The Mother Lode
To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power. Or the climbing, falling colors of Autumn. —Maya Angelou
Would Autumn, my firstborn, describe me as a hurricane of sorts, the climbing and falling of colors like Maya Angelou did her mother at one time?
She might.
Autumn was born on November 13, 1994, in the comfort of our living room.
Before we celebrate Autumn’s initiation into her 30’s—Welcome, generous readers, retreat and course participants, and treasured friends old and new.
If you read How Not to Lose Your Shit: when the X shows up like Uncle Disney, you know despite my challenge this time of the year—the undercurrent of Love strongly sustains—all of us. Mostly, I want you to know how much I appreciate your readership, engagement, and precious time. 💚
I toggled between many themes this week for you to engage with. As usual, one bled into another, and I ended up writing about XYZ while intending to be efficient. The forces of chaos often interrupt my plans: ER visits, staff changes, world stage, and the typical medicinal purges that grab me by the ass until they don’t—and then I forget the plot. Or, I overlooked the calendar and suddenly realized we’re already approaching the fraught American holiday season of Thanksgiving (Nov 28) and Native American Heritage Day (Nov 29).
I imagine you, like me, catch glimpses of shadow, feel the heartbreak of the land and its people, or hear the bittersweet song of seasons past. I am honored to feel your song and share these precious moments with you.
I’ll start with 'Big Wave-High Knees'—a short video Autumn captured on my birthday—a peek into our spirited shenanigans.
How Would You Describe Us?
Autumn arrived in less than three hours—an erotic cascade of focus, comedic roars, and raw power. Our midwife barely made it in time to catch her. Her dad jogged circles around the house, a towel slung over one shoulder to mop the sweat from his brow, attending to my fierce primal requests: “I need food. Not that—this! My back burns. Why ice? I need a hot tub!…”
Short labors are notoriously intense—a wild ride, like cresting the peak of a roller coaster, the adrenaline-filled free fall, and the fleeting certainty that my body knows what to do. Two of our friends arrived which gave Dad a chance to process a scene that didn’t conform to his spiritual leanings. As rehearsed, our friends held my bellowing body tight like a sturdy velcro chair—euphoric sensations exploded—she’s coming!
Strangely, a powerful lineage of women—mothers stood at my back collectively singing our praises—accentuating all birth as a sacred rite of passage. Then, with one final, seismic push, eight pounds of damp flesh slipped into the sudden hands of our midwife. The room fell perfectly still. Autumn inhaled her first breath and paused, her clear blue eyes were wide open. She peered slowly and steadily around the circle, landing on each of us with quiet curiosity, as though she had been anticipating this circle of arrival—of belonging.
Shamanic and Indigenous traditions share the idea that multiple generations of ancestors—especially mothers—impact the present generation. The Haudenosaunee (Iroquois)1, believe that seven generations2—both backward and forward influence our actions, heartbreak, wounds, and wisdom, shaping who we are today, and influencing the next seven generations. This transmission is often believed to occur energetically through the maternal line as a thread weaving us to Pachamama (Gaia, our Earth Mother) and the sacred feminine—the undercurrent of Love. African and Native American traditions believe that ancestral blessings and unresolved wounds are carried through the womb but can be healed through rituals and honoring rites of passage like birth, menstruation, menopause, and death—our natural cycles. Crones say we pass through birth—life—death every seven years.
I call the early days with baby Autumn Bliss my initiation to honey—moon motherhood.
We were inseparable; our connection felt fresh, wild, intuitive, grounded, and ancient—all at once. She was a champion at arriving womb to breast. I want this feminine nourishment for all women and babies—for women to feel confident in this ancient practice—the rite of passage. My midwife shared that this connection was lost to many women. She struggled to stay in practice; prohibitive insurance costs, driven by capitalist healthcare, left most families unable to afford private pay or derailed by the fear-thriving rhetoric of institutionalized obstetrics. Day and night, we were entwined like a vine to a trellis, growing closer with every breath. I could predict her every need and respond instinctively—holding, nursing, tickling, mirroring each other in a bond of milk, honey, and bananas.
Before she was two, our solid bond was abruptly interrupted by an unexpected helicopter ride to the industrial medical complex. I did not want to go. My womb froze—usurped—without informed consent, without necessity, without my voice or community. Stripped bare of Autumns’ colors, her earthy aroma, and the abalone earrings we had crafted together—the ones her little fingers tapped when she wanted to nurse. I fretted,
How would she find the nourishment and love of belonging to the constancy of me—her mama?
My twins were chugging along inside my womb for six months—until their sudden, traumatic arrival turned our world upside down and inside out3.
But this essay is about centering and celebrating Autumn, the toddler overshadowed—a casualty of circumstance, a witness to chaos, momentarily displaced in the mother lode. Like me, she was on the periphery, as though watching a movie of someone else’s life and wishing it would end as quickly as it began. She had no choice but to be “a big girl”—resilient—without the immediate comfort of her mama’s breast or lap.
I wept through that part, let go of my mouse, and went outside, pounding and screaming belly-down to our Earth Mother. The backlog of grief—systematically discouraged from expression by a culture that repeatedly tells us, “You have to keep it together”—was unleashed long ago. Every time I snuff out stories of injustice, grief knocks on my door. Once befriended, it can never again be a stranger.
I’ve relinquished the race to “pull myself together” —to arrive at a quiet place where strong emotion does not visit. Grief transforms us; it is a doorway to belonging—akin to taking an ice-cold shower—it’s clean, refreshing, and holy. Best of all no one gets hurt.
As a birthday gift bonus, I bought tickets for Autumn, Abby, and me to join a friend at the 50th-anniversary concert of the Grammy-nominated African American vocal ensemble Sweet Honey in the Rock®. Founded in 1973, they remain:
“one of the most dynamic, versatile, and still relevant musical collectives today.”
Their musical landscape spans multiple genres and generations, addressing civil and human rights, women’s issues, gun violence, death, love, spirituality, children’s songs, and so much more. Each concert features American Sign Language interpreter Barbara Hunt.
One song drew our attention to the long history of injustice to women’s bodies—the womb. Each verse ended with the harmonized refrain, “My womb,” and a backdrop of powerful images reflecting their storied mission of empowerment, education, and sovereignty. Their voices rose in a cappella climactic deliverance—with a statement as resolute as stone:
“My womb. Not Yours.”
Everyone in the auditorium stood in solidarity. I was drenched with tender devotion to being present, to not turning away from our roots, our wombs, and undoing colonized patriarchal fuckery.
Autumn Colors
Once our family moved past the critical needs of the twins I did all within my resources to champion Autumn, to restore her Bliss, amidst the climbing and falling of life. This is her story to tell.
I can proudly say that Autumn has matured into a remarkable young woman of sensitivity, kindness, and discernment. She moves through life without procrastination—a quality I admire.
I can’t imagine a more generous and kind big sister. Her birthday and holiday gifts are handmade, her cards are filled with thoughtful messages. She delivers them with a song, a verse, a candle, breakfast in bed, and bears witness to her oceanic mama. She celebrates rites of passage with a natural, flair of genius.
As a Waldorf student, she received written reports from her teachers expressing an ideal student, kind and considerate. In eighth grade, she was voted by her peers to become the president of the United States. When the students were asked, Why?
Because she is fair. Imagine that… for a president. Need I say more?
In middle school, she attended Camp Augusta, a phenomenal community of fun, art, games, and adventure with a wonderful vision for children: To Reclaim and Foster the Beauty, Wonder, Awe, Potential, and Innocence of Childhood.
They exceeded all expectations—a community ally—a source of collaboration that all families need for tending to the undervalued responsibility of the Mother Lode.
I’m not going! I want to stay!
That is what Autumn said as she darted among trees and counselors when I came to pick her up three weeks later. A fantastic scene that I will never forget—that left an indelible mark of immense joy and gratitude—a happiness I cherish to know that her childhood was enriched.
She returned to camp each summer until she aged out and became a counselor. She preferred being a camper.
Carrying the mother lode is discovering strengths you didn’t know you had, meeting fears you didn’t know existed—and dealing with unexpected visible and invisible responsibilities that most mothers would not sign up for. I’ve barreled along, boots on the ground, made mistakes, learned more than all prior roles combined, and found no way to get it right—half the time. I harvested a million ways to be a ‘good enough mother,’ shaped by countless influences, including what I absorbed from my mother, her mother, and the generations of mothers who weren’t allowed to leave a trail.
I was the fifth child of eight in a wild Irish working-class Catholic family with a father who spent more time falling off a barstool than standing for us at home.
You’re fine. You’re the strong one. You don’t need anything.
The words I received from my overwhelmed mother echoed in my brain like a mantra. I was expected to be resilient—able to adapt to life's challenges—the climbing and falling—mostly rising without complaint—to bend without cracking—endure with a smile. Granted my mother’s plate was heavy and a part of me enjoyed being ‘mommy’s helper’, tagging along, adding to the family purse—training to be a breadwinner but my emotional needs were as invalid as hers.
I did not want to pass on a ‘resilient identity’ that shielded me from true vulnerability to Autumn. Estranged from intimacy, I hid behind inebriation, work, and athletic achievements. The risk of rejection felt unbearable. I became a self-help spiritual junkie, unknowingly escaping the very thing I was seeking—myself—belonging to me. For years, I hid in spiritual ashrams (aka houses of the holy fathers), pledged my devotion, purified my body, calmed my mind, and mastered the lotus posture (aka nirvana).
Eventually, the pressure to hide my needs, internalize struggle, and not ask for help led me to cycle through challenging and redemptive journeys. I discovered that escaping is much easier than arriving. Still, I swore,
If I ever have children I will not expect them to be resilient. Sisters and brothers—I was naive.
Fast forward—Autumn completed her undergraduate degree at Reed College, went to NEECA (New England Center for Circus Arts), traveled, drank Ayahuasca with the Shipibos, worked in my office, completed her master’s in Social Work at Smith College, and is currently working at a residential treatment facility. She recently took a solo trip to Italy and brought me back a Medusa. I could write volumes to tell you how lucky we are to cherish her softly, closely with wonder.
