Editorial ~ Back Issues
by Veronika Sophia Robinson
The Space Between the Notes - TM40
May/June 2010
As a child, my father would walk the length of our home, back and forward, happily playing his piano accordion. He didn’t know how to read music, yet his ability to play by ear was outstanding.
My mother’s father played violin. And although I never met him, I discover a fragment of his soul each time my daughter plays her violin.
At night, my mother would sit on the side of my bed and play the harmonica or mandolin. To this day, I can’t hear a mandolin without a tear welling in my eye, so precious are those bedtime memories. She also played clarinet and harmonium.
My first instrument, at five, was a ukulele. All these years later, I can still see it hanging on my bedroom wall. I then had lessons for the button accordion and piano. I loved my piano teacher, Mrs Bloomfield, a very elderly lady. She charged $2.00 (Australian) a lesson ~ inexpensive, even back then ~ and in my school lunch break, I’d cycle to her house and play. There were always about six to eight children there at any one time ~ all doing theory and then taking turns to play. In hindsight, I see this was brilliant for children as they also learnt to perform, rather than just play. After all, if you’ve got musical talent, then surely it’s worth sharing that. I also had a pan flute.
There was always music playing in our home: anything from Mozart to Johnny Cash, Al Martino to Kamahl, Bach to Schubert. My not-so-pleasant musical memories from childhood include songs from school dances (unrequited love ~ ouch, it still hurts!) and the dreaded weekly school singing session: ridiculous songs that were demoralising.
Mostly, though, music moves me in a way that I often can’t describe. The cello, in particular, touches a place deep inside of me ~ a haunted place, perhaps.
Fifteen years ago, I wrote a wish list of 50 things in my ideal partner: somewhere up the top near ‘vegetarian’ and ‘good sense of humour’, I wanted a man who’d sing to me. The Angels must have had a good ol’ laugh at that one when they sent me a professional singer! One of the greatest instruments must surely be the human voice. The first song my husband ever sang to me was Garth Brooks’ country ballad If Tomorrow Never Comes (would she know how much I loved her? Did I try in every way, to show her every day, that she’s my only one?) Clearly, I can’t hear that song without crying!
In our early courtship, Paul and I would meditate to gentle instrumental music. These days, any meditation is more likely to be outside in the garden to the soundtrack of birdsong and the hum of a bumblebee.
My pregnancy with Bethany was filled with Pavarotti, New Age instrumentals, an assortment of classical music, and Paul’s guitar playing, and singing. Each night as I relaxed in the bathtub, massaging my blossoming belly, I played her a selection of beautifully arranged lullabies. She was born in water, by candlelight, to Mozart’s fine music. As babies and toddlers, my girls would bathe to baroque music, before being massaged with lavender and almond oil at bedtime.
Bethany was barely on two feet the first time she came across a piano. She was captivated, and the joy on her face was priceless. Who’d have guessed that 13 years later she’d be studying grade six piano? She appears to have inherited a musical ear from both sides of my family. Often, she’ll be playing something on her violin and I’ll think to myself “I don’t remember buying the sheet music for that” ~ and then the penny drops: she’s learnt it by ear. Or other times I’ll say “That’s really nice. What’s that piece called?” ~ and it turns out she’s composed it. Bethany’s also learning guitar and flute.
Eliza’s instruments include pan flute, mandolin, ukulele, saxophone and piano. She tends to play the saxophone and piano each day; the sax because she’s having lessons, and the piano because she loves to sing as she plays. One of the joys of unschooling is that they can play as much as they want, without having to cram it in at the end of a long day.
You can imagine that with all those instruments there’s a lot of music filling these rooms. And yet, we still play CDs, too. Generally, when we eat a meal there’ll be something like Putumayo’s Italian Café, which takes us to the romantic eating places of Venice, Milan and Rome. We dine to classical and contemporary Italian songs. Other nights it will be caprices for violin, solo cello, classical guitar or mandolin. By day, we’ll play music that soothes the soul, or music to get me in the mood for housework or to write. Music’s like that ~ there’s something for every mood and occasion. It’s also deeply personal. I’ll often walk into a shop only to walk straight back out because the music is jarring to me. And although I enjoy a wide range of music, I’m never in the mood for listening to a recorder or bagpipes, rap or heavy metal.
My girls are introducing us to new music just about every day ~ sometimes taking me way beyond my comfort zone in terms of taste! Though just because ABBA’s made a come-back with the movie Mamma Mia!, I’d be crazy to think that their teenage years would only be filled with my teen favourites.
I was stunned to learn that only three percent of the world’s population play an instrument, and that only two percent perform on their instrument/s. How could this be, I wondered? Surely, more people must love music? Is it that, as children, they weren’t offered opportunities to learn? Or, as adults, they’ve assumed they’re too old? I’m in my early forties now, and am determined that I’ll learn cello in this lifetime (probably when the girls leave home). I look forward both to the effect on my sense of self, equilibrium, and also the daily discipline of committing to the practice: a living meditation.
Although there’s no doubt that a great teacher can make all the difference in one’s ability to progress through music, it’s also possible to teach oneself if the desire is strong. Instruments can be acquired without breaking the bank. So why, I ask again, are so few people filling their lives, and the lives of others, with music? It breaks all language barriers, and is used in ceremonies for all stages of life. It brings pleasure to the human existence.
One of the most soul destroying things I ever heard said was by a mother who insisted her son learn to play the piano rather than the guitar, as was his heart’s desire. Why? She believed a guitar wasn’t a real instrument! I wonder if she’d have felt the same if she’d joined us at a live concert from Richard Durrant ~ an amazing guitarist, who left us speechless. He played about six different guitars, three banjos and a ukulele.
Our whole lives are based on major and minor scales. We have grand concertos where life feels triumphant: we’ve moved into a new home of our own or our child’s headed off on a tour of the world after saving for three years. There are dark nights of the soul: the loss of a newborn babe, ongoing ill-health, or a husband dying unexpectedly. We would expect to hear minor keys at this time. The mistake we make is in thinking that only major keys and chords are beautiful. Life is composed, quite literally, of many notes. Even minor keys are harmonious.
In Zen, it’s said that music is the sound between the notes.
Sometimes it can feel as if we only hear discordant notes: the neighbour’s cigarette smoke barrelling into our home every fifteen minutes, causing panic attacks and us feeling like we can’t breathe; the tone of a sarcastic spouse who really doesn’t want to be in a marriage; regret at not having communicated fully to a friend. Discordant notes show us where life is off-key. It shows us, in no uncertain terms, that we need to find our way to harmony if we want to enjoy the life we’re living. The music of life is all around us: I see it in the red squirrel I chance upon during my morning walk to the woods, and the joy that fills my heart as our eyes meet; and the hope that tingles in my cells when I spy the incy-wincy tiny red spider near my herb garden ~ an omen of upcoming abundance? Notes of anticipation dance on our pillows as my husband and I hear the owl hooting beneath the full Moon ~ telling us that change is on its way.
Music plays to me in the peach blossoms unfurling outside my front window, and this year’s new willow leaves radiant with the green only springtime can offer. I hear music in my fruit bowl, knowing that all the life force of the Sun and this glorious Earth have combined their powerful energies and created foods for a Goddess. How would a composer describe a puddle of sunshine? Or birds flying south for the Winter? What instruments would describe the apricot skies of a Winter sunset?
Paul and Eliza are down in the Lake District today, busking. Some people think of buskers as beggars, and quite happily take in the sound of their music, but offer nothing in return ~ not even a cursory glance. I think of buskers as gifts from the Universe: part of the two percent of the population willing to share their talents and make this world a more beautiful place. Their tunes bring life to city centres, sleepy villages, seaside resorts and riverside cafés.
Our neighbour busks on his guitar, and is well-known locally for his brilliance. In private, he soothes my cares away as I laze in the bath during his saxophone practice ~ those sexy, soulful notes finding their way through the two feet thick stone walls which separate our homes. All this, for free!
Beethoven ~ without question one of the greatest composers ever ~ gifted us with music even after he was deaf. Do we ever catch our breath in gratitude for such beauty, love, dedication and brilliance?
Children make music all the time. When we live in the present moment and are attuned to them, we can hear it: it’s in their laughter; tears; “I need a hug”; whining; dancing; running, covering themselves from head to toe in mud; a nappy which needs changing; a teenager who needs one-on-one parent time; sullen moods; constant chatter; solitude; neediness… To be in attunement, is to ‘make harmonious’. As a parent, we can listen out for discordant notes and see that as our cue to parent from the heart, and with wisdom. It’s about stepping out of our self-absorption, and listening: to the space between the notes. A parent acts as a resonator: a reflection of the child’s sound; ideally, a synchronous vibration.
There is literal music beside me as I write: Bethany’s played a sonata from the 1700s, followed by a delightful German arrangement called Lieb’ Schwesterlein (Dear Little Sister); Debussy’s Clair De Lune, and is now onto musicals: Don’t Cry For Me Argentina; I Dreamed A Dream… My dream is for everyone to wake up and hear the music ~ especially that gifted to us by our children, whether they perform on a musical instrument; sing a song; or play with dolls made from grass; or telescopes made by holding a stick to the sky. They play, we listen. That’s always been the music of conscious, connected and loving parenting.
Blessings, Veronika
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Celebrity Mothers:
are they a menace? -
TM39
March/April 2010
When I was in my teens, I was flicking through a women’s glossy and came across an interview with Australian actress, Rebecca Gilling, in which she said she sleeps with her baby, like the African mothers do. Something warm and almost indescribable filled my heart, even though I was a decade off motherhood. It reminded me of how ‘right’ it felt when I sometimes got to ‘share sleep’ with my mother as a child. So, years later when I read The Continuum Concept, it stamped a YES on that affirmative place already stencilled on my future parenting heart. It’s funny how when we hear the ‘truth’ it feels like an old, familiar friend.
A celebrity mother in the UK caused outrage amongst conscious parents for an interview which featured her baby’s diamond-encrusted dummy, and a formula milk brand prominently on show in all the photos. Well, that wouldn’t get my vote any more than the plastic breasts which have made her famous with a gullible public, yet absolutely redundant for the most important job in mothering: the giving of liquid love, any time and any place.
Another celebrity mother, who hosts a morning TV chat show, regularly writes in the ‘cartoons’ about homebirth being dangerous, and that babies should be weaned off the breast as soon as their teeth start appearing.
I’ve come to the conclusion that Celebrity Mother of the Year is a popularity contest, and that the only connection it has to mothering is that the women have children. It’s not about how they parent. The voting public, however, is led to believe that these women have mothering down to a fine art, and should be emulated regardless of how slack, dangerous, negligent or uninformed their parenting choices are.
I received an unsolicited review book, recently: the baby diaries of a famous UK television host. I enjoy her public persona and warm smile, so decided to read the book even though it’s not the sort that we’d review in The Mother. Unfortunately for the author, the publication launch coincided with her husband’s indiscretions becoming public knowledge. To be clear, I realise these are her baby diaries (no matter how artificial or contrived for commercial purposes), and not a parenting manual ~ however, when someone writes such a book on the basis of their fame (and let’s be honest, the book wouldn’t have been published otherwise), then the material within is completely up for scrutiny, especially when information presented as factual is misleading or downright wrong.
Shame on her obstetrician for this celebrity believing she experienced a natural birth just because her daughter came out between her legs. In fifteen years of being involved in the natural birthing movement, I’ve never heard of a cervical sweep (always the start of further interventions), prostaglandin gel, being tethered to a drip of syntocinon (synthetic hormones) and injection of an epidural being a NATURAL birth. Please! It may well have been vastly different from the elective caesarean section for her first daughter’s birth, but having her baby delivered from an anaesthetised uterus is not natural, and never will be. We don’t see this anywhere in Nature amongst the animal kingdom. Animals don’t shove their paws or hooves up a fellow creature to ‘move things along’ during birth, or administer anaesthetic to diminish the work of the labouring body, so why would anyone think it natural for mammalian humans? What’s natural is for a human mother to find a quiet, dark and private corner to give birth, without observers and without interference.
I wish I could have explained to this mother, that the fear of certain parts of her anatomy, and the very strange belief she has that men shouldn’t know women ever need to use the toilet (including your husband!?), are very big clues as to why her body couldn’t ‘let go’ and give birth. I’ll bet her obstetrician didn’t share that essential piece of body wisdom.
Our celebrity mother uses dummies instead of trying to soothe her baby with human touch. A baby’s sucking needs are met at the breast, not at the end of an artificial, lifeless, toxic device. She states that babies should be weaned off dummies before they start talking because they can interfere with speech. Again, this is ignorance disguised as wisdom. Babies are ALWAYS communicating, and dummies impact on dyadic communication from the moment they’re born, as well as short-circuiting oxygen to the brain.
She chose to vaccinate based on government information, and called this ‘informed’ choice. There’s not a single study in the world which proves vaccinations prevent disease or build immunity. How can one consider a decision to be informed if only one source of information is used? She states that vaccinations (aka toxins, chemicals, poisons) give a child immunity. What does she base this on? She’s not an immunologist of any description, but a TV presenter! How many families will she influence by these statements? Frankly, her book is a menace to naive and inexperienced mothers, who might well hang on to her every word as gospel.
I applaud her breastfeeding for a year, but was dismayed that she introduced solids at five months, as this flies in the face of even the most conservative mainstream advice of six months minimum. She weaned at 12 months, and says she’ll wean her second baby even earlier. What is she basing this on? Again, the World Health Organisation states breastfeeding should take place for a minimum of two years. I’m appalled at the lackadaisical attitude of the publisher (Vermillion, an imprint of Ebury) for not adding the WHO recommendation! Such a book only adds to the massive amount of social ignorance which exists around a baby’s biological needs and expectations. It’s also very telling that the book has plenty of photos of her babies with dummies and bottles in their mouths, but none of them breastfeeding. I came away from the book feeling that it was the story of detached mothering, rather than someone innately tuned in to primal parenting. To be fair, this mother isn’t to be blamed for her parenting choices ~ she’s both a victim and an example of the disconnected and dysfunctional culture we live in.
Quality mothering isn’t about giving your kids vacations in first class resorts, or £300 shoes, or having the best nanny in town, or pretty pink decor in the bedroom. It’s about being there whether your children are sleeping, playing, vomiting, bored, tired or happy. It’s easy for an adoring public to see you as a ‘yummy mummy’ when the BBC is dressing you to the nines, and giving you a makeover whenever you step out of the door, but does that make you a good mother? No. Wake up, people! This isn’t real. How deeply disturbed the cultural psyche is when it buys that as an image of ‘what children need’.
Jools Oliver swears by the Gina Ford parenting method of leaving babies to ‘cry it out’. This is cruel parenting; it’s child abuse. If adults were treated in the way Gina Ford-raised babies are, the person responsible would end up on all sorts of charges of neglect and grievous bodily harm. But babies don’t matter, do they? We can leave them with anyone, at any time, and as long as the mum is dressing up in beautiful clothes, and being photographed in the media, then she’s a good mum! And, she’s even considered a parenting expert, even though, ironically, she’s not with her own children very much or personally attending to their biological needs!
Parenting is a serious business. We must dig deep, examine our drives and agendas, and bring consciousness to them. Despite the seriousness of parenting, it’s a place for humour, joy and fun, but it’s not something you do for celebrity status. And authentic mothering isn’t something a nanny can do for you.
Many celebrities ~ actors, performers, TV presenters ~ are in that position because they need the limelight to fill a troublesome gap in their psyche. It’s so very easy to enjoy your children when you spend limited time with them. There’s no baggage hanging around. Most mothers make the mistake of thinking that going to work makes them better mothers. No, it means that they don’t have to face their inner demons. For a lot of celebrity mothers, it’s not about what’s best for the baby, but what’s best for them or their career.
We don’t usually accept the average person on the street as an authority on the ‘rights and wrongs’ of childbirth, breastfeeding, vaccination and child rearing, so why do we gulp it down like the Last Supper when it comes from a pretty TV presenter? Why are we being given information from an amateur on one of the most important topics ever written about? For those who work in the media, work can be all-embracing, highly demanding ~ it’s almost always ‘all or nothing’, which leaves such a person in no position to parent a child as Nature intended, so of course they’re going to justify their lifestyle by echoing comfortable phrases used by most people to explain their detached parenting choices. We’re all compromised in our parenting by the nature of modern life, it’s just that some of us draw the line in a very different place. Celebrities are in a uniquely powerful position. However, by speaking uninformed words, they provide a balm for anyone else who is trying to justify a less than holistic way of raising children.
I’m so thankful that Rebecca Gilling was around to plant sensible seeds in my teenage mind, and that my parenting wasn’t shaped by the likes of Tess, Lorraine, Jools or Katie. Very thankful.
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Editor, The Mother magazine
www.veronikarobinson.com
The Slow Cooker - TM38
January/February 2010
My husband, Paul, bought me a slow cooker when Bethany was a babe. I would put vegetable chunks, herbs and spices, with water, into the crockpot each morning, and by dinner time a lovely casserole would be waiting. All I had to do was throw together a salad. By day, my babe and I would visit friends, take long walks in the Auckland sunshine, breastfeed, go swimming, sip juice in a café.
In the early evening, I was able to be with my baby at the ‘traditional colic time’, instead of racing around the kitchen like a mad woman with octopus tentacles!
Slow cooking takes the ingredients, and over time, enhances the flavours. Mothering does that to us, as women. Mothers are like slow cookers. We never quite know what delicious morsels will emerge after our juices begin to flow.
When I was a little girl, I had a very clear vision that when I became a mother, I’d be a writer, so I could stay at home while my children grew up around my feet. I was so bathed in love and sunshine by having a full-time, stay at home mum who had fascinating hobbies and interests, that I knew I wanted my daughters to be blessed with a constant caregiver and companion, too.
It’s bitterly cold today; gales and torrential rain are menacing at the front window, but here, by the warm fireside, I write. Eliza’s spent the day sewing, drawing, painting, chatting, and now she’s playing her saxophone. Bethany’s idled away the hours by writing a screenplay, and stopped for piano practice. Today, her dad showed her chords on the new guitar she’d spent four months saving up for.
In the meantime, I’ve managed to write a feature article, tidy up a book chapter, and start this editorial, all amongst the bustle of family living. Motherhood isn’t something you fence off into definable sections. It weaves its way through our day. We’ve chatted, laughed, had a visitor in the village pop by for a chat, rugged up and gone for a walk in the elements, and written a list of outdoor adventures to do in Nature this Winter.
Mothering is rich, and like a hearty casserole, it takes time for our full flavours to brew. Sometimes, however, mothering is more like a pressure cooker than a slow cooker. Daily life is so intense, unrelenting, and, at times, unforgiving. We don’t know which way is up. It’s 3pm, and with four children under five, we still haven’t got out of our pyjamas ~ for the fourth day in a row. We wonder where ‘we’ went. How did we go from being a person with dreams and ambitions, to someone who doesn’t have time to brush her hair? Writing a shopping list seems ambitious, so what chance is there to write anything else?
One of my many joys as editor of The Mother magazine has been offering a space for emerging writing talent; and over the past eight years some of our regular writers have gone on, not only to have their written work in other magazines, but to be published as authors. Most have a blog (online journal), too, whereby they offer inspiration to others on the parenting path.
Writing, whether for fun, therapy or work, is a natural progression for many women after they embark on motherhood. In some ways, being a mother is like a trial by fire. It consumes our being, and tests our inner resources like nothing else on this Earth. We may consider it psychological suicide to be home all day with ‘just’ our children, yet surrender is the key and salve to our sanity when the days are rougher than we envisioned. Loneliness and isolation evaporate when we see our children as companions, rather than testy little creatures we have to escape from.
Motherhood invites us to be whole, to be honest, and to explore our inner child and heal the psychic skeletons of unmet infantile needs. We all have them, and if we deny them, they pop up in other parts of our life until we face them head on.
