A woman sits in a high-back chair carefully stitching a small patchwork quilt. Her hands cradle the fabric. It is not a usual or easy task for her but she perserveres. Each day adding a few patches more. As the quilt grows so does her belly. The baby inside is nearly ready to be born.
Stitching the quilt helps the woman to stay calm and centred while she waits, impatiently. A lens to focus her love.
Wednesday. Thursday. Friday.
By Friday night the quilt is finished.
“There”, says the woman, “it is done. Now she must come”.
And sure enough that night the surges begin.
By Saturday the woman was exhausted but the baby remained inside. Her body started to slip away into the gloved hands of those around her. Her mind numbed.
Her labour stretched on and on under the dark Taurus moon.
Finally, on Sunday afternoon a beautiful baby girl with shining copper hair was pulled from her womb with a metal tong. The woman was relieved it was over.
The baby girl, Sunday’s child, was bright and loud. Her curly copper hair marked her apart – no need of a ribbon on her cot. There was no mistaking her.
A week later the woman took her baby home. The patchwork quilt warmed her as she slept.
As the girl grew her light and passion shone like her hair and she was beautiful. The girl loved to sing, to dance, to paint and draw. She saw colours everywhere around her. Colours of real things and those special aura colours which they tell us not to see.
When she was older she learned to write, which she did every day. And she always loved stories. They were her food and she savoured them.
The girl with the copper hair wanted very much to be good. To be loved. She saw that many things she felt and did brought light to those around her so she did those things more. She saw that some of what she felt and did and knew and saw was not wanted and caused pain and fear to those around her. Those things she took and stuffed into the shadow bag which lay always at her feet. Hiding them in the dark.
Into the bag went her power, taking part of her passion with it. Into the bag went her ambition, her ability to set boundaries, to say no. Into the bag went her deep connection with the other worlds, taking as well her empathy. As she grew so did the shadow bag. It was almost as if she didn’t notice she was dragging it around with her always. By the time she was a woman the bag was full.
The girl, now woman, knew she had gifts to share. Gifts of healing, of intuition, of wisdom, creativity, and love. She began her work healing, inspiring and teaching others. And it was good.
But without her power people could take things from her. And they did.
Without her fierceness people could hurt her. So they did.
Without her wild romanticism she could make decisions with her head but not her heart. She could appear rational. But she could not feel she was loved.
The girl was happy as she knew she was blessed and cared for but always there was the shadow bag with her. Reminding that she was only loved partly, loved for her light. Those things were there lurking in the darkness.
One day the girl had a child of her own. The birthing was unlike her own. It was gentle. Healing.
Through the birthing journey the girl with the copper hair travelled within to find her baby’s soul and bring it into our world. On this journey she encountered some of those things which she had hidden in the shadow bag. Her determination. Her deep wellpool of love.
With the baby came these things, back out of the bag. Into the open. They helped her with her mother journey. And she began to see that some of the other contents of the bag was good too.
Becoming mother was powerful. Her energy was flung outward. Exploding. She reached out to the world. Learning. Connecting. Growing.
Her life, which before then consisted of separate unconnected parts, became sewn together. Or at least that is how it seemed. In reality it was always connected, her patchwork life quilt, but it was by becoming mother that she saw her full self. The girl realised that throughout her life she had been working on “patches”. Through her work as teacher, writer, healer, doula, mentor, she was creating beautiful individual patches. Through her connections of daughter, grand-daughter, sister, lover, wife, friend and now mother, she sewed those patches together.
The patchwork quilt of love, made by her own mother, was now resting on her own daughter’s cot, but not on the baby. She slept on her mama’s chest.
A few years past and the girl had another baby. This time a boy.
Again an explosion. But this time, like a star collapsing, the energy rushed inwards. It was time to look within. To reassess the family rhythm. To find consistency in her writing and creativity. To create peace and deep connection. To make real, practical magic
The girl knew it was time to start rummaging again in the shadow bag. It was time to bring those hidden parts to light. All of them.