Where is a book conceived? Some moment of ardor, terror, ecstasy and surrender I suppose. Did this wild intimate book about healing the witch wound choose me to be its parent or did I reach out for its soul long ago?
Certain questions and discomforts have plagued me for a longtime.
What went wrong between me and my mother? Why were we so often at odds even after years of therapy and so much fierce love between us? Why was it so impossible to feel competent as a mother myself? Why did I feel so besieged and isolated? Why does it feel like an act of revolution to heal with my daughter? What would it look like to live in a world where everyone wanted to be a mother? Where teenage boys dreamed of becoming mothers? Where the doctors were mothers and the politicians and the generals? What would it feel like to have enough mothers in the world? Why did I need to dream my way into this?
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