Our ‘slow cooking’ seasonings include: the relationship we have with the biological father of our children (regardless of whether he’s alive, or not, active in their lives, or not); how we love and nurture ourselves as women; how we perceive the relationship we had, and have, with our parents; the consciousness we invite to, and invest in, our mothering; the rhythm we bring to each day.
The writing life need not ever be visible to others, as in publication. First and foremost, we write for ourselves. We give voice to our inner thoughts. It’s a way to organise and express inner urgings. I don’t know if the aim of writing should ever be specifically to ‘get it published’. If ours is a message to be shared, it will reach its audience, but I don’t believe that should be our motive.
My friend, Victoria Bennett, is an award-winning author, yet her private writing practice is as inspiring and moving to me as her published books. At the beginning of her first pregnancy, Vikki began to write ‘a love letter to her unborn child’. It was in the form of daily poems. This daily, meditative poetry practice continued through the loss of that baby, as her way of both honouring and understanding his unseen life. Vikki continued writing each day. It was a spiritual journey, and led her towards the birth of her son, Django. Near the end of that pregnancy, Vikki’s beautiful and dynamic sister, Sue, tragically died in a canoeing accident. Writing each day allowed Vikki to stay connected to Django in the womb, and to honour his life, even amidst the grief of losing her sister. Her labour at home was three days long. And yes, she wrote each day through that as well.
Writing visits us in many ways ~ it can be in a gratitude journal as handwritten letters and cards to friends (I treasure each one I receive); a handwritten diary; or electronically, as a blog. Some brave the risk of rejection by sending an article off to the editor of a magazine, and others put their efforts into books. However we channel the writing energy, though, it’s always richer because of the journey we live.
Mothering gives us ample fodder for writing. It’s in the minutiae of everyday living. We don’t need major dramas to ignite our creative spark any more than we need a dedicated writing room, ‘time to write’ or a laptop. We just have to trust the words which come from us, and to us, and deliver them faithfully to the page.
In my childhood, a huge bushfire swept through our mountain. I was lost for words, and desperate to channel my bereft feelings at such destruction into a form I could see: the written word. It was there, as I walked through the charred remains of eucalyptus trees and kangaroo bones, that I realised I would write, not because I could, but because I had to. My writing wasn’t for anyone else, but to help me make sense of my world.
I’m my own worst critic, always berating myself for not being able to write creative non-fiction. I desperately want to place beautiful words and images onto the page ~ to transport the reader to another place and time ~ and yet, they elude me. My need to communicate and get the word out, however, overrides all my desirous fantasies of floral script.
I’ve encouraged many mothers to write, and when they say they don’t know how they’ll find the time, I tell them to write it on toilet paper! If we really want to write, we’ll find ways and means. Keep a notebook in your handbag, scribble ideas on the back of envelopes, shopping receipts; and when you’ve got a minute to yourself in the loo, write! You’ll probably find it easier in a notebook than on toilet paper though.
My daughters write regularly. Bethany’s found a creative niche writing plays and song lyrics/composing, and Eliza’s thrill is historical fiction. By unleashing this aspect of themselves now, the flow of writing in motherhood (should they choose that path) will have already had a channel opened.
Some women have no idea if they can write, because they’ve never tried. I encourage the practice of Morning Pages. Made famous by Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, this daily ritual of writing three foolscap pages of ‘flow of consciousness’ is a tool to draw out the inner creative self. The idea isn’t to prove one’s writing brilliance, or to show it to other people (including yourself), but to release the inner babble that inhibits creative flow. I began Morning Pages when my girls were five and three. I’d awake tired from tandem nursing through the night, and writing was the last thing I wanted to do when the Sun rose. Had it not been for that daily practice and commitment, this magazine wouldn’t have been conceived, for it came to life in my Morning Pages. I played with the idea every morning.
Even if you never write anything but these pages, your creative genius will unfold, and your life will be richer in many ways. The drama stays on the page, and doesn’t knock you out where you need the most energy: in your mothering. We write to keep ourselves in balance: to get the constant chatter out of our heads. The written word allows us to be more present to our children.
Writing a daily or weekly journal about your mothering experience can act as a guide to where you’ve been, and where you’re going. What may start out as a firm, and indelible belief at the beginning of parenting, may be something we look upon ten years later with horror. Did I really believe that? Why? What’s happened in my life since then to give me a different view?
A mothering journal is sacred space, whether we use it for our deepest thoughts and feelings, or to record favourite recipes and quotes, or to treasure a locket of baby hair. It’s our confidante, where we share our feelings of pride, loneliness, sorrow and grief, laughter and dreams. It’s the story of our life, and every mother has a story to tell.
Paul and I wish you and your family the best year ever.
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Editor, The Mother magazine
www.veronikarobinson.com
Stretch Marks
November/December 2009 -
TM37
My daughter, Eliza, and I were lazing in my bed one chilly and misty Autumn morning, when she apologised for causing the stretch marks on my belly.
“But I LOVE those stretch marks!” I protested, defensively and protectively.
“They’re a map of where I’ve been, and how I’ve grown.” Each and every silvery-lilac ribbon corrugating my spongey belly is a picture postcard of the journey in my mothering story: singing the hymns of the six babies conceived in the deep, dark depths of my womb, four rejected by my body, but not my heart; and two nurtured through to birth.
For a large part of my parenting, I’ve edited The Mother magazine. Stretch marks are par for the course when leading a niche, radical parenting publication through the cultural clouds of discrimination, prejudice, disempowerment and ignorance.
The Mother consistently asks parents to be authentic, to question our choices, not just one or two, like: is vaccination a way to build immunity, or does it cause and spread diseases, and destroy the ecology of the developing immune system?
Should boys play with violent toys, or does our spiritual evolution as a species ordain that we model peace, and show them (and their fathers) how to lay down their weapons of destruction? After all, just who are they imitating in their play, and why?
Is institutional learning best for today’s children, or are alternative, human-scale schools more suited to their unfolding of mind, body and soul? What value do home education and unschooling have in the life of the modern family?
The Mother asks us to question everything, and every day: formula drink for babies, is it a life-saving product or counterfeit poison? How long should a mother breastfeed? What about child-led weaning? We aren’t scared to publish information showing that the peace, passion and purpose of a culture rests firmly on the breastfeeding foundations it has lain down for its children (minimum 2.5 years); or that introducing solids at six months is too early for the digestive system, short-circuits the absorption of iron, and the ability to build stores for life. This doesn’t make us popular, but it does make our work authentic, and, ironically, given how long humanity has breastfed: pioneering.
Are plastic nappies ever acceptable when they not only use finite resources, but take hundreds of years to decompose? What about fabric nappies? Should they be mandatory for the sake of babies’ bottoms and the ecology of Earth? The Mother wouldn’t be a primal parenting magazine if it didn’t encourage us to step outside the nappy bucket and ask “why not listen to the elimination needs of your baby, and do without nappies altogether?”
We also ask the perennial controversial questions like: is it ethical or peaceful to farm sentient creatures for human consumption, or should we adopt a cruelty-free lifestyle and abstain? And if, as stated in a UN report, the single most effective act that any individual can do to lesson to the effects of global warming is to become vegetarian, why are there still slaughterhouses on this planet? We ask about the ethics of using the by-products of creatures, as well as looking at the health of the human body, and issues such as eating foods in their natural state.
The Mother magazine is here to nudge us, a little bit more, every day. It’s fair to say that very few people like to be nudged along. I understand that. It’s far more peaceful to stay in our comfort zones. “Ignorance is bliss” is the chant of our culture, and shame on she who dares to rock the boat.
As the voices behind this publication, we’re here to help families see another picture ~ that of intuition and connection to our children ~ and ideally, to make informed choices for optimal parenting.
Every choice, decision, thought and action has an impact, not just on your family, but on the whole world. Such choices can be overwhelming, intimidating, and oh so stretching. We may not feel stretch marks as they’re forming, but one thing’s for sure: once we’ve stretched, there’s no going back.
The growth which creates the stretch marks of a pioneering publication, like The Mother, is bloody hard work, and that’s without even factoring in the treacherous economic waters we’re sailing in right now. Writing for the minority in our culture, with a publication that is definitely “not bubble gum for the brain”, as one reader so succinctly described it, takes courage. In September, 2009, my courage and faith abandoned me as I sat despondent in the mire of ever-increasing lapsed subscriptions from this past year, and I decided to bring The Mother back into harbour, never to sail again.
I pulled my socks up, and with heavy heart shared this fait accompli with our family of subscribers who are on the e-group community. They wouldn’t let me close the doors. They demanded The Mother stay at sea, and together they networked night and day to bring more readers on board. They showed me how many more sunrises we’d witness on the horizon each morning. And even if the weather was foul, they’d be there. Why? Because they had stretch marks, too! They’d grown enormously, and The Mother had been part of that growth ~ their spiritual placenta. “We’ll help you”, they cheered, praying, but also moving their feet by throwing out necessary life boats.
I don’t believe there’s a marketing company in the world that could promote this magazine with the pride, passion, soul and dedication that these families have shown.
I’ve learnt something that I’ve always known theoretically. The Mother network is our family. For most people, their family is held within the larger family of culture, and they take on all the beliefs associated with that. For those of us who hold The Mother as our culture ~ a small but not insignificant sub-culture within the counter-intuitive culture around us ~ we realise how precious and powerful our support of one another is, and why everyone in the family must nurture the other. It’s too easy to feel alone and in exile when we watch mainstream parenting and live our lives from the fringes. For those who find their homeland in The Mother, we remind you of the stunning gifts you’re gifting to our culture by parenting with consciousness. You may not know other readers of The Mother, but I can assure you that this silent and invisible family that they form, is here, energetically, holding the space for your family’s journey.
My family and I are a small but passionate and dedicated team at the hub of the The Mother; our writers, photographers and artists are the spokes which spread the messages, and YOU, our precious reader, are the wheel which carries this magazine far and wide. You’re our marketing department! Share your Mother today. Share what inspires you, makes you laugh, makes you cringe, makes you mad. Share, and watch the world change.
At this moment, The Mother is stronger than ever, but we don’t wish to rest on our laurels, and so we ask that each reader considers how they can share their magazine.
We’ve been contacting our lapsed subscribers to hear why they’ve not renewed their subscriptions. As I suspected, in many cases they simply forgot, due to the business and busyness of mothering. This, I understand. I often put down something akin to a sub renewal/lapsed subscription form to deal with when I’m not making dinner, hanging out washing, hugging a child or taking a phone call. The piece of paper ends up under a child’s drawing, other paperwork and bills, and somehow just disappears into the netherworld of paper, paper, paper. In some cases, though, I heard stories that put The Mother magazine’s future back into harsh perspective ~ stories which stopped me in my tracks and lashed stinging tears across my eyes. Stories of tragedy and trauma...a sober reminder of life, and of other people’s stretch marks.
I laugh now, to think of how often I rubbed coconut oil into my pregnant belly to ensure I wouldn’t get stretch marks! My vanity and immaturity had no idea that at another time in my life I’d celebrate every lilac ribbon as if gaily dancing around a Maypole; that one day I’d know the secret and beauty of life is held in growth. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, storyteller, says that a flower is blooming whether it’s half, three quarters or in full bloom.
I pray that you, too, can see the beauty of your stretch marks.
This editorial can be found in the foreword to the new book, Stretch Marks ~ How The Mother grew (the best of The Mother magazine, 2002 – 2009), published by Starflower Press.
Signed copies available from winter 2009/2010 at www.themothermagazine.co.uk, www.starflowerpress.com
Also available from Amazon or good independent bookshops. Wholesale bulk orders welcome.
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Editor, The Mother magazine
www.veronikarobinson.com
In the arms of Mother Nature
September/October 2009 - TM36
Raised in the arms of Mother Nature on 700 acres of fields, mountains and creek in rural south east Queensland, Australia, my whole being knew every part of that land as intimately as a long-term lover.
When I think of camping, my mind doesn’t conjure up tents or gas rings, but rather, the camping memories of my childhood. At thirteen, with my best friend, who was a neighbour a few miles away, we’d ride our horses up the mountains, and then bake potatoes over a small open fire. We didn’t take tents, but brought our sleeping bags, and lay under the open sky. Not a mobile phone or laptop in sight! Indeed, they hadn’t been invented. Did our mothers worry because we couldn’t call, text or email? I’ve no idea.
Camping: vulnerable to snakes, scorpions and spiders, yet succoured by starlight, the scent of eucalyptus and the still, pure night air. My soul was fed by Nature, over and over again. I know with every cell of my being that boredom and Nature can’t co-exist.
One of my most abiding and treasured childhood memories is of sharing sleep under the great Australian starlit sky with my mother (on the trampoline). There’s nothing like a starry sky to fill a child with awe at their place in this Universe. I was nourished with this throughout childhood.
On the rare occasions it rained, the fields would sprout mushrooms overnight. Off we’d run with our buckets, and return with them full to the brim. No mushroom soup has ever smelt or tasted like that which my mother cooked on those rainy days.
The creek, which wound its way around the base of the eucalyptus and wattle-covered mountains, flowed over granite, and led to a waterfall which pooled into an ink-coloured, deep dam. At the head of the waterfall, to each side, existed secret bowers amidst the exotic maiden hair ferns and soft, sponge-like moss, all of which thrived in the watery mist ~ an oasis amid the dry barrenness of the landscape around us. A whole world existed in these mystical alcoves, and they were my private play spaces.
Diving or belly-flopping into the apparently bottomless dam was always a ritual for initiating our clueless town friends into country living ~ friends who had no inkling about the thick, blood-sucking leeches below.
The water in the creek was crystal clear. There was never any question about whether or not it was safe to drink. We would simply squat down and drink from the gently flowing water, quenching the thirsty work of childhood. On the slate-grey granite rocks, we’d make a small fire to cook our lunch. No Macdonalds or Burger King for us vegetarian children. In fact, the closest we ever came to ‘fast food’ was when the frying pan slipped from the fire into the creek and rapidly headed towards the waterfall, my sister catching it just as it shot over the edge. My heart was pounding at the certainty that she’d go over with it, and crack her skull on the rocks.
They were daring, dangerous days, rich with possibility, adventure, freedom, fun and inspiration. Would I have traded any of those days for the sterile and risk-free lives of so many of today’s children?; children whose every move is monitored by some health and safety notice! Children whose lives are measured by computer games and junk food! Not a chance, not a scar, not a bruise. Each and every risk forged a sense of self into my cells. It made me stand taller, prouder, stronger. I gambled with my life, and scooped the rewards of a free range childhood.
It wasn’t unusual for us to come across the paths of foxes, dingoes, goannas (very large lizards) and snakes. Everything about the Australian bush is dramatic, including the fauna. When bush fires swept through our mountains, I learnt the power of rejuvenation that lives deep in the heart of the Australian bush ~ and in my psyche. I’ve watched months and years of drought engineer tiny cracks in the Earth’s surface: Mother Earth’s stretch marked belly labouring until gullies were scorched and gouged in her skin. Nothing in Nature stays the same. Nothing stays still.
My siblings and I created pastimes by combining natural and man-made resources. A favourite was using cardboard to act as a toboggan beneath our butts as we soared down the hills on tinder-dry grass. Our speed, skill and expertise had us seeking greater thrills, and we soon graduated from cardboard to sheets of corrugated iron. Mostly, we managed to avoid the tall eucalyptus trees on our way down the mountainside ~ but not always.
A disused, rusty, corrugated iron rain tank, tipped on its side, made the perfect roadworthy vehicle as a bunch of us children tread milled like mice inside it ~ knowing we were rather unlikely to come across a car on the quiet, rural dirt roads. Without being able to see where we were going, we moved faster and faster, with great delight.
An old tractor tyre, liberated of its inner tube, hung by thick rope from the pepperina tree in the garden. It made for a great swing, but truly came into its own when we filled the inner base with warm soapy water, and sat inside while someone else pushed it against the tree.
Annual rainfall at Freestone, near Warwick, was a mere 27 inches ~ and yet, on the rare occasions when it flooded, we were not housebound. Childhood continued in full force beneath rainy skies. Our parkas (thick, padded coats), when worn beneath a raincoat, gave us boyancy as we sailed, bodily, down the swollen creek for miles. If only the walk back home on the achingly long Charley’s Gully Road had gone as quickly! My mother’s heart would have skipped more than a beat if she’d witnessed even half the antics of my childhood. During one flood, when my siblings and I tried to cross a narrow part of the creek which we knew well, we held each others’ hands tightly. My youngest brother stood between my sister and I. Half way across the swollen, fast flowing waters, my sister and I looked over at each other, startled to realise that our younger brother was completely under water (well, he was a lot shorter than us!). Though shocking, when he did resurface from the thick, muddy waters, looking rather like a cartoon character, we all fell about on the bank laughing hysterically. It could, of course, have all gone horribly wrong, but then so could many of our childhood adventures! The man-made dams on our property were always brown and muddy, but that never stopped us from swimming in them. Painting our naked bodies with mud was an artistic expression we relished. If we weren’t swimming, we were building go-karts from whatever bits of wood we could find, skipping rope, climbing trees or playing hopscotch. There were many trees which were easy to climb, but near impossible to get back down. I spent half my childhood in a see-saw of triumph and tears trying to extract myself from the arms of a mischieviously inviting gum tree.
I can’t recreate my childhood for my girls ~ they have to carve their own magic from the Nature around them, and they have. The gentle English countryside is vastly different to the bold, brutal and brilliant Australian bush.
My childhood garden was a paradisical Eden of papaya, carob, fig, avocado, banana and olive trees. I played beside exquisitely scented flowers of frangipani and freesias, and the colourful pink heads of hibiscus. Kangaroos and kookaburras came to visit. My mother and I did rain dances to appeal to the goddesses for merciful relief from the relentless droughts. My daughters can’t imagine it not raining. Red squirrels and hedgehogs visit their garden, a quiet place where fennel, honeysuckle, starflowers and nasturtiums beckon bees and butterflies. The girls rake books outside for literary banquets beneath the plums and pines. They shade themselves beneath sycamore, Scots pine, willow and silver birch. My trees of shade were eucalyptus and pepperina. I spent countless hours devouring passion fruit, and up trees delighting in hypnotic delights mulberries and wild apricots. My girls have grown up foraging the lanes and wooded areas for gooseberries, blackcurrants, blackberries, wild cherries and raspberries.
As a family we celebrate the distinct English seasons in various ways, including a seasons’ table. Our Autumn altar always features the gifts found on our walks through the Cumbrian countryside or our garden: elderberries, golden sycamore leaves, crab apples, rosehips, conkers, blackberries, sunflowers and pumpkins. Our hearts bear witness to what the table does not: the damp, musky smell traced from the woodland floor; wild geese stencilled against the tangerine horizon; the nip at eventide taunting us to light the first crackling fire of the season; a full Moon’s synastry with the mysterious valley mists; the wind whispering that soon, very soon, it will be time to go inwards again, to reflect, revision and review. Time to let go of Summer. “Go on, girl. Let go!”
Childhood is but a distant memory, a fading dream, and yet Mother Nature is still my best friend, my first port of call in self-nurturing ~ my comfort, joy, tonic, salve, solace and inspiration.
Keeping children quarantined from Nature is the social disease of our time. All children, regardless of their sex or parental upbringing, biologically expect daily interaction with Nature and the elements. If you do nothing else today, please, please, wherever you live and regardless of the weather, take your child outside. Go barefoot, if you can, into the woods, the beach, city park, marshlands, rainforest, meadow, sand dunes or fallowed fields. Run, skip, hop, walk, dance, sit or lie down. Breathe, feel and melt into the arms of Mother Nature. She’s waiting for you.
Autumnal blessings,
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Editor, The Mother magazine
www.veronikarobinson.com
Sunshine on their faces -
July/August 2009 - TM35
Ah, the joy of basking in sunlight these past few weeks. My skin will never forget its Australian upbringing, and the pure pleasure of sunkissed warmth I still feel every time I step outside into sunshine. My family and I have enjoyed soaking up every second of it. I never take the life-giving properties of the Sun for granted in England, and always make the most of its appearance. I’ve no doubt that one day it will lure me back to the southern hemisphere permanently. I was raised on strong doses of sunshine and undiluted love, and I live each day ever thankful.
We’ve pottered in the garden, prepared vegetable beds, tended fruit trees, bushes and canes, and spent long hours sitting in the sun ~ Eliza practising saxophone, me talking to the plants, and watching the birds and bees come to visit; and Bethany reading the Twilight series over and over again, fully alive and immortal in the world of teenage vegetarian vampires. Paul’s dad was a gardener, and he reckons the gene skipped a generation, but he’s quite happy to pitch in to my gardening plans, and do all the ‘boy’ jobs without fuss.
Countless beautiful cards, letters, gifts and phone calls have come my way over the past seven and a half years ~ all are expressions of joy, delight and gratitude for The Mother magazine. You’ve written from the heart. This sustenance, respect and appreciation is the lifeblood of this magazine ~ it helps us to know we’re making a difference.
I’m always deeply moved and humbled, particularly so because I’m fully aware that this is no ‘one woman job’, even if, on a day to day basis, it feels like it. I steer The Mother ship, but I’m surrounded by a team of more than capable mariners without whom she wouldn’t leave the harbour.
We’ve had regular columnists come and go over the years, and many of their names will be familiar to longer term readers. To be a regular writer on this magazine requires not only an ability to meet due dates, but a dedication to the issues at hand. Without this commitment it would be very challenging to put together a frequent publication. The occasional writers, artists and photographers all add their touch to this publication. But what about the names you don’t see appearing as bylines? The names which don’t get any so-called glory, or have sunshine on their faces?
At Reeds Printers, I’m always greeted warmly at reception by either Louise or Pat; and Simon ~ my ‘main man’ ~ is responsible for taking my work to the printing stage. I’d be lost without him. To this day, I’m a techno-dunce, and he patiently deals with my queries and frustrations. Dene, the manager, is always available and helpful. All the people in the printing and packing department ~ most of whom I know only by face, and not name ~ play a role, no less important than the other ~ right through to Graham, who cheerily delivers each issue right to the door of our tiny cottage, rain, hail or shine.
When I first decided to publish The Mother, I went into Reeds Printers and met one of the last of the breed of true gentlemen: Malcolm (sadly, now deceased), the manager, who carefully guided me through the publication process. He always showed genuine interest in The Mother, and I never felt like this was just another printing job to him. He gave definition to the expression: excellence in customer service.
I could have had quotes from other printers, but I didn’t feel the need to. In business terms, it would have been the sensible thing to do, but I’ve never once regretted not doing so. What I never expected, in all these years, was how many other printers would come knocking on my door trying to seek out my business. These people never seem to understand that their quotes are about money, and not about relationships. I have a relationship with Reeds Printers that I value ~ something which was earnt, not bought, even though I do pay for their services ~ and even a competitor’s half price quote won’t have me betraying this monogamous relationship!
This isn’t just about business ~ it’s personal, and reminds me of the attachment parenting journey. Many people think that the AP lifestyle ends once the baby is out of arms, out of the family bed, or fully weaned from breastfeeding, but it doesn’t work like that. Attachment parenting is about trust ~ and that’s a lifelong commitment. Just because your children become teens, make independent choices, disagree with you, get married, have babies, or head off to college, it doesn’t mean your job as a parent is done. And likewise, with my printer, just because TM is up and running it doesn’t mean I take off and find another printer. My public gratitude to the staff at Reeds Printers is long overdue, but nevertheless is heartfelt and ongoing.
In love, parenting and business, my husband, Paul, (this Captain’s First Mate) has always stood shoulder to shoulder with me. He truly is the wind beneath my wings ~ as immortalised in Bette Midler’s haunting song, which always raises me to tears. Not only does he ensure I’m well cared for throughout the day, he supports my decision making, and questions me if necessary. He keeps me on track. To say he’s my rock doesn’t do him justice. He’s my Terra Firma, and my whole world would fall away without him.
Paul holds the space for our children while I mentor subscribers, and navigate my way around deadlines, mailouts, mountains of emails, and, oh yes, editing! His keen Virgoan attention to detail as proof reader and assistant editor (and maker of hot drinks!) is such an asset to my computer-weary eyes, as you can tell if you compare early issues of The Mother to those of the past couple of years.
Paul’s a daily example of the difference fabulous fathering can make, not just to the children, clearly, but to the mother and how she goes about her day. I can’t even begin to imagine how I could have parented these past 13 plus years, or edited this magazine for seven and a half, without such an empathetic, considerate, humorous, kind and caring soul by my side. They don’t make men like him every day, and I still keep pinching myself. His dedication and commitment to me and my life’s work go way beyond the requirements of a soul mate and business partner.
Two of the faces which need the most sunshine cast upon them are my daughers ~ Bethany and Eliza. I wonder how on Earth I managed to put together a magazine when my girls were toddlers (and how they managed to let me!) ~ especially given that Paul was working outside the home full time. They’ve sacrificed a lot of their mother in order for me to put out The Mother. The irony doesn’t escape me, and I can only pray that in all these years of bringing the message of natural parenting to others, my children haven’t felt betrayed and abandoned by me. I’ll never know the full impact this work has had on them, though I’m left with no doubt that their parenting instincts are already intact. They get as twitchy as I do when we’re out in public and they see babies and children not having their needs met, and ‘parented’ by synthetic substitutes of various forms and/or otherwise ignored and their cues misunderstood.
Nowadays, Bethany and Eliza help pack up the magazines, and are always gleefully counting down to their bi-monthly pay day. Most importantly, they always ‘ooo’ and ‘aaa’ appropriately at all the delightful photos which come into the office.
Richard House deserves special mention, for he has written for us in every issue since TM2 ~ that’s dedication! I’m honoured to have such a committed and passionate writer on our team. Thank you, Richard.
Thank you to the women who actively help get The Mother out to new families through their committed networking: Amanda and Ruth. Thank you to Cindy, Laura, Lynda and Jody for all the work you’ve done in bringing TM to New Zealand and America ~ your friendship, love and support for these messages are deeply valued; and to the team at The Art of Change for managing the administration of The Mother for two years, I thank you.
Our beautiful new website is thanks to Karen Arnott, who willingly took over the long-term role of web mistress from Shazzie. Thank you to both of you lovely ladies for sailing us far and wide on the big world wide web.
Thank you to the financial angels who’ve gifted The Mother to keep the cogs turning when my faith was way higher than the finances. Thank you for believing in the children of this Earth. Your kindness brings me to my knees in gratitude.
My friends, near and far, seen and unseen, provide a lovely emotional support team ~ thank you.
Another face which must be raised to the Sun is my gorgeous mother. Her essence is on every page and in every issue of magazines sent all around the world. She’s no deckhand, though, but the water upon which this brave and bold boat sails. Her ocean has always nourished me, and still does, even though the Earth’s oceans are literally keeping us apart. This magazine exists because of you, mum, and my life’s work is a testament to how you confidently, yet quietly, raised your eight children.
As parents, we are the wind beneath the wings of our children, and oftentimes it can feel as if the Sun just doesn’t shine upon us. Parenting can feel like such a thankless, unrecognised job ~ like a long English winter, depending on family dynamics, life circumstances and how many times your child has vomited on you in the night. Don’t let this deter you from wholeheartedly doing the best you can.
Our children fly because of the strong foundational roots we give them. It may take decades to feel the full rewards of our work, but that’s not why we become parents. As Kahlil Gibran writes: “You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The Archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the Archer’s hand be for gladness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.”
We most easily find sunshine in our parenting when we learn to live in the present moment, rather than waiting for some future time ~ either an imagined time of prosperity or well-being, or a fixed social event. We only ever have this present moment. It is here, in gratitude, that the Sun shines ~ even when it’s obscured by heavy clouds, it’s always shining. To the children of this world ~ thank you for making us strive to bring beauty and respect to your world, and this one life we all share. Your innocence is the only currency of true value.
For all the people, near and far, who bring life to The Mother magazine, and to you, the reader, I send you a Summer full of glorious, life-enhancing sunshine to warm your days, the scent of honeysuckle to fill your soul, and a daily dawn chorus to put a song in your heart. If you’ve never heard me say thank you before, please hear me now ~ for my gratitude to you is the soundtrack to my life. Thank you! Go in peace. Veronika Robinson
Extracts from the lyrics of Wind Beneath My Wings
It must have been cold there in my shadow,
to never have sunlight on your face.
You were content to let me shine,
that’s your way.
You always walked a step behind.
It might have appeared to go unnoticed,
but I’ve got it all here in my heart.
I want you to know I know the truth,
of course I know it.
I would be nothing without you.
I could fly higher than an eagle,
‘cause you are the wind beneath my wings.
Fly, fly, fly high against the sky,
so high I almost touch the sky.
Thank you, thank you, thank God for you,
the wind beneath my wings.
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Editor, The Mother magazine
www.veronikarobinson.com
Colours of the soul
May/June 2009 - TM34
For a while, my heart had been set on painting our bathroom turquoise, but living in a damp, old, sandstone cottage, built in 1676, meant biding my time until Winter had taken her cloak of moisture to other lands. Patience, not my strong point, saw its naked self taunted by that long, drawn-out season.
Paint, in this house, has an unattractive party trick of slipping off the walls the minute the brush flirts with bodily contact.
It’s always such a thrill to me to change the colours of a room, to bring in new energy. I’d lived with sunshine yellow in most of the rooms for quite some time ~ an antidote, I’d hoped, to the miserable, grey British weather ~ the opposite of my Australian childhood, lived out in full spectrum lighting.
The dining room walls ventured from sunshine yellow, when the girls were toddlers, to terracotta; and then, last year, my heart yearned for lime green. I knew without doubt that I needed that colour around me on a daily basis. And I trusted that my hunch for cerise in the kitchen, and turquoise in the bathroom, would satiate my soul.
My mother practised colour therapy in my childhood, in lieu of allopathic medicine, so I’ve long been aware of how we’re influenced by the colours we wear and surround ourselves with, and their place in healing ailments and disease.
Winter went on her way. At long last the time came when I could slip on my oasis of calm turquoise ~ a warm, yet calming, colour which reminds me of the sea water surrounding Auckland, New Zealand, where my daughters were born. Out came the paint, and on it stayed. But when the turquoise made landfall by the rich dark purple we’d known for a few years, my heart sank. “NO! This is going to be awful. How could I have got it so wrong? What have I done?” At first, I didn’t dare let Paul come in to view it. But I kept on painting ~ after all, that’s what you do with a tin of paint! The colour which I’d fallen in love with in my mind’s eye months before, was now becoming more familiar to my eyes ~ it was starting to make a statement and speak up against the purple: finding its voice. My friend ‘turquoise’ was making its mark, showing me its full glory, defining its space. “Ah, this is better.” Our bathroom, like the kitchen, isn’t cat-swinging size ~ more postage stamp ~ and prone to mould pretty quickly, so we paint the ceilings the same colour as the walls. Paul finished painting the room, and when I came back all signs of purple were gone. I was comforted in the psychological waters of an oceanic calm.
With each brush stroke, I had been reminded of parenting, and how when we embark on new ways of relating to our children, and indeed, our life partner, we can so easily question if we’re making the right choices. Dismissing instinct starts becoming second nature. Perhaps the colour isn’t right after all? And yet, if we see things through, persevere a little, listen to the colour, feel the colour, try it from different angles, trust the colour ~ trust our soul whisperings ~ we come to a place of recognising that the old ways might have worked for a while, but it’s ok to move forward ~ to become anew in our selves.
When we hear intuition ~ call it what you will: gut reaction, a knowing ~ we’re able to listen over and over again and know that nothing, not even the most logical theory in the world, can match that inner voice. Our inspiration, creativity and survival thrive when we listen to our sixth sense. When you feel an idea, inclination, inspiration or even a warning, listen, and listen well. Prioritising quiet time ~ sometimes called meditation (though, for me, it commonly happens at the bottom of the garden when taking out the compost!) ~ allows us to refine our sense of knowing. Listen and acknowledge times of coincidence, serendipity and synchronicity in your life. Like a well-worked muscle, the more it’s worked, the more it will make itself available. There’s no stronger tool on our parenting path than this inner voice: our inner colours.
Other people will always have opinions on our colour choices ~ family, friends, strangers ~ and indeed, we’ll have opinions on theirs. I’ve no doubt that many people couldn’t live with the colours in my home ~ especially my landlord! ~ and equally, I’d find it difficult to live in a house which is dressed in grey, beige or all white (in this climate, anyway). If we don’t dare to be bold with colour, we’re unlikely to be bold with our dreams and passions. Colour expresses our mood ~ it speaks to our soul, and, I’ve no doubt, from our soul.
What are the true colours of your parenting? Are they vibrant, joyous, adventurous, spontaneous, slow, deliberate, happy, charming and calming? Do you paint the walls of your heart in the way you wish, or the way others wish you would? Just as house decorating adverts and tv shows tell us the latest fashion colours, so too does culture dictate the colour of parenting. But do we have to listen to the latest fad? Can’t we paint with the colours we love?
The latest trend in parenting might be to have your baby reciting the alphabet at two, or staying in a car seat 15 hours a day, or in nursery to ‘socialise’, but if your instinct is intact, and you feel the call of biology to nurture your baby in-arms, co-sleep, breastfeed on cue and eat whole foods, then feel proud of the colours in your soul, and don’t hide your light.
If I’ve learnt anything as a mother, it’s this: find your colours, those that make you swoon, and let them play out in your life. Change them when your heart calls you to ~ whatever you do, don’t play ’safe’. Colour, like intuition, tells us so much about a person’s history and future, but most importantly ~ the present moment. It illuminates like nothing else can.
This summer, sing a rainbow. Grow tall, bright yellow sunflowers, and indigo lobelia. Bathe with rose soap. Don a sky blue sun hat. Let orange nasturtiums dance like fire from your window boxes, and throw a sage green patchwork quilt across your bed. Eat juicy, ripe mangos naked in the bathtub; dig your hands in rich, fertile brown soil. Go on, wear that bright red bikini on the beach. Read your child a fairy tale inside the arms of a lime-green willow dome. Grab your trug and pick maroon aubergines, forest green spinach and parsley, sweetcorn and courgettes as bright as the sun, and tomatoes the colour of summer. Hang large bunches of lavender up to dry, so they can bring your senses alive when they incarnate into wee cushions for your underwear drawer.
Have you ever stopped to imagine a red sky, black grass, pink soil and a yellow ocean? Nature gave us colours for a reason. And we’re here as humans, amongst other things, to experience ~ we are the sensors of the Infinite ~ colours, in all their glory and subtlety, which are here for the painting, the seeing, the feeling.
So paint a rainbow in your heart, and love your children loud and strong, and love yourself.
Sending you Summertime blessings from the heart of Cumbria, in all her finest seasonal colours.
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Editor, The Mother magazine
www.veronikarobinson.com
Jigsaw puzzles and old coats
About fifteen years ago, I left my adopted country of New Zealand, and headed to the northern hemisphere to travel around. I came to England, and also journeyed to Belgium and North America. When I arrived back in New Zealand, six months later, I had $10 to my name.
I was offered a job in a jigsaw puzzle factory to help me get back on my financial feet. I only lasted a few weeks because I can’t bear repetition of any description ~ even though, according to my learning style, that’s how I learn best.
Second after second, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day of packing jigsaw puzzle pieces into boxes nearly sent me to an asylum. I’ve never quite seen jigsaw puzzles in the same way since: they no longer hold that nostalgic appeal of sitting for hours with loved ones and quietly creating a picture together by the fireside in the depths of winter. And, I now know, many puzzles don’t come with all the pieces. Why? Because the bored people who had to put them in boxes back in the factory usually got so fed up that they pulled one or two pieces out of the pack!
I was reminded of jigsaw puzzles recently when we had The Mother magazine’s editorial ‘mastermind’ meeting. This is our weekly get-together, where we talk about our current publishing programme, and what articles we’d like to publish, and the direction of this publication.
We were discussing what makes The Mother magazine different from other natural parenting magazines, and the key thing, we felt, was that we’re not like a comfortable old coat ~ at least not necessarily for those new to this way of living. A comfortable coat feels like a second skin. You almost don’t know you’re wearing it.
The Mother magazine was never designed to be a ‘one coat fits all’ garment, but rather, a pattern to modify and make one’s own. Its purpose is to ask parents to question their life, their choices, and, to first and foremost, honour children’s biological needs without compromise. And of course, not everyone wants to do that. Our culture certainly doesn’t encourage it, so of course, The Mother magazine can feel ‘bloody uncomfortable’ when you first try it on. In terms of the general parenting population, The Mother magazine is a comfort zone for very few people. Why? Because the ethos behind this publication is very much like a huge jigsaw puzzle, with so many different pieces that it is rare for a parent or family to have them all joined up together at the same time. Indeed, it can take a lifetime to put all the pieces together and see the ‘whole picture’ of what it means to live ethically, consciously, holistically, honestly and mindfully. It’s a big ask, but we believe families are worth it.
Sometimes we pick up the pieces of nutrition and full-term breastfeeding, and run with them, because we identify so strongly with them; and yet we haven’t found the puzzle piece on cotton nappies, or the one on elimination communication.
Some people pick up the piece on baby-wearing, but haven’t found the one on ethical clothing. Another family may have found the piece on human scale education, and yet can’t see that every baby is born expecting to breastfeed. Some families religiously put out their compost, and grow their own vegetables, but haven’t connected with the importance of honesty in communication. Sometimes people pick up The Mother magazine and think they should have all the pieces together. Life doesn’t work like that. It’s an evolution, and our lives ~ personally, and as a family ~ are also an evolution.
I was reminded of this jigsaw again when I received a lovely letter from a woman who questioned why she felt challenged when she saw images of an older child breastfeeding. Very few people reject ideas and then go on to ask themselves why they’re uncomfortable, insecure, frightened or confused. It’s too easy to dismiss an idea, practice or belief as crazy without wondering what it is showing you about yourself. It takes great strength of character to go inwards and look beyond the cultural cobwebs which veil our conscious thoughts. Too few people ever wonder if they’re compromising themselves or their children. It’s irrelevant whether this lack of inquiry is for reasons of habit, convenience or ignorance.
When most people pick up a coat from the rack in the clothes store, they try it on for size, style and colour. Our culture hasn’t taught us about redesigning, reinvention and imagination. You see, although you can’t make The Mother magazine fit you, you can try it on for size, comfort and style, and make modifications. Who says the collar has to stay on? Why not add pockets? And that darn lining, go on, rip it out if you don’t like it. Sleeves too long? Trim them down. Sleeves not long enough? Add a few inches of different fabric and make jazzy sleeve extensions. You might find one day that your friend is in need of a coat, but you wonder what she will she think about those patchwork purple pockets. It’s highly likely that you’re convinced she’ll judge your ‘style’ as faulty or a bit too eccentric. And will she wonder if the tartan collar is too much? If you give her your coat, do it without conditions, and let her decide the redesign features. Funny thing is, sometimes we’re sure a friend couldn’t possibly like tartan, only to discover it’s their favourite pattern!
Redesigning a coat, and wearing The Mother magazine, are the same thing. They take creativity, imagination and a willingness not to simply take a coat off the rack and assume the status quo is right just because everyone else is wearing the same coat.
Learn to love your coat, no matter how different it looks from all the straight-off-the-rack coats.
The Mother magazine coat is a celebration of family, an honouring of a child’s biological needs and expectations, and the core values that must sit in the rock of culture’s foundation if we want peace and love to make our world go round. Our materialistic society is going through a massive shake-up in consciousness. Suddenly, people are finding themselves without jobs, without incomes, and their houses are being taken away. If their values weren’t in place before this happened, they may not psychologically survive.
The family which has honoured love, kindness, simplicity, honesty, and living from the heart, will ride through the turbulent waves. We have one goal here at The Mother magazine: to offer you a coat which is warm, snug and will keep you certain of your important role in the world: encouraging you to listen to your instincts and honouring your children’s needs. We can’t promise that it comes in your colour or style, and we’re definitely NOT fashionable (Shock! Horror!), but we know that you’ve got the imagination, courage and wisdom to jazz it up just the way you like it, and even make your own version of Dolly Parton’s Coat Of Many Colours.
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Editor, The Mother magazine
www.veronikarobinson.com
The Curiosity Gene by Veronika Sophia Robinson
‘Twas the month before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. All was quiet, and although the school bus had long since passed our tiny, sandstone cottage, my home-educated daughters were still asleep. Eliza had spent the night in my bed, and the last I saw of her, she was snuggled up beneath my patchwork quilt.
Suddenly, down the stairs, with the biggest voice you’ve ever heard, Eliza came yelling. “I’m sorry mum, I’m sorry! I’m really sorry. I really am!” I did a quick mental check: no crystal vases to be broken; no fancy clothes which could end up with felt-tip on; in fact, materially, I have very little that she could damage. There was no roar from the lounge room, so I was sure she’d not set the chimney on fire by stuffing newspaper into the fireplace. The cats were nearby, so I knew that neither one had been tossed into the pond like she had done several years ago ~ to see if it really was true that “cats don’t like water”. Hmmm. What could she be so sorry about? Eliza was apologising for her curiosity, a gene inherited from me. Ok, my husband has the curiosity gene too, but his is a ‘good’ gene.
A few days before, a parcel had arrived that I didn’t open in front of them. Immediately, their suspicions were aroused, and they badgered me for hours about the secret contents. As the resident hawks, they’re used to watching every last piece of mail that comes through the door ~ usually looking out to see if their Grandmother in Tasmania has sent me a secret stash of chocolate.
The parcel contained a second-hand flute from Bethany’s cousin. We’d actually enquired about it a year before, when Bethany had said she’d like to learn the instrument. After checking the contents, I hid the parcel safely under my bed.
On that long, quiet, Winter’s morning, while I was downstairs working, Eliza had dropped a book on the floor by the side of my bed. As she bent down, she saw the parcel. And that’s where the surprise and magic of Christmas became a little unstuck.
Like the invisible force that draws toddlers out into the world regardless of consequences, Eliza was drawn to peep inside that parcel. Curiosity pulled her right down onto the cold, wooden floorboards and into that packet. Imagine her thrill to see such a glorious gift! How could she keep that saucy bit of information to herself? She immediately shared the wonder of her find with Bethany, who was torn between being distraught at her ruined surprise and the sheer pleasure of a dream come true!
Eliza couldn’t keep her discovery from me, and knew she had to ‘fess up. My girls are aware that I have zero tolerance for liars of any age, and that no matter what a person does, no matter the size of the ’crime’, they should always be honest, and do so as quickly as possible. With this knowledge etched into her being, and knowing that it was safe to be honest, she came forward, boldly, with one huge piece of bargaining power in her favour. She held information about my childhood that, in hindsight, I perhaps shouldn’t have shared so readily.
As a young girl, I would deliberately go off on my quest to discover what treats awaited me at Christmas. Our built-in wardrobes provided wonderful staging for my agile legs and arms to climb upon as I went a-searching up to ceiling height to see what my mother might have made or bought. I was never disappointed as I looked under jumpers and blankets. Our Christmas tradition involved not wrapping presents, but bringing them out on Christmas Eve and placing them under the tree to look at while we sang carols. Such a tradition is perfect for people like me.
Not much has changed over the years. I can’t leave mail unopened or leave a treat for some unknown time. Delayed gratification isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Eliza and I are ‘want it now’ sort of girls. Don’t even ask how Eliza and I manage to get through December when there are little goodies in the advent calendar pockets just waiting for us to consume them!
On the first day that I went to work on my local newspaper, the editor called me into his office to ask me what sort of clouds were in the sky that morning. He constantly reminded me how important curiosity, as a journalist, was. He wasn’t so appreciative of my latent curiosity when I came back with photos for my articles which weren’t taken in a conventional way. He would often sigh, “But, Veronika, my insurance doesn’t cover you going out on the lake in a speedboat, or up the crane.” My curiosity always led me to seek a better view, a different angle, another way of looking at things. I’ve spent my life always wanting to know more, digging a bit deeper, exploring a bit wider. All of the men I had relationships with before I met my soul mate complained that they had to ‘think’ when they were with me: that I asked too many questions! As it turns out, I’ve never much enjoyed the company of people who aren’t curious to learn more.
They say that curiosity killed the cat. Is that meant to scare us off, to make us stay in line, to behave? As far as the cat snuffed-out by curiosity goes, I say, “Yeah, but satisfaction brought it back!”
Curiosity in parenting goes hand in hand with living a more conscious, ethical, holistic life. We must ask questions, we mustn’t be put off by the dead cat. There’s a reason they’re given nine lives! And not just as insurance against naughty little girls who are curious to know about the whole cats and water mix. We’ve got to trust that our curiosity is taking us on a path to something greater. In the movie, Parenthood, the wise old grandmother says something along the lines of “life’s either a roller-coaster, with all the highs and lows that have you screaming, or a roundabout ~ always the same. I know which one I’d rather ride on”.
I once rode a roller-coaster (the Corkscrew, on the Queensland coast) thirty six times in a row so that I could actually go all the way through a whole ride with my eyes open and not scream. I no longer need the adrenalin rush of a roller-coaster. Parenting gives me more than my share of highs and lows. But whether I’m gearing up for a heady thrill to see amazing sights, or dipping to one of those hellish places that has me questioning why I ever became a mother, I take the torch of curiosity with me.
Curiosity, as a parent, has had me questioning everything I do. This began before I gave birth, and continues to this day. It helped me to find information to back up my intuition and instincts. Asking questions, and looking beyond government propaganda and mainstream agendas, have meant taking full responsibility for my children’s health, education, well-being and happiness. The answers I’ve found haven’t always led to a convenient life, but I don’t regret any of them. I’m glad my daughters have inherited this gift, because I know it will stand them in good stead. On the day of Eliza’s flute discovery, she offered up a potential consequence for her misdemeanour: “You can give me my Christmas present early as punishment.” Punishment? Ha! “It’s ok honey, I’ll keep hold of it till Christmas Eve”. What I haven’t told the girls is that the odds are good that my grandchildren will inherit the curiosity gene and my mother’s mischievous gene. What a potent mixture that would be. The sights from my rocking chair could be priceless.
My deepest wish for you this new year is that you have the courage to bring forth all the joy, love, laughter and fun that you deserve ~ and that the candle of curiosity is ever-present to light your days.
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Editor, The Mother magazine
www.veronikarobinson.com
Children: the most valuable currency
There are many people who say the only reason to be in business is to make money. When I first began publishing, an astute businessman asked me when I was going to sell The Mother. “Huh?” I asked. “Why would I want to sell it?” His attitude was that the only point in starting any business was to grow it, and sell it for a handsome profit. Ok, call me naïve, but I disagree. I believe the only reason to be in business is to contribute to a beautiful world; and to ease the darkness and pain which exist around us.
When we see children as the most valuable currency, we understand that everything we do is for them (regardless of whether we’re a parent, or not), and our perception, values and motives are based on integrity and authenticity.
Signs of success that our culture holds up in lights, such as career, celebrity, high finance, fashion, space travel, media, modern technology, the ‘war on terror’ ~ are things that can’t transform our world, because they are temporary externals. But when our vision is of a beautiful Earth and a species living in harmony, we discover that true success is about the world we create for our children: those we give birth to, and those born of others. Why would we act as if anything else were true? There is no other mammal so neglectful of her young as the modern human. Collectively, we feel no shame at the abuse routinely metered out through the denial of children’s biological needs, nor the ecological nightmare we’re leaving in our wake.
We are here to help our planet, and to inspire each other to recreate our lives, and unless we’re doing that without a hidden agenda, or monetary incentives, then being a millionaire is no great deal; owning an empire is no great deal; flying to the Moon is no great deal, and being President of the USA is no great deal. Transforming lives on Mother Earth so people can aspire to reach their highest potential ~ now that’s a big deal.
A business which exists only to make money is not one which is interested in ‘loving the children’. For some reason these two things are diametrically opposed by almost all businesses. Here’s the thing, though: no-one can make money from loving our children. We have wall to wall adverts on television for artificial infant milk, but no-one coughs up money for promoting natural feeding on television or billboards so that breastfeeding images dominate the cultural landscape. There’s plenty of dosh around to lure kids into the world of video games and junk food. But where’s the money to promote family living? I don’t see advertising to promote sitting around the dining table and sharing a home-made meal with loved ones. Macdonalds’ agenda is to have you eating their cheap meat which was produced at untold cost to our environment, in a way that doesn’t encourage you to slow down and be conscious. Big business doesn’t want us to think, just to swallow.
Children are very easily exploited. We do this through culturally-acceptable advertising and promotion of addictive behaviours and influences. We exploit them by considering them so ‘adaptable’ that we ignore their biological needs. It’s become so normalised that very few people question it, let alone feel repulsed.
Business minds consider children insignificant (if they consider them at all) because love, time and tenderness can’t be bought, begged, borrowed or stolen. It’s why Western governments push women back into the workplace so quickly after giving birth, rather than encouraging mothers to raise children themselves. The UK government is now offering free childcare places for two year olds. Not free, though, is it? Of course not. It’s paid for by you and I, and the highest price is paid for by a child who is denied essential mother-love time. Loving our children strongly, loudly and fiercely isn’t something that costs money, but then again, nor does it generate income. There’s no money to be made, so therefore it can’t be of value! Like natural birth and natural feeding, the winners are the mother and child, not business professionals; the economic market doesn’t win.
We must be motivated by more than just personal ambition to bring reform. Our love must become universal. The investment bank we create when loving children is one that will never go bankrupt, regardless of other economic forces. The interest is constantly going through the roof, and everyone benefits. Everyone is a wealthy shareholder in a culture that fully values and respects its children.
There are times of great change afoot. Beyond the media gloom and doom of economic woes and catastrophic climate change, something far greater is happening: we’re being called, each and every one of us, to something much bigger, much more demanding than the fears and traps of our world; we’re being called to make inner changes. And it is this that gives me hope. Such a call will scare the heck out of many people; after all, our culture works 24/7 to ensure we don’t look inwards. It’s a journey we all have to make, so why not go willingly and enjoy the ride, rather than get bruised, shredded and stripped in fighting against the inevitable?
Seven years ago, I began putting together the first issue of The Mother magazine, for publishing in Spring 2002. From our tiny cottage in the Eden Valley, Cumbria, I would sort through articles, photos and artwork, two tots at my feet, drawing, dancing and doll-playing.
Seven years is a lifetime in the life of a child. Back then, as I lugged box after box after box of magazines into the Post Office, my girls would run amok, playing in the passport photo box and setting off the auto-voice, excitedly pulling greeting cards off the shelf to show me the cutest cat in the whole world, or simply running and whooping like little frisky, feral foxes from one end of the Post Office to the other. I’m not quite sure whether to smile or cringe when I remember those days.
At home, when the phone rang, I would hold my breath and secretly pray for silence so the girls wouldn’t hijack the conversation. The little minxes loved the phone ringing, for they could pin me down to tandem feeding for as long as the call lasted.
Ah yes, seven years. My girls now carry the boxes into the post office. They label envelopes, pop on stamps and stickers, take phone messages, and help pack. They also want to learn how to edit and proof-read, as part of their home education. No doubt that’ll give a whole new meaning to slow and easy publishing. We love their sense of passion and of being part of the greater Mother family. Despite taking an active part in the family business, what they’ve always known is that the currency of value is happy, nurtured children: something which is negotiable in any country, whether in times of recession or prosperity.
I don’t care about the size of someone’s bank balance or wallet, or their career rise, the size of their plasma tv, or how many properties they own in Spain. I care that they hear our children’s dreams. I care if they will take the time to love, honour and hold, in sickness and in health. The world’s children deserve no less.
When children have their biological needs and expectations met, they have no reason to grow up and harm themselves and others or the planet. They’re whole, not hurt. Raised holistically, tomorrow’s guardians of Earth and humanity will do a mighty fine job of ensuring we all live to tell the story. How dare we treat them with anything less than their birth right. Who are we to consider them unworthy of time, love, attention and care?
The last time I was in the Post Office sorting postage, I couldn’t hear myself think above Eliza’s singing. At almost eleven, she’s not self-conscious about the music in her heart coming forth wherever and whenever. I recall Neil Diamond’s lyrics: “Money talks, but it don’t sing and dance, and it don’t walk.” And so it is with the business of family.
As my family and I walk into the nightmare of another consumerist, commercial Christmas, we’ll see only the dream. Our backs will be firmly against the cultural tsunami of greed and gluttony that manages to drown the mass consciousness each year with the belief that we all need ‘more, more, more’.
The currency which will lead us to the candle-light of Christmas Eve, carols by the fireside, and into a New Year, is what has always brought us safely through the days around the mid-winter Solstice: the eyes of children alive with love; children who know they are worth more than all the money in the world; children who know that they are the real business.
From my family to yours, may you celebrate the festive season with a song in your heart and an ever-negotiable currency, to keep the home fires burning.
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Editor, The Mother magazine
www.veronikarobinson.com
My Wooden Clothes Pegs
Sept/Oct 2008, TM30
My favourite household chore is hanging out the washing. In those peaceful minutes down at the bottom of our garden, I’m immersed in the vibrant, life-enhancing energy of the Cumbrian countryside ~ hooting owls; bees entranced by Starflower, Lavender and other deliciously tempting flowers. Brushing past the Honeysuckle, on my way down to the clothes line, the heady scent draws me back to my childhood in Australia ~ I used to stand for the longest time, sucking ‘honey’ out of the ends of the flowers. Life was slow, sweet bliss.
Birds go about their business in the treetops near my head; insects navigate dizzily in the rising heat of the summer sun. Grass grows long at my feet, daring me: ‘catch me if you can’; blackberry thorns warn me away from fruits so ripe you’d think they’d be patented. Here, I’m a different person. In this place of natural noises, I’m able to go within, and reflect on this journey through life. Why am I here? How can I serve? Where did I fail to do my best? How can I take the clarity and answers of this peaceful moment back into the busyness of family life and the working world?
Each wooden clothes peg that I use to hold up the washing, reminds me of my purpose and that of this magazine: at the most grassroots level we all have the power to change the world. Our clothes pegs show us, in the most simple form, the footprint we leave behind on this glorious Earth. Are the pegs wooden, from a sustainable source, or are they made from an ancient source of sunlight, and formed into plastic and then shipped across the world?
With each piece of my family’s damp clothing, I reflect on its journey and arrival into our home. Was it from a charity shop, or friend: recycling someone else’s clothes? Was it fair-trade, organic? Is it made from natural fibres, such as cotton, hemp or ramie? How do the clothes we wear, day after day, affect this planet, and the people who made them?
And then, I can’t help but wonder about myself as the peg: round peg in a square hole? I’ve no doubt that many readers feel the same, due to their parenting and lifestyle choices.
Each conscious step and decision we make defines the journey we’re on. Society screams to us that we must rush, must have this, must do that.
The Mother magazine asks, “Why hurry? Why have that? Why do you need this? Why not try it this way? Is that really what makes your heart sing? Have you ever thought of looking at it this way?” Such questions can be incredibly challenging, but they’re no less worthy of an answer just because of a cultural mind-set which doesn’t ask the big questions.
This publication is a deliberate antidote to consumerist, fast-paced, soul-less living. Our most fundamental message is: create time and space for your family, and discover the simple pleasures and joys of life.
Empower yourself through discovering skills and talents which bring meaning to your days. Slow down. Savour the moment ~ it’s all you have. Sew a dress, knit a scarf, carve a knife or clothes pegs from local wood, tend to your herbs, brew your own tea from fruits or herbs in your garden; plant fruit trees, canes and bushes (in pots, if you have no garden). Sing with your children.
Instead of investing in the Heinz tinned soup coffers, invest in your family’s well-being: make your own soup.
Harvest root vegetables, and store them for the winter. Find ways to be resourceful that help you and the planet.
Wearing your baby in a sling increases health and well-being for both of you, and saves the resources needed to make a pram. Babies were born needing at least nine months in-arms after birth; they need their mother’s heartbeat to bring about bonding synchronisation.
Sleep with your baby, and you won’t need a cot, crib or cradle. The family bed is a beautiful, nourishing and free place in which to share sleep with your children. And you and your children will be healthier and happier for it! There is no price you can put on your connections with other people.
Feed your baby naturally, from your own body, and save yourself hundreds and hundreds of pounds in the first year of his or her life ~ and that’s just on milk! Babies who are not naturally-fed are ten times more likely to need hospitalisation. Clearly, this affects the baby most strongly, but the resources needed for treating ill people, young or old, take a huge toll on the environment and economic stability. Natural feeding does not leave a carbon footprint.
Despite cultural pressures to purchase ready-made baby foods, the most delicious and healthy foods for babies are ones which haven’t been processed or cooked.
Avoid vaccinating your children, and find ways to develop their natural immunity ~ watch them live vibrantly and free from chronic immune disorders and other disturbances.
Offer your children natural toys ~ either hand-made or second-hand. Avoid plastic toys ~ they’re toxic ~ and go for wood, as it is antibacterial, not to mention a wonderful heirloom for generations to come. My own girls had simple, beautiful, wooden blocks (with bark still intact), wooden dolls’ carriages and hand-carved animals. Their dolls are made from fabric. Rather like good, organic wholefoods, the simpler and more natural the toys, the more precious and valuable they are. Indeed, natural toys are more nourishing to a child’s imagination and spirit.
Human-scale education offers countless opportunities for our children to see the world in a new way, to not repeat history but to create a future worthy of every human on the planet. Autonomous and child-led learning is a lifetime away from institutional learning, and allows a child to develop their own way of thinking and being.
As our children grow into teens and young adults, it can seem as if our influence is small, and in some cases, an impotent force. The years we’ve spent with our children are made up of moments. It is these moments, now invisible, which live inside our children for the duration of their journey on Earth. The most powerful forces of this world are invisible ~ just like the love of a parent. My wooden clothes pegs remind me of everything I hold dear and precious, and of the road that lies before me, before us all. At the heart of our magazine’s ethos, the meaning is clear: live simply, so that others may simply live.
Rather than the cultural pressure to keep up with the Joneses, we ask, “Hey, why not step back with Nature?”
The Believing Mirror
July/Aug 2008, TM29
An unseasonal snowy afternoon last Spring found me tucked up on
the sofa in my favourite bookshop, Bluebell, and lured into pages
of a book called The Sound of Paper. It’s about reclaiming
your creativity as an artist (regardless of how you express that
art), and how important it is to have people around you who support
you in your creativity: people who want to see you thrive, who encourage
you to step out of your comfort zone, and want you to do well. In
short, these are the people in your life ~ personally or professionally
~ who support and challenge you to be the best you can be.
I thought about various people in my life, and how the vast majority
of friends and family do exactly that. But there is one friend who
simply can not be happy, supportive or encouraging of anything I
do. I realise, of course, that it has nothing to do with me at all
~ though it’s taken me nearly a decade to work that out ~
but everything to do with her own low self-esteem and creative blocks.
The calling to follow my heart somehow makes it feel even more impossible
for her to trust her own. She can’t act as a Believing Mirror
for me because she’s never had anyone do that for her throughout
her life. She simply doesn't know how to be one, any more than she’s
aware of the impact her lack of support has on people in her life.
My friend doesn’t trust the image she sees in the Believing
Mirrors of her adult life.
And what about our parenting? How do we support our children’s
hobbies, wishes, dreams, pursuits? Do we, as parents, provide a
Believing Mirror for their journey through life? Do we act as an
encouraging witness to our children’s days?
There’s a wide and deep valley between being a Believing
Mirror and a Praise-a-holic Parent. We have all heard the parent
who makes a performance out of their child’s every brush stroke
~ not leaving any room for the child’s growth, reflection
or self-defined evolution.
Recently, my ten year old daughter psychically booted me out of
the kitchen, to make it strictly her domain for at least half of
every week. Given that expressing my creativity in the kitchen and
garden is integral to my day-to-day well-being and contentment,
this was a huge sacrifice for me.
The price I paid for losing some of my days of creativity in the
kitchen is that I have a daughter who can feed my family with meals
which exceed the culinary skills of many adults I know. In acting
as her Believing Mirror, her father and I have endeavoured to support
her love and passion not by giving her marks out of ten, as her
brief stint in school told her to expect, but by enjoying her food
and letting her know that we savoured every mouthful...that her
‘art’ nourished us on many levels. I mirror to her the
way our garden supports her creativity by yielding an abundance
of organic fruit, vegetables and herbs. We reflect back that we
value her passion by providing tools and treasures to help the journey,
be they recipe books, special ingredients, aprons or chopping board.
Mirroring works both ways. The mirror and the subject give and receive,
and learn from each other. I do believe we can become more whole
when we offer genuine reflection for other people’s talents.
Bethany began music lessons a few years ago. Her piano and violin
are forms of discipline and pleasure, the counterbalance between
the artistic twins of torture and triumph. She has a talent for
ear-music (learning by sound) and has started composing, as well.
My mirroring hasn’t held up any expectations other than that
she enjoys her music. She turns up most days at the keyboard, or
with her bow, and puts in the work. Anyone who’s heard a newbie
on a violin will know they are not the easiest times on the human
ear. In fact, you have many days when you wonder if progress will
ever be made. The mirroring paid off, and now it is indeed a real
pleasure to listen to her practising ~ daily entertainment which
has each member of the family humming along.
As I write, it is the eve of her music exams, and this summer she’ll
attend a week-long non-residential summer school for strings. She’s
discovered a deep passion for making and creating music, and is
now carving a pathway where she has her sights set on starting a
music and performing arts degree about five years from now. It took
me until my thirties to find a sense of direction and life purpose.
As a mother, I have no aspirations for my children to grow up
and ‘become’ someone, career-wise ~ all I want is for
them to follow their hearts and do what makes their souls sing:
to live a life free from societal expectations.
Our children are constant witnesses to the marital relationship
and learn first hand the mirroring between parents. They witness
the body language as strongly as they do the words which come from
our mouths. They see if we offer each other spiritual succour, as
equally as they notice if we brew up a pot of tea for our beloved.
As living examples of what it means to nurture and nourish another’s
well-being, it is not only a pleasure to mirror for our partner,
but it is a responsibility, not just to our relationship, but to
those witnessing our sacred marital journey.
In my own life, there’s no question that the cleanest, brightest,
sparkliest mirror to my daily choices and actions is that which
is held up by my husband. It’s apparently no chore for him
to lug this monstrous piece of equipment around on his back, day
in and day out; but one thing is for sure ~ my life’s work
is made demonstrably easier by people such as Paul, and my publishers
at The Art of Change. Having someone who believes in you, and wants
you to succeed and do your best, is life-affirming in ways that
almost can’t be put into words.
I’m the fourth child in a family of eight children, the
second of three daughters. It’s a low-profile position not
known among ‘family placement’ experts for its visibility.
Large families can be great, but they don't always allow for every
child to get an adequate amount of space in front of a Believing
Mirror. It takes very conscious parents to realise the importance
of bringing out the light in a young soul. The parental role is
much easier when the parent is fully supported. In many ways, the
best Believing Mirrors are those who act like dominoes ~ gently
tapping another, and another, and another, till they all light up
and fill people’s lives with the awareness that they can truly
do and be anything.
Every thought, action and deed shapes our inner fabric, and just
as importantly, shapes our children. The lives which inspire me
the most are those where the person brings out the very best of
who they are, blesses the world with their presence, and mirrors
the best of other people. When we pull out the Believing Mirror
for other people ~ partner, child, colleague or friend ~ we automatically
allow ourselves to stand in front of a mirror.
Often it takes seeing our reflection through another’s eyes
to give us a fuller sense of our beauty, radiance and talents.
Holistic parents are more likely to use vinegar to clean their
household mirrors than toxic commercial products. Don't let the
power of vinegar or chemicals confuse you with human mirroring.
When someone believes in you, their critique, comments or advice
never come with acidity, sarcasm or other toxins. Belief is sweet
and luscious, always tastes great, and is comfort food for the soul.
It has been my pleasure to be at the helm of this magazine for six
and half years, as she rides through the oceans of the collective
change in human consciousness. I pray this magazine long lives as
a Believing Mirror to those who choose a conscious, deliberate and
holistic lifestyle.
~ Veronika ~
Breastfeeding Petition - What you can do to help
Veronika Robinson, editor of The Mother magazine, has launched
a petition on the 10 Downing Street website to protect the rights
of all UK breastfed babies, whatever their age. This follows the
news that breastfeeding mothers will be able to feed babies up to
six months anywhere in public. The Mother magazine is seeking to
make it legal for mothers to breastfeed babies and children of any
age in public.
Please read the petition and if you are in agreement, sign it
and spread the word to your friends. The petition can be found at:
http://petitions.pm.gov.uk/breastfedright/
The Apron Strings
May/June 2008, TM28
It’s often said, by those in our culture who believe separation
of mother and child should happen as early as possible, that it
“can’t be good for children to be at home all day tied
to their mother’s apron strings”. Well, as someone who
wears those apron strings, I’d like to share a view from the
other side.
A couple of months back, I appeared on a US tv chat show, where
the topic of discussion was stay at home mothers v. working mothers.
I pointed out that every mother is a working mother. However, the
audience was very split. It seemed you could only be one or the
other. How odd, I thought, when some of the most successful career
women I know are those who are also full-time stay at home mothers.
And what about all those mums who are able to take their children
to work with them? Why does it have to be one or the other? Why
do we have to have a war among the sisterhood? And why, in all these
discussions on women’s rights, do people fail to address the
rights of the child?
The career mums in the studio audience were adamant that a mother
would ‘lose herself’ if she didn’t go back to
work: something she’d always regret. They also chanted (as
if under mass hypnotism) that “children NEED daycare”.
Whoah!
In my twelve years of being a full-time stay at home mother, I
couldn’t disagree more with the statement that children need
daycare or that a woman will lose herself by staying at home with
her children. I have changed enormously through being a mother.
I’ve changed in ways that would simply have been impossible
by being a career woman, no matter how spectacular or dazzling a
career. And though I’ve had hellish days, I know for certain
that going out to work wouldn’t have made me a better mother
or woman. The whole ‘quality time’ thing is, to my mind,
a myth; something used when people wish to justify the adult part
of the equation. Anyone can be nice if they’re only with their
child/ren for a limited time, but is that all we want our children
to see of us? A mask? An act that we perform for a couple of hours?
A perpetual parental-child courtship? Where’s the integrity
in that?
My children have seen all sides of me (some not so pleasant!),
and yet they still fully embrace and love me. They are under no
false illusions about who I am as a person. But it works both ways.
Yesterday, my ten year old daughter, Eliza, and I were curled up
on the sofa reading Indigo for Girls, a magazine she gets from Australia.
Her favourite parts of the magazine are the reader profiles, where
Indigo girls answer a series of questions. One such question is
“Who inspires you?” I’m often intrigued, too,
to see which well-known person’s life has had an impact on
these young girls’ way of thinking.
In the kitchen last night, I said to Eliza that she could do the
questionnaire herself, and then asked, as an example, “Who
inspires you?” Without batting an eyelid or pausing for breath,
she said, “You inspire me mum because you still love me even
when I’m being horrible.” The truth is, I probably learnt
that from my girls. They’re incredibly forgiving of my weaker
moments. They always have been, and perhaps it is what has helped
me to grow the most: my evolution hastened because they’ve
presented me with forgiveness in action.
Author, Eckhart Tolle, wrote in his book A New Earth ~ Awakening
to your life’s purpose, that to find out if you’re enlightened,
try spending a week with your parents! Well, that made me splutter
my tea all over myself. Ok, I can live with my mum very easily,
but I’d be challenged to spend a week with my dad (much as
I love him), so diametrically opposed are our views on just about
every aspect of life.
It had me thinking though, how will our children feel about us
when they’re adults? Will they comfortably spend a week with
us? Will they want to run for the hills?
As the one wearing the apron, I know that my mothering job is far
from over; however, I also know that if I were to leave this earthly
life tomorrow, my girls have had such an incredibly secure foundation
to their own lives precisely because they’ve been able to
tug at my apron strings, pull on them, dance with them, trip me
up with them, and leave their little finger stains upon them. They’ve
been raised to know, without an ounce of doubt, that they are loved
as much as is humanly possible. My actions have spoken far louder
than my words.
I’m not a perfect mother. Far from it, much to my great
disappointment. I have ideals as high as the heavens, and a parenting
reality somewhere near mud level! So often I was busy looking for
my gum boots (wellingtons) that I failed to notice that deep within
the squelchy mud I was trying to avoid, my girls found pleasure
in feeling it ooze between their naked toes. They built castles
from the mud. I dare say they’ve tasted the mud, and they’ve
used that mud to furnish the love in our home. The mud has been
their growing soil, their nourishment, the fertility upon which
their imaginations grew. It is the spring water in which they joyously
bathe and drink ~ and all this because I chose to let them hang
onto my apron strings.
At the swinging end of the apron strings, my girls have learnt
about life, not been hidden away, as common thought would have it.
From the earliest ages, my girls knew about the menstrual cycle,
how babies were created, birthed and fed, what it meant to live
on a budget, how herbs are nature’s medicine cabinet, how
to grow fruit, vegetables and herbs. They can make a great meal
for a raw fooder, or vegan; they can cater for people on wheat-free
diets.
The apron strings gave them a first hand look at life when parents
‘fail’, and then have to brush off their knees and start
again. My girls have witnessed me go through some painful losses
and come through the other side. They have celebrated my joys and
triumphs. Most importantly, they’ve witnessed that life is
cyclical. They haven’t been sheltered, they’ve been
witnesses. They’ve learnt far more about life, and from life,
by dancing near my apron strings, than if they’d been separated
from me several days a week.
As for losing who I am because of staying at home with my children,
I’ve found the opposite to be true. Being present with kids
24/7 is the quickest way to discover who you are. It’s the
ultimate personal growth workshop. Children will bring up every
last part of you that needs healing. This scares the life out of
many people and they will use any excuse to remove themselves from
their child’s orbit.
To suggest a woman reduces her potential for self-expansion and
identity because she chooses to stay at home and raise her child
with motherly love is to be completely ignorant of what a mother
and child need. It also fails to recognise that ‘who we are’
is never about what we do for a job, and indeed, can not be defined
by a label. Our children know this; but most adults don’t.
Bonding is in the realms of extrasensory perception. It isn’t
something which would make a lot of sense on a resume. And like
parenting, it is an unpaid job. What price can you put on being
there for your child all day, every day? How do you measure love?
How do you define the undefineable? You can’t.
The apron strings of mothering are linked to our heart. They tell
our stories, fill our children with tender moments, and act as the
visible umbilical cord to our destiny link.
Mothering my two feisty daughters has revealed the incredible potential
in me as a human being. They daily challenge me to be more of who
I am. There is no room for shrinking back, hiding away. My girls
demand the best from me. I wouldn’t have ever traded a single
smile or cuddle, grazed knee or two-year-old meltdown from either
of them for a day in the ‘real world’. And I dare say
they’d not have traded a day of apron strings for a motherless
daycare centre.
What happens in the home, at the end of a mother’s apron
strings, shapes our world. They say charity begins at home, and
so too do joy, fun, laughter, companionship, humanity, compassion,
kindness, humour, happiness, peace, satisfaction and love.
I may not have known how to wear the apron of motherhood, had I
not had a childhood witnessing how beautifully my mother wore hers.
A time to wean
March/April 2008, TM27
Many a lactation consultant or counsellor uses the World Health
Organisation’s (WHO) breastfeeding guidelines as part of her
battle cry. It states: “Exclusively breastfeed for six months,
and then continue breastfeeding well into, and beyond, the second
year of life.” It has become one of those statements that’s
been parroted around the globe without people actually stopping
to give conscious thought to what it means, and the implications
of following such a statement.
I have deliberately weaned myself from using WHO’s guideline,
because I believe it isn’t adequate for fully meeting a child’s
needs. Its official advice is distinctly flawed.
If the World Health Organisation says you can start weaning at
six months, it must be right. Sadly, most women take official information
from apparently reputable sources, and consider it gospel. After
all, why would you question the World Health Organisation? This
omnipotent power surely knows more than a mother’s instinct.
As with the UK’s Department of Health breastfeeding policy,
such things are usually drawn up by people who don’t actually
have experience of breastfeeding, and certainly don’t have
an in depth knowledge of a child’s brain development, or how
the immune system develops; why the heart cells of the baby depend
on the mother exclusively breastfeeding on cue for at least nine
months; or the emotional needs, and many other factors which are
dependent on exclusive breastfeeding for optimal development. Very
often, the people who provide such important information in policy
making are the ones whose own education on infant nutrition has
been heavily influenced by the commercial baby food sector.
I firmly believe the World Health Organisation needs exposing
for its limp breastfeeding policy. At these highest levels of medical
‘power’, information trickles down which can make or
break a society. Following WHO’s breastfeeding guidelines
is humanity’s path to self-destruction. Sadly, four out of
every five babies in the UK don’t even meet these flimsy guidelines.
I can’t let another year go by without challenging this
standard information, which gets repeated ad nauseam. For example,
why does WHO recommend six months as the time for exclusive breastfeeding?
Where is the scientific, medical, anthropological or psychological
basis for such important information? There is none. At six months
of age, we’re told (repeatedly ~ and especially by the artificial
milk companies) that a baby is no longer receiving an adequate amount
of iron from his or her mother’s breast milk. Indeed, well-known
children’s cookbook author, Annabel Karmel, recently stated
that babies should be weaned at four (4!!) months of age, and fed
beef and fish, as they have adequate iron levels!
How bizarre that Mother Nature would suddenly drop off the iron
in a mother’s milk at a time when the baby’s body isn’t
capable of optimally digesting anything other than breast milk.
Nature isn’t stupid. She has a clear timetable of infant and
child development. She wants us to exclusively breastfeed for at
least nine months, for many reasons.
Clearly, whoever put together the WHO guidelines doesn’t
know an awful lot about when the digestive enzymes in the body develop
~ that is, at NINE months of age, not six. We see evidence of Nature’s
timetable not just in the way the digestive enzymes don’t
develop until then, but also in the way the heart takes nine months
to fully synchronise with the mother’s heart ~ the latter
can’t happen if breastfeeding is replaced with other foods
or bottle-feeding.
Our breasts are right next to the heart. Mother Nature planned
it this way so our pulsations could synchronise. All mothers need
this in order to bond with their babies fully. All babies need this
to come fully Earthside. This must be constantly repeated during
the external gestation phase (nine months). The baby’s heart
requires this experience to be brought into life. The stress created
to the infant if this does not happen involves the release of cortisol,
which is extremely toxic. The neural pathways suffer irreversible
damage from excess cortisol. Mother Nature hasn’t planned
for failure. She hasn’t planned for us heeding the advice
of the WHO or male-run governments or ill-informed doctors, midwives
or health visitors.
Artificially created milk contains acres of iron, we’re
told, so your baby won’t miss out. The reason companies put
so much iron in fake milk isn’t because the baby needs a huge
amount, but because, unlike the bio-available iron in breast milk,
iron in formula isn’t easily absorbed by the baby’s
body. By loading up fake milk with synthetic iron, the manufacturers
are hoping ‘some’ of it will be absorbed.
Never underestimate the power of advertising to undermine a woman’s
success and confidence at breastfeeding. Ads are deliberately designed
to make a woman feel inadequate. If you care to dig a little deeper,
you’ll find WHO’s information on iron levels was funded
by no less than Nestle ~ the world’s largest producer of infant
foods. Am I surprised? No.
Do a little more digging and you’ll find babies who exclusively
breastfeed for at least seven months (that is, one month longer
than the WHO recommendations) are babies with iron stores for life!
Why isn’t this information ~ which has life-long health implications
~ getting out to the masses? Is it just me, or do you think women
(and their blessed babies) are being duped all the way to the artificial
milk companies’ off-shore bank accounts?
When WHO states “breastfeed well into, and beyond, the second
year of life”, it is failing to give out very important, life-altering
information. It’s almost as if, according to WHO, once you’ve
‘done your time’ with six months, the final weaning
age doesn’t matter. I strongly disagree. Cultures which breastfeed
for 2.5 years, or longer, are more peaceful and have significantly
reduced levels of violence and depression. By weaning our children
before this age, we greatly increase their chances of violence ~
violence to self, to society and to the Earth. There is major brain
development happening between the age of two and two and half which
can make or break us as potentially peaceful, loving and contented
beings. Nature requires that breastfeeding continues through this
THIRD year of life, because many of the synapses in the brain are
still being formed, and rely on not only the superior ingredients
in breast milk, but the physiological aspects of affectionate mother-love.
WHO must be transparent, and state categorically that breastfeeding
should not end before 2.5 years.
Why does WHO encourage premature weaning ~ something which has
the potential to sabotage not only an individual, but the whole
of humanity? Is it any coincidence that the World Health Organisation
is actively looking for ways to reduce the human population? Call
me a cynic, call me suspicious, but I don’t see any supreme
efforts by either the World Health Organisation or major Western
governments to actively educate and support women in giving babies
the only start to life which will help them develop optimally. You
have to ask why this is the case. Who benefits from premature weaning?
Certainly not the child or his/her mother...
I also struggle to understand why the well known breastfeeding
organisations also promote the WHO guidelines. Inadequate breastfeeding
creates yet another generation dependent on the holy National Health
Service. Clearly, following WHO’s guideline is better than
not breastfeeding at all, but endorsing it, severely short-changes
our children.
Breastfeeding supporters shout that “breast is best”,
but breastfeeding is in a league of its own. There is no competition!
Why doesn’t anyone state the simple truth: a mother’s
own breast milk is the only milk suitable for her child’s
optimal nutrition. Receiving this milk directly from our mother’s
breast, as nature intended, for as long as the child requires it,
is the only path of action which will lead to a peaceful world.
Our parenting is the foundation of society. Breastfeeding is never
just about ‘the milk’ ~ it is so much more. When we
choose to understand how the emotional and physical interaction
between a mother and her breastfed child dramatically enhances health
and well-being, for LIFE, then we see that the milk of human kindness
really does start and end with the mother. Any organisation or government
which fails to acknowledge the necessity of this bond is taking
steps to undermine humanity’s health and well-being.
If you are thinking about when to introduce foods other than breast
milk, or when to end the breastfeeding relationship, always follow
your heart and instinct, rather than information set out by a faceless
organisation, or a health visitor with a weaning agenda.
Our children are always the best judges of the right time to wean.
Your job, as a mother or father, is to keep your heart open, and
trust your child. It may not sound much, but it’s the most
important job in the world!
Saving Childhood
January/February 2008, TM26
Have you heard about the British government’s plan to kidnap
babies and toddlers? It’s not the kidnapping of ropes and
mouth gags, but a kidnapping which steals children for a lifetime
~ and it will be done right under everyone’s noses (if we
don’t stop it). It’s called the Early Years Foundation
Stage and it’s an insidious exploitation of children’s
minds, bodies, and for those with a holistic understanding of childhood,
their souls.
Under the camouflage of early learning, every registered pre-school
setting (including registered childminders!) will be under a legally
enforceable set of learning requirements that consists of no less
than politically-sanctioned child abuse. Around 80% of children
in this age bracket are in such settings.
