself—strung out, lost, self-sabotaging her best-laid plans. Her soft brown eyes saw past my disconnection, she gently invited me to see R.W., a psychic in Manhattan, for a soul reading.

Who? What?

“I know it sounds bizarre. But I was lost to heroin, a college dropout, barely hanging on. R.W. helped me find my path.”

Alice embodied a quiet confidence that grounded her in something I longed for.

---

Soul Reading with R.W. November 3, 1976

Shiela closed her eyes, still as a relic of Mother Mary. Moments passed in silence before she began to vibrate, uttering what sounded like incantations.

In a voice deeper than the one that welcomed me to the white-cushioned chair,

“What is your first question?”

I was lost in memories—dangerous people, recurring nightmares, secrets. She/he interrupted my drift.

“What is your first question?”

“Do I have a soul purpose?”

I asked, assuming I did not, unsure what the question meant.

RW’s response sent shivers to my toes. With eerie precision, she/he recounted the story of my early life, unveiling secrets I had never spoken aloud. A surge of sorrow washed over me, weight lifted from my body, tears poured down my face.

Overwhelmed by what was unfolding, I sat speechless, like someone thrust onto a stage with no lines.

You have not done anything wrong.

RW’s words touched the core of my being. Something sacred and innocent cracked open inside me. No words came. I shook. I sweated. I sobbed into a puddle of permission to be me.

“Yes, dear. Everyone has a soul purpose. Yours is far from consciousness.”

RW suggested I cut my long hair and ‘put curtains on my eyes.’ Then she/he added, “Your eyes are filled with light. Let them shine.”

RW encouraged me to begin Jungian dreamwork with Eunice, who became my spiritual guide and trusted mentor.

But it was her closing words that nearly knocked me off my chair.

“You will discover the wisdom of our female ancestors, who teach that a woman’s body is our first environment, inseparable from Mother Earth. This is critical work. The patriarchy dominates our culture with toxic masculinity and suppresses the soft strenght of feminine love in all bodies. Many others will join you, including your three children.”

“My three children?”

Mouth ajar. Surely, this was not my future, yet I was exhilarated.

Contrary to crusty patriarchal religious dogma, everybody is sacred, equal, and meant to live with holy meaning.

The soul is the subtle, animating force that bridges spirit and matter. It cannot be seen or proven, yet we feel its presence—and suffer in its absence. Neither purely physical nor fully spiritual, the soul lives in the betwixt and between. It is the body beneath the body, carrying imagination, emotion, and deep reflection.

Soul is what keeps spirit rooted and matter alive with meaning.

Soul-callings do not follow a linear path of logic.

I spent decades resisting that story—my mother’s story. And yet, something ancient stirred and pulled me, cycling again and again through a mysterious underworld of untangling who and what I believed a woman to be.

I didn’t know it then, but my vow to reject motherhood was the beginning of listening to the echoes of women—their awakenings, resistances, redefinitions, longings, and the sacred fury pulsing beneath it all.

It was the early 1980s. Second-wave feminism still rumbled through bookstores and consciousness-raising circles. Women were reclaiming their names, bodies, rage—gathering in church basements with mimeographed manifestos and wild hair. Gloria Steinem spoke truth to power, her aviator glasses, a light and a shield, her voice calm and visionary. Audre Lorde taught us that our silence would not protect us.

I was practicing renunciation, reading Julian of Norwich, Hildegard of Bingen, and Teresa of Ávila, the women who burned for sacred union on their terms. I worked temp jobs, ministered in prisons, marched with Mary Daly for the ordination of women, while devoted to outrunning my aching angst in Boston peace marathons.

I wasn’t running toward motherhood. I wanted the freedom of knowing the erotic nature of woman.

Two decades later, I found myself, once again, living inside the very thing I rebelled against: a patriarchal purity cult led by ‘enlightened men.’

It pains me to say this. After Eunice died, I grasped—desperately for spiritual structure, for meaning, for quiet belonging. Today, some call that a spiritual bypass. At the time, it was the maze that called me.

