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a mamá storytelling her days

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Woman
- Birth & Postpartum
Mamá
- Mother
- Culture in Motherhood
With the Kids
- Outdoors
- Room Sharing
DIY
- Christmas Crafts
- Plant Related
Shop – From The Core

By: Our Everydays February 14, 2017

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#choosetochallenge is the theme of this years #internationalwomensday2021. As a woman, as a mother, as a storyteller, we can choose to challenge the narratives, the stories we were given, the stories we carry, and how we tell it to them so that they see and know the world in a more fair, good, and full of wonderful opportunity kind of way. In our language, in our words, all the power we need. ❤️

Mama’s reading view; little loves on a walk with Dad; win/win ✨

Finding a home in his heart and in his embrace for every stick he finds when on walks/bike rides. Swords, walking sticks, magical wands for the beautiful stories of his imagination ✨ I love everything about this, about him.

One is a rose, and one is an apple peal rose ✨To make things with one's hands. Sometimes message is channeled better through what our hands can do, not with what our words can say. Even as a lover of language, I can accept that language has it’s limits. Still, I like the permanece of written word. It gives permission for return, and I love that. Permission to return, to absorb at one’s pace, with room for interpretation that may be different than the first, second, third time you read it. The variable, what eyes you are reading it with. Are you happy? Sad? Is it raining or sunny? Do you have tears in them? What music is playing in the background? Perhaps that’s why I’m called to write about motherhood, so that I can return with all the different eyes my life will read it with. Or perhaps you’re reading this in a stage of motherhood different than mine, rest easy dear mama, there is no rush; you can return. And perhaps it’s that constant return that makes our stories live forever ✨

A mamá in midwinter’s thaw ✨

The first time I put pencil to paper to storytell, I was eight years old. Simple observations of my days, with i’s dotted with big hollow circles; the playful and youthful handwriting of a child. That day, eight year old me started writing my story, and that same day years later, my daughter would be born. A story of story, and a story that begins again. I am reading my daughter, and to know her in yet another language. A language of words and drawing put together; the art of a little storyteller becoming, become. And then, there is the scent of my baby boy’s feet, that is so specific to my DNA, that it penetrates my cells, and transforms into love. It’s all so mean-to-be-simple beautiful!

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