Ten years ago, the government used relatively benign terms, such
as ‘desirable outcomes’, so they could get people on
board with their long-term plan of compulsory pre-school education.
Like the ducks and geese overfed in order to produce unethical foie
gras, our children will be force-fed beyond their ability to consume.
The Early Years Foundation Stage booklet outlines the expectation
that four year olds should be reading and writing and using punctuation.
There are many other requirements expected of these toddlers.
I adore language, and the effect words can have on me, and others.
I love to read. Does that mean I encouraged and taught my own children
to read when they were little more than dots themselves? Not a chance!
Reading is not a natural activity. It utilises the neocortex (new
brain) and should only ever be encouraged at the time milk teeth
are coming out ~ a time when there is a huge developmental shift
in the brain. In much the same way that logical language should
NOT be introduced to a woman in labour (because she needs to activate
the [reptilian] old brain in order to birth easily and successfully),
our children need to spend their early years in an environment which
amplifies what is natural for them at this age ~ free play, rhythm
and music, natural movement, and imitation. Mankind’s biggest
problems in life come about because of an over-emphasis and stimulation
of the neo-cortex. We humans ignore this to our detriment.
We can encourage the love of reading by being living examples.
Being seen to love reading, and reading to our children every day,
helps them get a feel for intonation, the flow of words, the use
of punctuation. By reading, we are letting our children absorb language
in a way that is suitable for the part of the brain which is developed.
My own children have taught me well that reading comes naturally
when you show passion for it.
My girls taught themselves to read at the age of seven, and in
a matter of weeks went from simple Lady Bird books to novels. Why?
Because they were ready. Recently, my nine year old daughter, Eliza,
was ‘judged’ to have a reading age of a child 11 years
and three months. Of course, only an institution would measure such
a thing. As a mother, my observation of her reading is that she
loves it, reads fluently, and if she doesn’t understand a
word, will look it up in the dictionary or ask a parent.
When my girls were younger, I often heard comments from well-meaning
friends, who, ironically, were school teachers, such as: “What,
they don’t read yet?...I could read when I was four”.
So bloody what?! Life isn’t a race. It doesn’t matter
if your child is twelve years old and not reading. She’ll
learn to read when she’s ready. And when the spark is there,
boy will that fire turn into an inferno. But alas, Slow Childhood
is counter to our culture’s expectations, and so we have our
work cut out educating the adults that when it comes to childhood,
slow and steady always wins the race.
The UK government’s implementation of an Early Years Foundation
Stage is an abuse of human rights. Let’s not pretend otherwise.
Free play is vital to childhood, reading is not. Play helps develop
emotional intelligence, caring, empathy, imagination, physical balance
and co-ordination; premature reading does not.
Boys, in particular, are wired differently to girls, and really
need to be allowed more time before attempting reading. (I urge
you to read Joseph Chilton Pearce’s Magical Child for further
important information on this). We do our children such an injustice
by making them good consumers of someone else’s expectations.
Author, Sally Blythe, from The Institute for Neuro-Physiological
Psychology, says that almost half of all children in the five to
six year age group still have traces of infant primitive reflexes,
which should not be evident after the first year of life (together
with immature balance and co-ordination skills). Such children are
going to suffer academically in school. Her research questions modern
childcare practices and lifestyles affecting the physical development
of children. So, if evidence shows that for many young children
the physical body isn’t working optimally, why on Earth is
the government wanting to legally enforce compulsory ‘intellectual’
standards on young children? Either the people who put together
such ridiculous learning requirements don’t know the first
thing about childhood development, or the government has a hidden
agenda.
David Cameron, leader of the Opposition, has recently said very
positive things about childhood and family life (for an MP), but
has managed to undo all his good work with the statement that all
children should be reading by six. Mr Cameron, they should NOT!
Children, six and under, should be playing, not immersed in any
sort of academic pressure cooker.
The Early Years Foundation Stage is a blatant attack on a child’s
human rights to grow and develop as nature intended. It’s
a complete denial of a child’s and parents’ fundamental
freedom, not dissimilar to compulsory vaccination and the ‘gun-point
medicine’ now manifesting in the USA.
There is so much scientific evidence to show that before the age
of seven, children are still going through major developments ~
physically, intellectually, emotionally ~ even their immune system
is still trying to mature. You simply can’t fast-track childhood
and expect the consequences in the short or long term to be good,
desirable or healthy. We must remember that Mother Nature had very
good reasons for how we develop ~ and our job is to trust the process,
not fight, control or hasten it.
The question now is what are parents and educators going to do
about it? How will we stop this going ahead? We’ve got just
eight months left to make sure it isn’t implemented. The power
has to lie with the public, the voters. We can not ignore this,
because once it is introduced, there’ll be no turning back.
And once the damage is done to our young children, it will remain
with them for life.
Never before have children been under so much pressure to perform,
to measure up, to reach targets. Why are we sitting back and allowing
the government to sneak in legislation that was achieved under ‘controlled
consultation’ (i.e. the information was not produced for public
consumption)?
It would be all too easy for people with older children, or those
who home educate, to think, ‘it doesn’t affect us’,
and to not be part of the campaign. I urge you to overcome such
a belief and to remember we’re all connected. These children
will marry your children, they’ll work with them, socialise
with them, make laws with them ….the world is one big melting
pot. One child’s suffering, is everyone’s suffering.
And believe me, the little children will suffer if they’re
forced into this abusive curriculum.
Please, join our campaign at www.savechildhood.org. It won’t
cost you anything but a few moments of your time. Let the government
know you care. We live in a world where it is far too easy to feel
we can’t make a difference. I can assure you, this is something
we do have power over. We CAN stop this happening. Let’s start
this new year with a passion for the well-being of all children,
not just our own. Let’s make 2008 the year they look back
upon as the year we saved childhood.
~ Veronika ~
Cuddles are compulsory
November/December, TM25
My girls have decided to leave school and return to home education.
The past eight months have been an interesting and sobering journey,
both for me as a mother, but also for us, as a family. The silence
in the home has felt like a fabricated, if not superficial, peace.
For me, each day they were at school held an undercurrent of angst.
I imagined my daughters in a loveless school room, being taught
things which, for the most part, were totally irrelevant to healthy,
vibrant, conscious living, and at odds with our family's vision
of life.
The decision to opt for home education again has come from them,
not me or their dad, though clearly the whole family has been involved
in various discussions and considerations.
This past term for Eliza has been based on a curriculum of learning
about World War 2. The UK government clearly thinks it is important
for nine year olds to have their days filled with images and stories
of gas marks and concentration camps. As a family, we don’t
focus on war, but look at how humans can live in peace, within their
own mind and, also, within the world.
Bethany made a loaf of bread in school earlier in the year. This
involved weeks of work; writing and designing the loaf of bread
and umpteen other bits of curriculum-related written work all in
order to satisfy a government check-list. In real life, you just
get on and make a loaf of bread. In our family the main requirement
for bread making is for the baker to be in a good mood so she can
‘grow’ the dough with love. That’s not technical
or scientific enough to make it on the national curriculum.
In secondary school, Bethany’s class was taught how to ‘cut
an apple’ (yes, you read that right!). It begs the question
“what’s happening in homes up and down the country that
the government believes children of eleven and twelve years of age
need a lesson in apple cutting?” The curriculum also includes
how to make a sandwich. Bethany’s sandwich of brazil nut and
linseed rye bread, filled with hommous, grated carrot, cucumber
and rocket, will have been completely out of place in a room of
white bread sandwiches filled with chocolate spread.
My children have been doing these very basic skills for
many years.
The UK prime minister, Gordon Brown, is seeking to create world
class schools in the UK. It’s very admirable, however, he’d
do well to actually spend some extended time in a school
room, experiencing it through the eyes and heart of a child,
and then he might see where the improvements need to be made.
Like the children, I suspect many teachers have had their humanity
squashed out of them in order to survive in the system. A loving
respect for children seems largely missing, as does an awareness
of holistic child development, health and well-being. I’m
ever so glad my girls were nine and 11 before they tried out school.
This gave them enough awareness and understanding of life and consensus
reality to see through a number of issues.
When they started school in March, both girls bounced out of bed
in the mornings with excitement; they jumped off the school bus
in the afternoons itching to tell me all about their day. They couldn’t
tell me quickly enough about everything they’d done. I started
to question if I’d been wrong to home educate them for so
long.
As the weeks turned into months, the sparkle started disappearing
from their eyes. The end of day reports were narrowed down to ‘didn’t
do anything in school today’ or ‘science was boring’
or ‘the teacher spent the whole time yelling at the naughty
boys’. The bouncing out of bed at 6am became “Eliza,
it’s eight o’clock, time to get up, there’s only
half an hour left till the bus is here.” It’s not surprising
that she’d had enough. I certainly wouldn’t enjoy spending
six hours a day listening to someone yelling. What a stressful environment.
No wonder she came home with headaches.
For Bethany, entering secondary school has turned out to be far
different from the idealised image portrayed in Harry Potter and
the Jacqueline Edwards books! She’s quickly come to question
why she should only be allowed one art and one music lesson a week,
when they are clearly her favourite subjects and in the direction
of what she believes to be her life’s purpose. “Why
should I learn algebra?” (my sentiments exactly, honey!).
“What’s that got to do with being an artist?”
When she started school, we helped her along by having some weekly
maths tutoring. This option, to help her learn real life maths,
will be revisited as and when she desires. At the moment, she needs
to detox from “I hate Mondays, we’ve got maths.”
The prime minister wants to increase the number of hours a week
that children do physical education ~ not a bad thing at all, but
at Bethany’s former school that means subjects like art will
be sacrificed to make time for it. She was outraged.
One of the drawcards for attending school was to develop friendships.
The reality is, there is very little time for playing in school.
They both plan to see their school friends after school and at weekends,
and rejoin the local Education Otherwise (home ed) group, as well
as joining other groups.
It’s a blissfully sunny Autumn afternoon, and the girls are
in the back garden playing with three children from the village.
This play time can go on for hours and isn’t dictated by a
bell, and having to gulp down lunch in order to grab a few minutes
of play.
A friend of mine always says, “if it ain’t fun, I ain’t
doin’ it!” Lest I forget, this quote is on my vision
board and the girls have adopted it as their home education motto.
This is clearly seen in their delightful and carefully thought out personal curriculum.
Watching the girls make plans for an individualised map of learning
has been fascinating and an absolute joy. A few times, I’ve
caught my breath at the sheer delight and empowerment they’re
experiencing in choosing their learning path. Eliza and Bethany
love to learn. They thoroughly enjoy doing projects and being immersed
in activities. They’ve come to realise though, that this time
is better spent planning their own lessons than having it, or their
time, dictated for them. Bethany’s class was given mass punishment
because of two disruptive pupils. “Why should I give up my
lunch break if I didn’t do anything wrong?” Is this
how our schools teach justice and fairness?
Home-based learning allows a child to trust in his/her ability
to find a path of learning which reflects their uniqueness, creativity,
interest, curiosity and spontaneity. Our job, as parents, whether
we home educate or not, is to offer a rich environment so that the
child will easily find what she needs in order to learn.
If a child desires to learn, then she will enthusiastically
absorb that information. This is the polar opposite of the rote
learning and memorisation of subjects which occur in schools. Our
culture severely underestimates the impact of imposingeducation
upon children.
If Gordon Brown really wants to create world class education, he
needs to understand that it’s a far greater skill to ask questions
than to know the answers to everything. Implementing this idea,
however, would turn formal, state-run education on its head!
Bethany has been spending seven hours a week travelling to and
from secondary school. That’s almost a whole working day.
As a home educated student, she can now spend those hours in productive,
creative pursuits of her choice whether it be playing violin, belly
dancing, learning German and French, studying artists, preparing
wholefood meals, attending her graphic art for teens sessions at
the library, pulling the amplifier out for a singing session, writing
stories, chatting with, and learning from, women of all ages at
the local knitting café, composing music at the piano, or
watching Eliza having horse riding lessons with a teenage friend
in the village.
When I pulled out my copy of School is not compulsory,
to remind myself of the legal requirements when withdrawing a child
from school, my daughters told me that home education means I mustn’t
forget that “cuddles are compulsory!” Fancy
the little rascals thinking I’d forgotten that? So, I’ve
got eight months of cuddles to catch up on ~ that should get me
through an English winter!
Blessings,
~ Veronika ~
"The Old Pepperina Tree"
September/October, TM24
During the summer, my daughter Eliza wanted to show me how good
a climber she’d become, so I watched her go to the top of a
cherry tree in our village.
I was struck by how confident and agile she is ~ rather like a
monkey, but without the tail! ‘When did she learn to climb
like that’, I wondered. ‘What was I doing that
was so important as to miss this particular milestone?’
Most of the children in Britain don’t get unsupervised, spontaneous
play. My children consider the village to be their back garden and
go playing for hours. That’s where they learnt to climb trees
after they graduated from the plum tree in our garden.
Although I spent a lot of time up Enid Blyton’s Magical Faraway
Tree, my own magical tree was the imposing pepperina in our front
garden.
My childhood surroundings in Queensland, Australia, were a paradise
for tree climbers ~ hundreds of acres, including mountains covered
in eucalyptus, pines, wattles and pepperinas. There were the occasional
wild apricot and lemon tree, too.
Despite being the middle of eight children, I spent the vast majority
of my childhood play-time on my own, captivated by my imaginary
friends and the world I invented for myself.
The pepperina was a sanctuary; a place to escape, day dream, create,
write poetry and love letters for undeserving school boys, and,
last but not least, a place to spy on my siblings!
My bird’s eye view gave me a 360 degree lookout and afforded
me ample camouflage from the outside world. The tree’s willow-like
leaves disguised me time and time again.
If I was ever in trouble with my parents, which, given my mischievous
nature, was rather a regular occurrence, I’d head straight
for my other home.
It was, without doubt, one of my favourite places in childhood.
I couldn’t have claimed it as mine, however, unless I’d
taken the risk to climb ~ to move away from the safe and familiar
earth beneath my feet.
I had to risk falling, being hurt, being told I was reckless,
scraping my knee, getting covered in sticky sap, breaking an arm,
meeting a tree snake or being bitten by a wasp. I don’t remember
actually ever giving much thought to these possibilities ~ my focus
was always on navigating the hard-to-reach bottom branches so I
could journey to the very top.
My beloved pepperina tree is a metaphor for my life as a parent.
By choosing to climb up and away from the familiar parenting culture
of our western world, I discovered a new view. At the top of the
holistic living tree, I found I could birth my baby in water, at
home, by candle light. My mother carried the candle up the tree
for me, by birthing her last three children at home, unassisted.
By sharing the tree with my mum, I knew that breastfeeding was
the only option for my children. I learned that I could breastfeed
my daughters until they’d had their fill ~ which they took
advantage of for seven years apiece! Society didn’t like this
one little bit. They called me sick, selfish, stupid. Ah well, never
mind. From my tree-top look-out, I could see things that were impossible
to witness from down on the ground. One day more people will be
brave enough to climb the tree. And then they’ll know...
My daughters didn’t get sent off to nursery at three years
of age ‘like all the other children’. I ignored the voices
manically calling to me from the bottom of the tree, and chose to
let my girls ‘wake up gently’ to this world.
George Bernard Shaw said that trying to explain vaccination
to a doctor was like discussing vegetarianism with a butcher.
So I didn’t invite the doctor anywhere near my children. At
the top of our tree of life, we nurtured our girls through love,
an optimal in-arms gestation, child-led weaning, pure water, slow
parenting, plant-based whole-foods, cranial osteopathy, chiropractic
care, and quantity time.
Life at the top of the tree isn’t to be confused with being
on a pedestal, or up in an ivory tower. Far from it. Choosing this
way of life comes with its own set of challenges. It is, indeed,
the road less travelled, or the branches few choose to climb. A
perfect life is not guaranteed. And, it can be very, very lonely.
I doubt I’d have absorbed the enormity of what our culture
does to us had I stayed on the ground, or even the bottom branch.
There’s simply no scope for perspective unless you can see
the whole picture.
Climbing up, and away, and literally going out on a limb, is an
absolute pre-requisite to conscious parenting in this modern world.
We may be more technologically advanced than in any time in our known history, but we couldn’t be more backward or more
blind, as a culture, if we tried!
I’ve found the view from the top, at times exciting, exhilarating,
sometimes terrifying, and, at other times, downright depressing.
At the top of the tree we see how brain-washed people are by the
media, health ‘care’ systems, institutionalised education
and government diktat.
The ascent can be challenging, precarious, and, for some, rather
scary, but unless you do it, despite everyone at the base of the
tree calling you back down, you’ll never know how liberating
the complete trust in yourself, and your family, can be. The most
beautiful part is when you feel confident enough to reach to another,
and give guidance along the branches..
I’ve often felt that parenting has stopped me taking risks;
that I’m no longer the girl I used to be ~ the one who’d
fly to a new country, on a one way ticket, with less than a tenner
in her pocket, just ‘knowing’ everything would be ok.
My mum’s advice throughout life has been “Just jump,
the angels will catch you”. And you know, I believed her!
My mother was the perfect mother bird, guarding her nest at the
top of the tree, knowing the right time to push her little chickadees
out …“Fly”, she’d say.
I often hear her voice in my head, and upon reflection, I realise
I’m no less of a risk taker now than I ever was. My day to
day choices are seen as risks, to modern culture, but to me, well,
they’re just part of everyday life, like breathing. Stepping
away from mainstream thinking is as big a risk as we’ll ever
take. Personally, I think it’s a far greater risk not to step
away.
Tree climbing is an interesting experience upon which to draw
strength and belief in one’s self. It’s perfect that this
happens in childhood.
It’s good and right that my girls have learnt to climb trees
without me nearby wondering if they’ll fall down!
I don’t know if my magic pepperina tree is still standing,
but I’d love to think another child spent time there, hearing
the Divine Whisperer beckoning “climb higher, my friend, climb
higher”…
Until our paths cross again, climb high!
With my best wishes, Veronika
"Why am I so ugly?"
July/August, TM23
I learnt not to eat breakfast when I was in secondary school. Who
has time for breakfast when you've a date with the mirror each morning?
My mother would squeeze me a fresh orange juice so I had something
in my tummy, but I certainly didn't have time to sit down and eat.
This habit has stayed with me throughout adulthood. Eating breakfast
isn't something that comes naturally to me.
Now my girls are in school I can't believe how much time they spend
in front of the mirror in the mornings. We never had this before,
when they were home-educated. Mirrors were for parading in front
of with full dressing-up attire, not for examining facial features
and brushing hair one hundred times.
Eliza's been asking me a lot, lately, "why am I so ugly?"
I don't know if there are many other words that could break a mother's
heart so easily. Throughout my pregnancies, and from the day both
girls were born, I told them how beautiful they were. Both Paul
and I have always affirmed their beauty, physical and spiritual,
and honoured them for who they are, not what they do.
All these years of affirmations are being eroded by other voices.
Both girls love school, and yet the insidious elements are creeping
into our lives on a daily basis. I find myself breathing deeply,
counting to ten and then throwing my hands up to the gods in exasperation,
saying "now what?" I often feel like I'm in uncharted
waters, completely at a loss as to how to affirm my daughters when
the 'world' is giving them contrary messages. As parents, we're
like a lone voice in the wilderness.
The messages the world gives me, as a mother, are along the lines
of "it'll toughen 'em up for the 'real' world when they're
adults". I always wonder what pain people are hiding when they
regurgitate that myth. Who are they trying to convince?
In my garden I find that if seedlings and saplings are nurtured,
nourished and accommodated according to their biological needs,
they will flourish and grow ~ their blueprint is to thrive. If I
was to provide hostile conditions in their growing environment,
they might still grow, but they certainly wouldn't thrive as is
their true nature. Common sense dictates that this is no way to
raise seedlings.