Once a month, the renunciates—a group I was 'privileged' to be part of (yes, sarcasm) performed a sacred ritual called Shiva Ratri.¹ The ‘enlightened men’ paid homage to a deity shaped like a stone phallus, while the rest of us chanted, fasted, and watched—a scene that veered toward spiritual voyeurism. My prior exposure to the mystics loosened my soul to a state of Nirvana.² I was easily drawn inward to a space of wholesome pleasure—erotic and pure.

That night, I acquiesced to a man from the community who had pursued me for years. I gave in—not from weakness, but because I was overflowing with real desire for the first time in what felt like forever.

Nine months later, I gave birth at home to a beautiful baby. I wanted to name her Bhodhi Bliss, she was my initiation into the honeymoon of motherhood.

---

Can Motherhood Be Considered A Dharma, A Spiritual Practice?³

Absolutely. Motherhood became the path through which I met fears and strengths I didn’t know I had. Dung and gold hidden in myself until my children called them forth. Above all, a fierce love awakened, unhinged, and then anchored my soul in belonging to the environment of woman—Mother Earth.

Motherhood ended my search. It gave my life a purpose deeper than I could have imagined—perhaps just as RW prophesied.

My soul is fed. I am what I was seeking. I am home.

I’ve been lost. When we lose our way in the world, it’s often the soul that’s gone missing. Soul is the quiet pulse of life that weaves body and spirit. When life falls apart—soul hunger calls us—no outer role or success can fill. Motherhood enlivened me closer to this animating force—before ego, before expectation—the original song that called me in the beginning.

I’m a more authentic human because of motherhood. I’ve parented in ways I regret, especially after my twins were born due to medical negligence. I dissociated. I held unreasonable expectations. I isolated. I got over myself, I learned to stay, repair, and forgive—myself and others. Spiritual practice and feminist training did not offer me immunity from systems of harm. I still want an apology—justice for women’s bodies—this is my fire.

Writing as Ritual

As Mother’s Day approached, I wrote short character essays—tributes, really—for my twins and my mother. I reflected on myself as daughter, mother, and soul. You may enjoy my memoir Edge of Grace: Fierce Awakenings to Love, and the links I provide.
My oldest daughter is more private, but I wrote about her for PRIDE month.

---

Motherhood is more than a biological role. It is a relationship of sacrifice and gift. An ancestral memory that whispers from generations past—the unseen hands and hearts that shape us, unite us, and send us forth in the only way we know how. Motherhood is not a universal calling for all women. But like any creative endeavor, it calls forth and weaves archetypal energies: nurturing, protecting, witnessing, cherishing, and composting. For me, motherhood is an ongoing labor of love—not separate from my motherline—but a sacred birth-life-death cycle that began long ago.

“The woman who can face her own destruction, who can face the death of the role of mother, is a woman who has given birth to herself.” ~ Marion Woodman

Dear Generous Reader—You don’t have to be a mother to honor mothers, we need you. Happy Mother’s Day to Mother’s of all time.

Thank you for being here. I appreciate you so much. If you enjoyed this post, please like and share. I’d love to hear from you in the comments. Let’s sing together.

✨ What unfinished songs echo through your motherline?

With love,

Prajna O’Hara

*O’Hara is my mothers’ name, I want to hear her name—always

1. Shiva Ratri: Shiva Ratri (or “Night of Shiva”) is a Hindu ritual honoring Lord Shiva, one of the principal deities. Celebrated with fasting, chanting, and night vigils, it centers on devotion to the Shiva lingam—a symbolic representation of divine generative power, often interpreted as a phallus.

2. Nirvana: In Buddhist tradition, Nirvana is a transcendent state beyond suffering, desire, and the cycle of rebirth. It is considered the ultimate liberation and inner peace. In this context, it refers to a deeply felt spiritual release or erotic-spiritual bliss, unbound by external authority.

3. Dharma: A Sanskrit term with layered meanings across Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism. In essence, dharma refers to one's sacred duty, life path, or soul calling—living in alignment with truth, integrity, and purpose. In this context, motherhood dharma reflects the deeper spiritual unfolding of becoming and being a mother, beyond societal roles.

---

Related Stories: