On Mother's Night, I Embrace You.

Merry Christmas Eve.

Waking in the cold dawn to a deep blue-black sky speckled with stars and a layer fresh frosting on the ground, it finally feels like winter and I offer a sigh of relief.

This day, Christmas Eve, has for thousands of years been known as ‘Mother’s Night’. It is a night to honor the women we were born from, the ancestress who bore us, and to light fires, burn incense and reflect on the places and people from whence we came.

I come from Diana, and she from Wanda, and from me comes Destiny, and from her comes Juniper and Aspen—all of us women, now four generations living, and loving and doing our best. I dwell in this little town nestled in a valley surrounded by majestic mountains in part by fortune, and in part by my mother’s graces. She gifted me this little tin cottage that I call home, and it is the only way I could hope to afford to live here.

I am deeply grateful.

I am also grateful that slowly my own daughter seems to be drawn to our ways, the ways of witchcraft, divination, and honoring the bodies we bear, we carry, we come from and the land on which we live. It is a remarkable thing to watch bodies grow and thrive and to see the minds and hearts mature along with them.

I cannot describe the relief I felt yesterday when, upon first dragging my body from my cozy bed and the pile of beasts who sleep all over me, I was greeted by a slowly deepening blanket of white, and upon opening my front door was met by gently drifting geometric flakes. We have not had any real snow here so to speak of, and the warm, bare winter thus far has been unnerving to me.

As I made my way from Oldladyville—the 96-year-old woman’s home to whom I act as a caregiver, but who is also my surrogate granny—down one of Bozeman’s more charming streets it warmed my heart to feel genuinely chilled. The lights on Wilson were all a twinkle, sparkling in the frosty evening, and people were driving slowly, maybe a bit more so than necessary to accommodate the slippery conditions. My car has been sporting studded tires since the end of November because unlike usual me, this year’s me was on top of it. Last year this time we were buried in the white stuff and the temperatures were consistently dropping below zero, not freezing—zero, -30 at one point.

I realized something at a visceral level as I made my way to my friend’s restaurant to have dinner. I have been feeling “off” because She is feeling off; it’s not just me and my nostalgic longing for something more “traditional”holiday-wise, something that I have had on rare occasions most notably a couple of years ago, and tend to miss this time of year. It was not only a sense of Hiraeth, the Welsh word for “a longing for something that cannot be defined”, though that is there, too. And I am well acquainted with longing. No, part of what is missing lately is the physical snow, and She—the ground, the soil, the trees, the roots, the mountains, themselves—is thirsty.

In past seasons come around February when we are deeply buried, frozen, and utterly over it, I will drive around and “feel” into the roots deep in the ground and “tap” into their riotous subterranean life. Though the branches are bare and thoroughly frosted, I can “see” the leaves and blooms that will feather them in the coming months. Last night I got that sense as the snow settled softly around their base. I could “feel” the roots, the ground—the Mamma—sighing and relaxing as any thirsty body will when it’s finally offered a drink.

Though we tend to focus on Jesus, the Holly King, Santa Clause and other male figures during this holiday and season, I am finding myself drawn to Mary, Jesus’ Mother, who labored to bring him into the world, but even more so: The Mamma (which is my catchall name for the divine feminine), and I cannot help but notice: She is thirsty.

Maybe She needs a long cool drink, a hug, or even a sandwich, but it feels important to acknowledge Her—who gives us so much—and, at the very least, ask what She needs.

So as the year winds down, and the celebrations continue speckled throughout these upcoming brightening days and sweetly swaddled snowy nights, I invite you to ask:

“What in my world, what in my life, what in my heart, what in my psyche is thirsty? And how do I water it, tend to it, and nurture it? What in my own life is asking to to be seen and honored even if it currently dwells beneath a sweet blanket of sparkling snow?

On Mother’s Night, I Embrace You!

I embrace you!

All of you,

not your sparkly bits,

not the things you’ve conquered,

but the parts that you want to hide,

even from yourself.

Bring them here,

and lay them in my Shadow,

and I shall cradle what you cannot bear,

and caress what you hold dear,

draping you in fresh snow,

and bathing you in moonlight.

Come!

And I will rock you though this long night,

holding you by the crackling fire.

And I will kiss you in the morning,

sweetly,

and send you where you must go.

Come here,

Come!

and give me your tears,

your fears,

your losses,

your gains,

and…

All that you think you are

and…

All that you truly be

Come!

I embrace you!

Lotsa love, and merry Mother’s Night!

~Justice