This Is Not Just A Cake

I am feeling so much magic in the air as the reverberations of Autumn-Violet’s birth portal are crashing like waves on the shore of my psyche. From a tearful, grumpy morning, to debates around the term “freebirth”...

I once walked through the door of a psychic and he said to me “you’re a midwife”. When I explained what a doula was, he clarified - “a soul midwife, and right now you’re not physically strong enough to carry these souls”.

For my own daughter’s birth, I had a soul midwife, call it freebirth because it was free of medical interference, but the terms mean less and less to me. Like I said to an expectant mother today, whoever is meant to be there will be there. These babies that are choosing these mamas are wise and know how they’re meant to be born. From unassisted birth at home to birth in theatre. We can’t dictate their soul’s journey, we can only lovingly witness and help in any way to make the transition full of love.

My own NHS EMDR therapist I call “healer in disguise”, she’s a wise woman in uniform and has never made me feel violated.

So this is not just a cake. This is the first cake I have made for my children that I made from scratch, because I’m not strung out, traumatised and exhausted, because I’m full of peace, and my milestone includes using real ingredients, including eggs from the chickens that I feed leftovers to every day. I have no regrets for the past - these journeys were vital and necessary and the gifts I gained from them could not be replicated. Wherever I'm going, I want it to be away from purity and towards Love.

I’m taking the time today to feel the appreciation, the magic and the wonder. Letting sun, grace and gratitude kiss me like a lover. Thank you thank you thank you.

Ahava and blessings,

Jenny xxx

All Women Make Altars

All women make altars - consciously or unconsciously.

I once met a woman through Airbnb who had constructed a bathroom altar to her god, bleach, and even as my stomach wanted to reject the Jack Daniel's and cokes I had drunk, my sense of the sacred held back my vomit. I instinctively knew it would be a violation to empty my stomach in front of this lovingly arranged display. I only knew that I couldn’t do it - later I realised it was because I felt it would profane her altar. I did not know you could control certain bodily functions until that day, and it was a revelation to me.

I have been reading about Hebrew priestesses, to understand why my heart sings the songs it does, relearning what was passed to me through mitochondrial strands instead of whispered at the feet of my elders.

The role of the Jewish woman is one of shrinekeeper, the home as sacred, “living in a shrine of your own making”. One of the gifts I received from trauma was the need to deliberately create beauty, to be my own shrinekeeper, the well maiden offering art as sustenance to weary travellers.

Our mothers had altars. My mother, vials of perfume. Evelyn Rose, for anointing the priestess of the home. Wrists, behind the ears, kissed by flowers and embodying that blessing throughout the day as dishes are washed and children tended.

The jewellery box inlaid with mother of pearl, our small fingers turning over the familiar items as we bargained with the death crone for our share of the treasure. “When mum dies one day, I’m having the opal ring” I remember saying confidently. It glowed like the moon in its silver setting.

One thing I have found difficult recently is deconstructing altars that hold the memory of who I was, that have held space for me. Even as I make new altars that bring me joy and hold the intentions of who I am becoming, seeing the empty space left by hours of incense, chanting and prayer feels like walking through a graveyard.

I said to my mother this morning what a relief it is to cry, to feel so much, after years of numbing. To leave something beautiful for something beautiful is poignant, a privilege.

One of my close friends told somebody she was dating about my wishes for after my death. I had informed her that all my dear friends can choose a Virgin from my home to keep. Then, I told her, she could make an altar if she wished, and if she included a photograph of me she could light a candle to get my attention - it was my intention to continue being a helpful friend in the afterlife.

“Ask me for help with anything” I assured her, thinking of my friend Sally who had passed over a few years previously and is continuing her doula work on the other side. She is a great comfort and help to me.

“Jenny is a weird friend.” her man had replied.

I don’t mind. I send my words out in the hope they resonate with just one person “with eyes to see and ears to hear.”

Ahava and blessings

Jenny xxx

Meadowsweet (The Wise Woman's Folk Herbal Series)

Heads that are heavy, hearts that are weary.

Meadowsweet growing in frothy abundance in country lanes this time of year. It reminds me of snowy woollen bonnets on babies. Hand-knitted clothes by some doting grandma or great-grandma always make a baby look loved.

As wise women infuse their needles with their devotion to innocence that can only come from knowing how difficult life can truly be. Dressing the sweet babe in their hopes and wishes, old arthritic fingers moving in loving service to clothe fresh chubby limbs.

Meadowsweet, a bride's trailing lace, I have been known to remark I cannot believe we ever get married at all these days, that there are still people willing to take on the challenge of a lifetime of patience and compromise.

When I talked about my wedding dress with a friend I said I envisioned the traditional values of fidelity, honour, hope, a country bride crowned with orange flowers, something of that nostalgia...

I want to wear innocence like a petticoat.

I am tired, and my body is creaking and flaring from the exposure to adrenaline that has weakened me as if it were a drug. I fight back tears today as I have to accept there may be some things I cannot do any more, at least for a time.

My husband-to-be goes home and lovingly returns with my basket and some small shears to the place we have eaten lunch, where I am nearly falling asleep on the table. He has remembered exactly where it was growing, where I exclaimed in delight, and he patiently waits while I gather. He remarks, with a laugh as I snip away, "you're singing to yourself!"

"I always sing prayers to plants, but today I am a bit shy because you are watching"

Meadowsweet says to me today;

Innocence is never lost. Nothing is lost which cannot be found. You can gather, and sing, and love, and you will be strong again. Let me lighten the load.

Ahava

Jenny xxx