What makes people think our children, as living creatures, are
any different in design? How can crushing their souls toughen them
up? My soul and being was knocked into shape through childhood bullying
and insensitive teachers, and, I can say without doubt, that it
hasn't prepared me for the real world, hasn't made me a better person.
It never has a positive influence on our personal evolution, and
to suggest otherwise is ignorance of our true nature ~ what it means
to be divine beings.
Every adult I know who was bullied at school is emphatic that the
wounds are still there within them and they are not the person they
could have been as a result. Achieving our potential and being inspired
to reach for the optimum comes through nurturing, not torture and
tyranny.
It's nothing more than a collective duping, a dumbing down, that
has us believing that toughening kids up is a good thing. Of course,
no-one likes to be challenged on such core beliefs, as it threatens
their whole way of being and living. It's far easier to live like
sheep than to step aside and question cultural norms.
So, while my daughter questions her physical appearance and her
emerging personality, based on jibes from school children, I wonder
when she'll start doubting her inner beauty and strength, too.
When I questioned her as to why she hadn't shared with me, or a
teacher, about one persistent bully, she replied that "the
children lie, and say they didn't do anything, so there's no point
in telling a teacher, because it makes me look like a liar."
Is this where we learn to hide our own truths? Does authenticity
die when we don't see it mirrored in the lives of those who inhabit
our environment? Do we retreat into our deepest, innermost self
and then shrivel away?
I know that as Eliza looks into the mirror each morning, she's
trying to see her self whole again ~ trying to recapture what I've
always told her, rather than the broken mirror held up to her each
day by peers.
Both my girls are of an age where they desire to grow away from
me. This is natural ~ another milestone in our family's journey.
On my wedding day, in my late twenties, my mother revealed that
she 'could finally stop worrying about me.' I was shocked. I'd left
home twelve years earlier, as an independent sixteen year old. What
had she been worrying about? And, now I'm a mother, with a different
perspective, I'll bet she still worries about me when my life isn't
going smoothly. We may stop carrying our children on hips, but we
always carry them in our hearts.
As for my daughters, I want them to grow up and fully embrace the
world, just as I have. My goal is not to protect them from life,
as many people seem to fear. Rather, it is to have them emerge from
childhood as strong, secure and well-loved as possible. The greater
our self-love, the richer our experiences of love and life.
As parents, we need to remind our children to come back to themselves;
to close their eyes and feel their beauty, strength and spirit.
That coming back into themselves and listening to their own song
is the best validation they'll ever have of their own beauty.
I know women, gorgeous women, who were given such negative messages
about themselves as children. Either their hair was too red and
curly or they got A instead of A+ in their school report. Some women
had too many freckles, or skinny arms; others were more artistically
orientated than mathematical, which led to parental disappointment.
Personally, I can't imagine how a parent could imprint such prejudice
on their child, and yet it happens the world over. "You talk
too much." "You should have been a boy." "I
hate your hair colour." "I don't know how you ended up
in our family, you're not like us!" "I wish you were more
like your sister." Recently, a lunch time supervisor at my
daughters' school was reported to have said to one young student,
"no wonder your mother hates you!" How on earth does a
child become more of who they are with such invalidation?
Parenting is always about leading by example. All of us can be
a living vision of what self-love in action looks like. It begins
with self-appreciation and loving everything about yourself. The
Breathmaker created all of us beautiful. Sadly, this isn't on the
National Curriculum.
Every time we look outside ourselves for validation, or sense of
self, through clothes, make-up, material possessions, companions,
etc., we're not able to see who we really are.
Those who don't see our beauty, haven't seen it within themselves.
Walk in beauty today, knowing that it is impossible, by nature
of your divine heritage, for you to be anything else. In mothering,
Holding on, letting go
May/June Issue, TM22
I'm currently going through a rather life-changing experience
of letting go; not just of my daughters, or a way of life, but of
a set of beliefs. The process is very much like that of going through
the stages of grief. I look to Mother Nature, always my guru, to
see what I can learn from this emotionally difficult time.
When we co-create with our partner to conceive a much longed for
baby, we hold on to each other and the wish for conception. In a
place of trust, we have no alternative but to let go. The sperm
meets the egg and together they hold on. And then, a letting go
must happen for the embryo to travel up the fallopian tube.
Our womb holds tight to the placenta, and we let go of it at birth.
Already our parenting is taking on a pattern; an eternal breath
of inhale, exhale.
Our baby arrives, and if our intuitive mothering is intact, we
hold on. We might even hold on for six or so months, like the Balinese
women, before putting our child down to touch the ground. Eventually
though, we let go so our baby can feel the ground and learn to crawl.
They will crawl away from us.
Our whole parenting path is based on these two diametrically opposed
acts. Holding on and letting go. Somehow the holding on doesn't
create the same dramas in our life. Yet both experiences are equally
valid and entirely necessary for evolution. If we don't grow, don't
blossom, we eat into ourselves and die.
As a passionate advocate for child-led, human-scale education,
our family way of living was rocked to the core by my daughters'
decision to 'try out school'. Living rurally has impacted on the
availability of friendships for them. They do have friends, but
not nearly as many as they'd like.
How in my heart could I reconcile everything I understand about
how children learn, with them deliberately placing themselves in
an educational setting far removed from my ideals? To say I was
challenged doesn't even come close to how I felt, and still feel.
What I have learnt over the years is that the greatest gift we
can give our children is that of trust. And trust, I have…
Each day that my children climb aboard the school bus, I trust
they will experience the day in a way which opens their mind, heart
and soul. I trust that their teachers recognise them as humans,
rather than as numbers on a government supplied statistic sheet.
As I write, just five weeks into their school experience, they've
both made comments about choosing home education for secondary school.
For Bethany, that means this September, which is rather ironic because
her desire to try out primary school was to give her some school
experience before entering high school.
My experience of the girls being in mainstream education includes
the shocking realisation that the 'system' isn't something I can
change or control in any way, at least not on my own. That the school
actually doesn't want input from parents, or to be told how to educate,
is restrictive to say the least. Ok, I knew this already, but you
can't blame a mum for trying!
Mainstream education needs a radical overhaul. These changes won't
come from above. The government has targets to meet and that is
their concern. Our concern, as parents, goes far deeper and it is
from here, that we can act. If... if we act together. It simply
shouldn't be acceptable to have 20+ children piled into one classroom.
How can they possibly have their needs met this way?
What sort of culture do we live in where you have to buy education
if you don't like what's on offer for the masses? Why is it that
home educators don't get tax reductions, given they're not using
the resources their taxes went towards? Why can't governments fund
alternative schools? The money is still allocated for your child,
so why should the government determine which school your child should
go to in order to get the benefits of YOUR tax money?
Why isn't anyone speaking up about this? Why are we such an apathetic
nation?
There are so many reasons why I don't want my children in school
and I simply can't see how the benefit of a few extra friends can
possibly outweigh the deleterious effects of a factory farm approach
to education.
My daughters, known for their love of food, have cut their daily
food consumption in half because they don't get enough time to eat
at morning and afternoon break and most importantly, for them, there
is nowhere to sit down and eat! This contravenes the very nature
of our digestive process ~ the need to be in a state of relaxation.
Children are encouraged to run around while they eat an apple ~
ironic with the health and safety red tape which strangles the system.
Most days, in amongst the fun elements of school, the girls complain
about how much time is wasted by the teacher yelling at the disruptive
pupils. I try and explain that these children are seeking attention,
most likely because they don't get it at home from their parents.
The chances are they'll spend their waking hours at home glued to
a tv or computer screen.
I've been horrified by how much time at school is spent by children
playing computer games or watching dvds ~ all under the fancy title
of media studies or ICT (information computer technology). Who are
they trying to kid? What does my daughter get out of a computer
game? Call me cynical, but I feel this use of televisual stimulus
is nothing more than a band-aid; an acceptable childminder in a
school culture that simply can't meet the needs of 25 plus children
at once. Bethany's class was due to watch a horror film ~ but FORTUNATELY
the tv didn't work! She wouldn't be watching that sort of show at
home, so what right do the teachers have to inflict violence on
them at school?
Bethany is in year 6, a few short months till secondary school.
When she came home with her spelling list and the word perfectionist
was spelt wrong, I 'tsk tskd'. Fancy allowing a typo to go unnoticed,
I thought. At least I assumed it was a typo. The next day Bethany
said the teacher looked it up in the dictionary and then told the
children to add an 'I' to the word when they got home.
At this moment in time, I've 'let go' of the need to keep my children
out of regimented, institutional learning. They know that the option
to be home educated again is always there. And likewise, if we move
towards a position of living in an area with an appropriate, affordable,
human-scale school, they can try that too.
For now, I trust that my children will be able to retain their
free spirit, that they won't sink under the weight of the school's
control and that they will always fly. I see their independent thinking
blossoming amidst ideas we, in our family, find odd. When Bethany
had an assignment to draw God, she knew that you couldn't put the
infinite into the finite. And perhaps it is, too, with my children,
that their soul will never be suppressed in this culture; that they've
touched freedom for enough of their childhood to not be drawn into
the myth of what most people consider to be education.
As for me, after the initial adjustment, this has come to feel like
a well-earned break after 11 years of full-time parenting. My days
are filled with writing a book, walking, editing TM and gardening.
I do believe that the western world is waking up to realise that
less is more; that a life well lived isn't one of accumulation,
but of what we give away. Not of what we hold onto, but of what
we let go.
Growing Pains
March/April Issue, TM21
I distinctly remember the growing pains I had in my legs as a child.
My mum had to massage the pain away. I still have growing pains,
but they're of a different sort now. It's the pain of being a mother
and watching my child go through life's painful experiences.
Just when I thought I'd got the parenting thing licked, just when
I thought we were coasting along, I feel like I'm back at square
one, learning how to be a mother again. And it's hard!
I catch myself, some days, wondering about the high emotional price
we pay when embarking on this journey. When we go into parenting,
most of us do so quite misty-eyed. So caught up in the magic of
first smiles, first laughter, first teeth, first wobbly steps, first
everything; why doesn't anyone tell you how painful it is when your
daughter starts living through the ghastly years between young child
and adult?
Bethany's eleven in March; her body filled with ever-changing hormones.
Up until now, I've taken it all in my stride and really just expected
that there might be a few outbursts here and there, but really,
nothing can be as bad as toddlerhood, right?
What I hadn't counted on was the depth of feeling involved in raising
a highly sensitive child through the highly sensitive pubescent
years. I catch myself wondering if I'd have become a parent if I
had really known how hard this would be.
Bethany's emotional pain is so real that I can touch it, but I
can't do anything to ease it. Impotence, as a mother, is life-changing.
Sometimes I don't know who is in more pain, her or I.
One moment she's fretting because the bow for her violin is made
of horse hair, and she feels like a hypocrite calling herself a
vegan. Another time she gets upset because all the clothes locally,
for her age, are made in sweat shops overseas, exploiting children
as young as she is, or younger.
On our long walks together, she confides in me about boys. The
questions can't leave her mouth quick enough, and in no time I find
myself back in the tortuous teenage years, a place I'd hoped not
to revisit.
I share with her my first major heartbreak, at fifteen years old.
The love of my life, Kevin Bourke, left school without warning to
start an apprenticeship. His friends were all envious that he no
longer had school to contend with. This was the end of my world,
not so much because he left school, which was tormenting enough,
but because he left to become a butcher! What's an ethical vegetarian
girl to do with such heartbreak? I remember pouring out my heart
to my mother, but the look in her eyes didn't reflect the pain which
consumed me. It was here, at the tender age of fifteen, I learnt
that heartbreak is something you truly go through alone.
"Is it possible to love two people at once?" Bethany
asks.
"Yes," I reply.
"Have you?" she probes.
"Erm, yes." I find myself getting edgy. I like to be
honest with my children, but is this a route we really have to go
down? She wants to know everything about the men who've gone before
her dad. Hmmm, this could take a while!
For all the times Bethany and I don't see eye to eye, this challenging
time in her emotional life is bringing us closer. We have something
in common. I can relate to her pain and she can see that I'm human,
something she occasionally doubts! And in a strange way, she is
inviting the hidden narrator of my life to come forward and tell
her so many stories she'd otherwise be unlikely to ever hear.
She wonders why boys tease girls when they fancy them. "Why
can't they just tell them they like the girl?" Bethany wants
to know how the men in my life asked me out. This has me raising
my eyebrows somewhat. I've asked every man out! "Honey, if
I waited for men to ask me out, I'd have never gone on a date, at
least not with the men I fancied! And as for your dad, I'd still
have been waiting!"
I explain to Bethany that life is different to the gloriously romantic,
olden days. Men are different. Women are different. Expectations
are different.
Bethany's heard a whole list of heart-breaking and hysterically
funny moments from the first ten years of my adulthood. The Dixie
Chicks could have written their title song, Taking the long way,
based on my life.
Even if I was the most powerful woman in the world, I couldn't
for one second stop Bethany going through those experiences which
often-times make up the teenage years.
Bethany's hormones are developing a life of their own. She wants
to know why she cries for no reason. Many women probably want to
know the answer to that question about a week before their period
begins! I suggest foods and supplements which will help to ease
some aspects of hormonal function, but there's no magic cure for
feeling sensitive to life.
Some of us are ultra-sensitive to everything around us ~ bright
lights, caffeine, the wrong look from someone, noises, smells, etc.
We have to allow our sensitivities to become our strengths, and
we do so first and foremost by honouring the body and soul we're
in. The journey somehow becomes easier when we submit to this path,
rather than try and avoid it. After all, duvet days are ok occasionally,
but we can't spend our whole life under the covers or we'd never
find out how much joy there is in the world.
When we take the risk to love, we risk everything. And as much
as I hate the saying, 'tis better to have loved and lost, than never
to have loved at all', the truth is, it is absolutely true. We risk
everything by loving, but we gain everything by loving too.
When I was a child I prayed to God asking that I die before my
mother because I couldn't bear the thought of her dying first. I
still can't!
Now I'm a mother, my prayer is for my daughters to outlive me,
for it is a pain I truly know that would rip me to shreds. I've
seen what it has done to friends of mine who've lost babies and
children. One friend, nearly fifty years later, still works night
shift to avoid going to sleep. Sleep is the place of nightmares
and pain. And why should anyone have to constantly relive the pain
of losing the child they've brought into this world?
My life is a comfortable, content and happy one compared to millions
of mothers on this Earth. I try to retain this perspective when
I watch Bethany struggling with her angst. But why does it hurt
so much watching her go through this? It hurts even more than when
I went through it...
There's a song by Garth Brooks called The Dance. The chorus sums
up the risk we take when we love, and how I feel about being a mother.
And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end
the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance
And it's that dance that we so need to have, regardless of the
pain. Kahlil Gibran wrote "Your pain is the breaking of the
shell that encloses your understanding. Even as the stone of the
fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you
know pain."
He goes on to say, " Much of your pain is self-chosen. It
is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your
sick self. Therefore trust the physician and drink his remedy in
silence and tranquillity; for his hand, though heavy and hard, is
guided by the tender hand of the Unseen, and the cup he brings,
though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the
Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears."
If you are going through pain in your life, try to remember that
even on the darkest day the sun shines above. In time, the clouds
of grief, heaviness and despair do give way to light, and sunshine
can again warm the soul.
From all of us at The Mother, we hope you thoroughly enjoy this
issue!
With my very best wishes,
Veronika
Protecting children from modern culture
January/February 2007, TM20
A few months back, leader of the Conservative Party in the UK,
David Cameron MP, spoke of the country's troubled teenagers and
how their problems could be solved with love.
Not being remotely inspired by politics, I have to admit I did
a double take when I heard that. Love? Whaaaat? Ears pricked, I
stopped in my tracks.
Politicians like to espouse family values when they're leading up
to an election, but to actually suggest that the 'L' word as a solution
seemed, well, somehow out of place in English society; you know,
land of the stiff upper lip and 'dignified' modes of emotional expression.
Prime Minister Tony Blair used his Queen's Speech to act the playground
bully and mock Mr Cameron. "Love?" he snickered, almost
choking on the word. Funny how you can really go off a person in
a nano-second. Perhaps love is an alien experience in his family.
Clearly he's not in a position to lead by example, if the fact his
teenage son was found drunk and asleep in a London park late one
night is anything to go by.
Kids will cry out to us for attention (eg. ADD or ADHD). Our job
is to listen to their cues before it gets to this point. Just as
an intuitive mother recognises when her infant needs to breastfeed
(lips pucker, fist in mouth, etc), and offers her babe the breast
well before crying needs to start, the same is true as our children
get older. It is too easy to blind ourselves to children's basic
biological needs simply because they don't 'cry', or worse, we're
too busy to notice their cues. What is dysfunctional behaviour but
a cry, a last ditch attempt to claim our attention.
The truth is, family life is eroding rapidly, and the consequences
are not pretty. What happens in someone else's family has a ripple
effect on the cultural pond from which we all drink.
Our collective, magnetic attraction to materialism is, in short,
fast-tracking us to complete dysfunction and a collapse of society
as we know it.
No government can legislate for family preservation. It has to come
from the heart of the home. From our heart. We have to believe and
experience the value of family to recognise its importance on a
grander scale. Never mind midwifing the world, we have to consciously
birth our own family into awareness.
I was asked, recently, what I'd change about modern childhood.
That is, if I had to choose just one aspect, what would bring harmony
and happiness back into family life. In some ways it was a tough
question, because there are so many aspects to today's way of living
which are all interrelated. And while I'd educate adults about the
deleterious effects of a televisual culture for young children,
eradicate junk food, mobile phones, nasty computer games, aggressive
marketing and so on, the truth is the main issue is the most glaring,
and would in many cases remedy the other toxic issues.
Kids need time with their parents. We have this idea that so long
as kids get the odd patch of 'quality' time then everything will
be ok. But when you're not with your child, you have to ask, "what
is my presence being replaced with?" A tv in their bedroom?
Strangers on an e-group? Texting? Structured play? Junk food?
Kids just want to hang out with their parents. They don't want
structured activities or non-stop amusements to fill their every
waking hour. They want their parents to interact with them, to acknowledge
their existence ~ hugs, laughter, eye contact, a pat on the shoulder,
talking, being. These are what kids need.
Children aren't stupid. And we need to stop treating them that
way. They recognise when we're acting with integrity and know when
we are really 'with' them.
Love is an exchange between living things ~ be they Divine, human
or animal. It can be given, received and felt. Lives are transformed
through love. It can't be experienced by or through inanimate objects.
So how, then, do we expect our children to learn about love when
we give them 'things' to compensate for our absence? And don't be
fooled, we can be just as absent if we're physically present as
full-time stay-at-home parents.
As for the dysfunctional teenagers being targeted by the government,
they didn't end up like this by chance. At various points along
the path of childhood, they've felt neglected in one way or another.
It's misguided to perpetuate the myth of the generation gap. The
issue is a communication gap, and that can happen at any age.
Today's children are mirroring the best and worst of modern culture.
We can't band-aid the problems with yet more mobile phones, fast
food outlets, computer games, more structured education.
What's needed is a revolution not just to save our children, but
our culture. And it has to come from us, the parents. A generation
of emotionally hungry children are showing us all the things that
are wrong with our culture. The modern world might suit adults,
but it's no place for growing children.
Many adults are feeling as if they're in a spiritual desert and
that their own emotional needs aren't being met. They've worked
hard for the house, holiday, techno-gadgets, cars and status, and
yet something is missing. As adults though, we keep pushing and
pushing thinking that we'll arrive 'somewhere' soon and everything
will be ok.
One of the greatest gifts we can give our children is to recognise
that success, happiness, love and peace can never be found outside
of ourselves. It's an inside job. In a culture that advocates the
polar opposite, we've got our work cut out for us. But you know
what? We can do it!
Have a stunningly brilliant new year, and embrace the gifts 2007
bring your way.
In peace,
Veronika
Relaxed Mothering
Spring Issue, TM19
Occasionally I hear from women who, when they read The Mother
magazine, feel as if perhaps they're not good enough mums. This
is unfortunate and has made me realise that each issue should carry
a disclaimer!