@PrajnaO’Hara
Thank you for being human. 💚 As my family is close, I wish closeness and belonging for you with your chosen family.
Can you see the faces of the mothers of your past? Listen they are calling for your healing.
• Time in nature, listening, remembering… smiling to a stranger…
• Wholesome nourishing grounding food like root vegetables.
• Rest, sleep, dream — receive the fullness of your being.
I’d love to hear from you. If something resonates that a friend may benefit from, please share.
Most of my helpers will be gone to celebrate Thanksgiving in a way that feels honorable to them. I will be here blessing the land and my family to honor the history of the Indigenous peoples— mothers backward and forward—to reflect on our shared past, acknowledge the original stewards of this land, and offer gratitude, respect, and justice in their memory.
In the spirit of gratitude, belonging, and collaboration I share this poem given to me on my birthday by a dear friend who SEES US as BELONGING to GAIA; followed by links to a few friends on Substack who I stand with in Solidarity in tender times. There are SO MANY more of us rising together!
GAIA
Come, plow this fleshy earth
plant your seed
deep
where primal waters
nurture all that grows
I am solid ground
it is here
in my pungent folds
you will find your home
Nestle close
listen
for the pulse of molten fire
that is my passion for you
Sink in
further now
to where the immense
nature of my heart
surrounds you completely
You are safe
no storm will touch you now
I will embrace you
while your roots take hold
So as you rise up
from this bed of love
your life blood will run sweet
as nectar through your veins
And you will bow gracefully,
not break
when changing winds blow
knowing our bond
is sacred and strong
© Nancy Bishop Clark 10/23/92 @Nancy Clark
Spontaneous Altars and Small Rituals by
No One’s Ever Educating Me Again: The End of Cultocracy by
Portraits of An Illustrated Life of Writers by
Until next time, I leave you with a powerful quote:
“I've been terrified every moment of my life, and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.” — Georgia O'Keeffe
with love,
Prajna O’Hara, The Salty Crone
Leave a heart 💚 comment, You’re Awesome!
Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass (2013), explores Indigenous teachings and their relevance to modern birth, ecological and social practices.
Akwesasne, Basic Call to Consciousness (1978) discusses the Haudenosaunee philosophy, including the seven-generations concept.
Prajna Ginty O’Hara, Edge of Grace: Fierce Awakenings to Love. 2nd edition, 2024.
"Shamanic and Indigenous traditions share the idea that multiple generations of ancestors—especially mothers—impact the present generation."
I've had this experience, too, Prajna, but in a different context. I experienced through a family constellation--based on traditions of the Zulu in Africa and adapted by a German missionary then working in S. Africa, Bert Hellinger who, when he returned to Germany just after WWII realized that this powerful technique of healing through the ancestors could help his own people and others in the West begin to recover from the horrors of the Holocaust and, now, applied more broadly to heal generational trauma.
The healing session I experienced tapping into 7 generations of mothers is something I will write more about in coming weeks in my Releasing Memory; suffice it to say it provided a powerful affirmation for the ancestor memoir I am working on about an experience I received from my grandmother.
Beautiful, loving energies.
Thanks for prompting me to tell this story soon!
What a beautiful tribute and honoring of your daughter Autumn, of your motherhood, of earth and sky. The edges of all these things bleed together in unfathomable beauty on the page. Thank you.
How your essay inspired: If I stand in the center of my yard, close my eyes and stretch out my arms, I imagine the ancestral matriarchy standing behind me. First my mother, a woman who raised me alone, giving me a great sense of independence; then my grandmother Julia, who taught me to pray in her vegetable garden, pray with my knees on the earth and my hands in the soil; great grandmother Eva, who was in spirit long before I was born, the admired matriarch who made it across the Ocean from Ukraine, across the country and settled in Colorado with her growing family. After Eva, I don't know the faces, just the energy of all the women, all those mothers who paved a way and paid a price.
They are with me. They are in me. How did you discover the light in an otherwise dark cave? How did the water of rivers, oceans and streams come to sing to you? How is it that you know the whisperings of the forest around you and how to make medicine from that? These are things that I ask of them and they ask of me. This is my thanksgiving. I am the last in the line of these women -- there are no children in my life, but the blessings of many nieces who sometimes think I'm the cool aunt. The blessings of young women who I tuck into the folds of my heart by offering support, encouragement and open-hearted acceptance. There is no Autumn for me who will carry on the work, but still I am thankful for the different path that my mothering energy took -- a bittersweet recognition of life not always turning out like you'd planned, but tinged with grace and gratitude nonetheless.
The stories you tell and the way in which you tell them inspire readers like me to look deeper, contemplate more, to find my stories of how I'm woven into this world.
Thank you for the shout out, Prajna. I cherish our connection. May you, Autumn, Libby, Abby and the sweet pup celebrate a happy Thanksgiving. You are in my heart. ~stephanie