It’s Mother’s Day, here in the UK.
I’m not a mother, by choice first and foremost. Interestingly, I’ve been told that I’m somehow less than a woman because of this – especially at my age – and that I’m being unfair to others by this choice. Any number of strange statements, which reflect more on the speaker’s opinion than my own (rather important!) life decisions.
A while ago, however, some lovely Lancashire ladies disputed this point of view. They remarked that I certainly was a good mother already. Because I mothered my books, my projects, seeing them from concept into creation. I mentor my students, and those who come to me for help. I’m clearly living my womanly skills in this way, they told me: working and crafting, creating and helping, loving and caring (I know many gentlemen who do similar, but in this context, understanding was achieved).
So rather than tell others what they’re not (or what they should be), I’d rather consider what they are, what they give to the world, how they are loved. Mother or father, son or daughter, we honour our ancestors in our lives as lived.
I do my best.