This publication is about an ideal, not a dogma. The highest goal,
I believe, of our individual journeys is to aim for relaxed parenting.
Showing our kids how to live from the heart, being authentic in
all our interactions, and realising that it's a waste of time and
energy to get upset about 'just about anything', is the most productive
thing we can do as parents.
Editorially, I have certain criteria when deciding whether to
accept a submission. However this is to do with my vision of a possible
world. It has no reflection on where you should be in your own life.
My vision of a possible world is one where each child is conceived
consciously, with love and welcome, and born as gently as possible
into the arms of its parents. I dream that children are born into
families which value the importance of raising humans with a nutritious,
unprocessed wholefood diet; who practise preventative health care;
parents who value the right of the child to spend their childhood
free of adult orientated pressures. I wish more than anything for
a world where children are treated as human beings, rather than
a dumping ground for their parents' unexpressed needs.
I create, along with my team of writers, photographers and artists,
a magazine which embodies a gift. The Mother is always given in
love, and nothing less. How a reader perceives the publication is
beyond our control.
Yes, some articles are hard hitting. Yes, some authors will present
very challenging ideas. I don't apologise for this. We all need
to constantly question our daily decisions. It keeps our lives in
check and makes our path through life conscious, deliberate and
well-lived. The contents of these pages are not published with the
intention of judging families who take a more mainstream path, or
who decline the more out-of-the-ordinary ideas we present. Our hope,
in actual fact, is that more and more people will feel welcomed
into the pages we publish, as society moves away from 'box thinking'.
We can always be good enough parents regardless of the parenting
style we adopt ~ we can, in every moment, aim to be conscious of
our thoughts, actions and choices. We always have a choice, even
if it doesn't feel like it. Embracing choices allows us to discover
the difference between enjoying the parenting path and hating it,
or perhaps even worse, avoiding it by being absent from our children,
physically, mentally or emotionally.
It's a rare parent who can honestly say they've not ever had a
bad day parenting.
Have you ever noticed when you're having a bad hair day that brushing
the mirror doesn't fix your hair? I find that washing my hair; brushing
it, hiding it in a scarf, or putting it up in a ponytail or two
plaits usually helps! If all that fails, I call my lovely hairdresser
Helen with an urgent plea: "Come quick, before I murder the
mirror!" And yet I know the mirror is not responsible for how
I perceive myself!
Our kids are like mirrors. They show us the side of ourselves that
other people don't tend to see. They manage to draw out our most
hidden demons ~ our shadow selves. It may not seem like it when
you're in Monster Mother mode, but what a blessing! How wonderful
that a human being who loves us unconditionally can provide us with
a key to release the aspects of ourselves which need healing the
most.
Just as brushing (or hitting) the mirror won't sort out our bad
hair day, it's the same with kids. It is ourselves we need to work
on; to tend and mend. And when we do that, miraculously our kids
will mirror the best that is within us.
My hope is that our articles, especially some of the more challenging
pieces, will inspire you to attend to your 'hair', so to speak.
Some people feel threatened, for example, when other families have
had 'idyllic' birth experiences, while their own journey was downright
depressing, terrifying or deeply tragic. It doesn't help any of
us to be in judgement, regardless of what experience we've had in
the birthing room or at the school gates. We can, however, all help
each other to grow and learn. The greatest chains we wear are those
that lead us to believe we don't have choices.
I feel the utmost empathy for my mother when I recall the moments
in childhood when we'd pushed her too far. As a mother, I'm often
pushed to my limit. When I have my 'what a crap mother I turned
out to be' days, I pull my socks up again and tell myself I've no
excuse not to do better.
I live a life of luxury. I have a roof over my head; my kids eat
healthy food every day; we have a computer. This puts us in the
top 8% of the world's population. I've been able to breastfeed my
children, have a washing machine, and don't have to walk to get
our drinking water. Given this, what excuse have I not to parent
well? Not much. And yet, on a daily basis, I come up against as
many psychological challenges as the next mum.
I've learnt many, many things in my parenting journey. Unfortunately,
most of the things I've learnt have come with hindsight! And I can
honestly say that the best of those ideas are through what I have
learnt from other people in radical publications like The Mother
magazine.
I don't beat myself up for my past ignorance. What would be the
point? The past has been and gone. It can only hurt us if we let
it.
The present is the best place for any of us to be. So if you feel
inclined, use the best this magazine has to offer you and go forth
and parent beautifully. If you find information here to be at odds
with your own intuition, then leave it. The Mother isn't a rule
book! We must never deny the innate intuitive wisdom which exists
within. It is unique to every parent and is the best guide for their
parenting situation.
My goal as editor is to inspire, educate, challenge and motivate
parents and would-be-parents into making a lifestyle designed to
support a healthy, happy family and a healthy planet. At The Mother
we believe they go hand in hand.
I feel my future with this magazine is to redefine exactly what
it means to parent holistically and consciously. The holistic path
isn't just about using cotton nappies (or elimination communication),
or recognising that breast is best. To my mind, these are surface
things ~ tip of the iceberg issues. Wholism is a complete package.
Mind, body and soul are the themes we explore in these pages. How
we interact with our children and their other parent on a day to
day basis is just as important as whether or not we choose to vaccinate,
home-educate, dump nappies in a landfill or put our baby in a pram,
rather than in a sling. Whatever steps we make towards a conscious
life, we need to do so in ways that become natural and fulfilling
for the whole family.
***
When I became a mother, my sustenance was found in the pages of
the very radical Nurturing magazine, published in Canada. It pulled
no punches and was very clear that children deserved our care, respect
and love. (See www.nurturing.ca) Nurturing was brave, bold and daring.
I loved it completely! Everything about it was so at odds with the
world of parenting that existed around me. It spoke to my soul,
mentoring me through my early choices as a mother.
I rediscovered the online version of Nurturing magazine recently,
and oh my, it was so like coming home.
Nurturing magazine was born a month before my first daughter was,
ten years ago, and I discovered it about that time. I was over the
moon when they chose my pregnancy photo for one of their covers
and published my waterbirth story. I remember this experience when
mums tell me how excited they are to see their photos or articles
in The Mother.
My absolute joy in rediscovering Nurturing magazine was dampened
when I discovered they were considering stopping publication with
their 10th Anniversary Edition. My first (selfish) thought was,
'how can I get hold of all the precious back issues?'
Niche, radical parenting magazines cater to such a minority readership.
However, those of us at the helm of such publications also know
the importance of existing as a strong and not-so-silent community
for those who need it.
Some publications give in to the temptation of diluting their editorials,
and slackening their advertising guidelines, in order to pay the
printing and postage bills! Nurturing magazine never did this. The
sad ending of their publication has been a wake-up call to me.
If you love The Mother, do consider telling a friend or asking your
midwife, health care practitioner or health store to make it available.
Give a back copy to a friend. Growth is life.
I regret that in my moves between countries, I didn't keep track
of Nurturing magazine. The information in those pages was priceless,
an honest and passionate advocate for our children.
It is so important to support the magazines which contribute to
our growth as parents. There will come a time when our babes and
bambini fly the nest, and other families could do with the wisdom
and guidance that we've been blessed to have. That won't happen
if we're afraid to share our 'radical' magazines around because
we think the contents might offend someone, or worse, make them
think we've lost the plot.
Sometimes people are just waiting for a torchlight to new ideas,
and we'll never know what difference we can make to other lives
if we hide the light!
* * *
The Mother magazine came into existence because of my love for
The Compleat Mother ~ a magazine of pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding.
(See www.CompleatMother.com).
I was blessed to receive a copy of this gutsty newsprint, grass-roots
magazine when I first came to England. It was like having 'family'.
It is still going strong for those who want to learn more about
natural, enjoyable vaginal birth and extended breastfeeding.
The Mother is now being published by the Art of Change. Regular
readers will already know Anna, Sophie, Barry and Winnie through
their regular column on the Art of Change, in The Mother. I'm absolutely
thrilled that their involvement will mean I can focus 100% on the
editorial side of the magazine. Please note the new address for
any enquiries relating to subscriptions, advertising and wholesale
orders.
The Mother is now a 'carbon neutral' publication ~ possibly the
first parenting magazine in the world to be publicly accountable
for its impact on the environment. To offset the environmental cost
of publishing and transporting this magazine, we're investing in
carbon neutral projects.
For this issue, we're working with a project in India and Sri Lanka
which brings solar electric lighting to the people. It is eliminating
the need for kerosene lamps, as they produce high CO2 and greenhouse
gases, not to mention being very damaging to health. The improved
lighting also increases the income for locals, who can earn money
from basket weaving and sewing by having better light for working
under.
Meanwhile, in southern Mexico, we're investing in a pioneering
project to alleviate poverty on a variety of reforestation projects
which see the planting of fruit and nut orchards, restoring the
land to its original forested state. The trees soak up and neutralise
carbon generated activities. Only eco-friendly farming techniques
are adopted. The project provides a permanent income for the local
community.
From the next issue, we'll be through your letterbox every two months,
rather than three. Enjoy! In the meantime, may I wish you the brightest
blessings for an Autumn filled with the crunch of golden leaves,
invigorating winds, and baskets full of apples, and orange pumpkins.
If you're in the Southern Hemisphere, enjoy those first glorious
rays of Spring Sunshine.
Wherever you live, remember, NOT perfect parenting, but relaxed
parenting!
Go in peace…..
Heart and Soul
Summer Issue, TM18
It's often said that life's too short to stuff a mushroom. I beg
to differ. Life is made short by racing through and not being mindful
of our actions and thoughts. Somehow our society has us believing
that the journey through life is somehow meaningless if we deliberately
take the time to be slow and savour our experiences.
Slowing down, having fun, being creative, centred, living in the
Now, these things are what give meaning and richness to our life.
So, why do we bust our backsides to acquire possessions which we
can't take to our grave? It's senseless. Our possessions only have
the meaning we give them. That meaning vanishes upon death (unless
someone else chooses to bestow sentiment upon it).
Our culture is on the fast track lane. Everywhere we look the sign
posts are almost ordering us to speed up. Don't slow down! Don't
question anything! Don't daydream! Even our young children are the
equivalent of stressed-out laboratory rats. Our cultural hot-housing
of them is producing a generation of humans who aren't even given
time to play! Unless, of course, it is structured play, set to a
curriculum as stated by the government.
Children require parent-time; love; creative play and expression;
daydreaming space. But if they're raised on a diet of television,
mobile phones/text messaging, computers, substitute care-givers,
processed foods, sugary drinks and too many extra-curricular activities,
then how will they grow up to make decisions which adequately reflect
their true needs? How will they know what nourishes them to the
core if they aren't given the natural space and time to discover
this for themselves while growing up?
If our lives are too busy to stuff a mushroom, then we're not living,
we're existing. We're here on this planet to thrive, not just survive.
And to thrive we need to nourish our soul through our physical vehicle.
Resisting consumer temptations and living within our means is one
way in which we can have a direct experience in our own life. And
then it follows that we should ask, what can we give to the world?
Many of us have been raised in a culture of take, take, take. And
our children are certainly part of this culture.
Aiming for an authentic life, rich in meaning, we do well to remember
that we are not our assets, money, career, status or fame. Any of
these illusions can be whipped from us in a nano-second. Who might
we claim to be then?
Enjoy the day to day-ness of life. Discover in the beauty of each
waking moment the artistry of your own ways. Stuff that mushroom!
Create habits which nourish. Slow food is a wonderful way to discover
life's meaning. Cast your eyes over the vast array of fresh, organic
fruit and vegetables at your local farmers'market. Smell the coriander
(cilantro) leaves as you break them and add them to an avocado,
lime and tomato salad. Let mango juice drip down your chin and neck
as you sink your teeth deep into its soft, inviting flesh. Taste
cherries, warmed by the summer sun, and plucked fresh from the tree.
Hear the pop and sizzle as you fry your onions! It is here, in slow
time, that we live!
It is essential to a happy and contented life that we nourish our
body and soul. I have found, however, that life is too short for
some things ~ such as investing time and energy into superficial
or ongoing negative relationships. They may fill in time, but they
don't nourish.
Saying life is too short to stuff a mushroom is the same as saying
life is too short to stop and smell the sweet scent of Jasmine clinging
to the air on a hot summer's night.
In these modern, fast-paced times, it is not uncommon for people
to diarise sex. Life, it would seem, is not only too short to stuff
mushrooms but also to lie in the arms of your lover all night long.
It must then go on to say that life is too short to stop and listen
to the birdsong dancing upon a Spring morning breeze.
Too short, indeed, to stand, awestruck, as a star shoots across
the black Autumn night sky. Too short to make a wish, even?
Ways to stuff your life with meaning, inspiration, creativity
and simplicity
Create your own entertainment.
Start a dead poet's society.
Make eye contact and smile to a stranger.
Plant a fruit tree or six and adopt a few ex-battery hens so they
can free-range in your mini-orchard and leave behind wonderful fertiliser
for your garden.
Make your own hommous!
Let meditation be a daily habit.
Drink two litres of spring water each day so that you are functioning
at your optimum level rather than in a desperate, dehydrated state.
(Most people confuse thirst for hunger).
Grow your own sprouts.
Plant sunflower seeds in a pot and bring sunshine to your front
garden.
Sew an old fashioned rag doll and make a child smile.
Bake sourdough rye bread with caraway seeds.
Make a huge pot of soup and invite some friends over for a soup
and salad evening.
Make a ritual of having a fire each full moon. You can tell stories,
sing or just enjoy the peace of the evening.
Start a women's/men's circle.
Eat from hand-thrown earthenware bowls.
Celebrate life with ritual, ceremony and meaning ~ birth, babymoon,
blessingway, losing of first teeth, menarche, coming of age, housewarming,
unions, transitions.
Give thanks at each meal. Don't eat in front of the tv, standing
up or on the run! Sit down, light a candle, set the table with placemats,
flowers and enjoy your food. Eat to Mozart.
Chart the moon's cycles. Chart your own cycle.
Make a nature table and use this as a focus to acknowledge the changing
seasons.
Grind your grains manually.
Make a compost loo in your garden.
Cut up ALL your credit cards, close your bank account and opt for
one with an ethical bank such as Triodos (in the UK) or with your
local building society. Free yourself and your family from debt.
Make a meal from another culture. Expand your taste.
Use a manual lawn mower (no nasty petrol fumes for you or the earth).
Give a massage with sensuous essential oils like rose or ylang ylang.
Sit on a swing for half an hour. How high can you go? Swings aren't
just for kids!
Take a daily walk in Nature (park, woodland, river's edge, nature
reserve, wildflower meadow, beach).
Pick berries from hedgerows. Gobble them straight away.
Learn to identify and eat edible wild foods (enjoy them raw, don't
cook them!).
Snuggle up with the cat and really feel her purr.
Learn/play an instrument (there are so many to choose from).
Make mud pies (especially if you weren't allowed to as a child because
your mother hated dirty clothes).
Read aloud.
Write a poem. Share it with a friend, if you wish.
Draw with charcoal.
Make paper dolls.
Throw a clay pot.
Build a bread oven in your garden.
Make an aquatic wildlife garden.
Sew a dress.
Keep a dream journal.
Breastfeed.
Play Scrabble.
Sing, sing, sing!
Cuddle.
Have friends over for dinner.
Make a herb garden.
Hand write a thank you note.
Say I love you and mean it.
Sit by the fire and do nothing for an hour. If you don't have an
indoor fire, have a small one in your garden beneath the moonlight.
Listening to the crackle, pop and hiss of the wood is very meditative
and brings out everyone's primal desire for simplicity.
Collect nettles to make tea.
Swim.
Learn a language.
Weave a basket (try growing your own willow too).
Picnic (anywhere).
Climb a tree.
Build a treehouse.
Get rid of your television.
Teach your kids to play hopscotch.
Learn one of the Divination Arts.
Write a list of ways in which you can be more authentic ~ both at
home and at work.
Stuff a mushroom!
Good bye, Elizabeth
Spring Issue, TM17
In late November 2005, my mother-in-law, Elizabeth, dutifully had
her flu vaccine. That night she went to bed ill, complaining of
a fuzzy head. When Paul spoke to her on the phone and she said she’d
had her flu jab and was sick, he said, “You know what I think
of vaccines, mum.”
She spent the next eight weeks bed ridden, deteriorating. Barely
a morsel of food passed her lips. Her kidneys weakened to the point
of no return. Research on flu vaccine effects show that crystals
in the kidneys develop, leading to dehydration.
She had the life force stolen from her with that legal, lethal
dose of poison. Like most pensioners, she was hypnotised by government
health officials into believing the flu jab would protect her health.
On Christmas Day, as she lay lifeless in her bed, we called a
doctor to visit. He said she was just a bit run down and not at
all dehydrated. His suggestion was to give her milk and sugar. Excuse
me? You went to medical school and that’s the best you can
come up with? He was most offended when we said her ill-health was
the result of the flu vaccine.
“I’ve been a doctor for many years….” bla
bla blardy bla. He wasn't having a bar of it. “It’s just
coincidence,” he said, arrogantly. Well, I guess that saved
him filling in an adverse reaction form.
After Elizabeth was transferred to hospital, I had a dream of
her standing by the bedroom door waving us goodbye. She was healthy,
smiling and happy. This didn’t fit the picture of the lifeless
woman in a hospital bed. I could only take it to mean that she was
ready to pass out of her body into one more fitting for someone
on an eternal soul journey. A few days before she died, a hospital
doctor acknowledged my vaccine accusation. Her voice softened and
she said, “You’d be surprised how many elderly people
are affected by the flu vaccine.” No, I’m not surprised!
Watching my mother-by-marriage so ill, so frail, almost unrecognisable,
made it impossible for me to not think of my own mother. My heart
completely split in two.
The last few days of Elizabeth’s life will be the ones we
remember most fondly. She was never an overly emotionally or physically
demonstrative woman. And yet, in her final days, something changed.
She openly gave and received hugs, reached out to hold hands, and
said “I love you”...three words that never came easily
to her.
Blessed to have time on my own with her, I expressed my eternal
gratitude that her first born son had truly made my life.
Later, Paul came in, and ever so gently and softly, sang her an
old Italian aria she loved called Your tiny hand is frozen. Rather
fitting given her body temperature was down to 35 degrees Celsius.
Though Elizabeth could no longer talk in her final hours, tears
fell from her eyes at the sound of Paul singing. The last music
she heard was him humming ‘I love you because’…We
were comforted by the fact that hearing is the last sense to go.
When Eliza gave her Nana a last hug, I told Elizabeth that her
granddaughter was hugging her, and that she loved her very, very
much. Elizabeth moaned affirmatively, acknowledging that she was
feeling the hug. Her moans of pleasure will stay with me always.
I felt honoured to be part of the experience, and to hold her
hand as she took her last, gentle breaths. Paul later described
her last breaths as like the sunset. It just happens so gradually
and seamlessly even though it is quick. And yet we know the sun
is still shining, even though we can’t see it any longer.
In Elizabeth’s final moments, Paul and I were joined by two
of his brothers and a sister in law. We gathered around Elizabeth’s
hospital bed, our love transforming an otherwise sterile environment
into a sacred and holy place where she would transition. The feeling
as she left was not one of her dying, but of her moving on to somewhere
else...another journey. Between us we whispered words of ‘fly’,
‘you’re free’. It was, without doubt, the most incredible
and moving experience of my life.
My daughters had been angelically patient those last days...each
reading Harry Potter, walking hospital corridors, and holding their
Nana’s hand. I know many people would suggest young children
shouldn’t be part of such a process, but we approached it like
anything else in our life ~ with honesty.
I felt it important they be part of the transition experience...to
know that the body is merely a glove for this earthly journey, and
that life for Nana didn’t begin in 1922. And it wasn’t
really ending now.
Strangely, a few minutes before their Nana died, another sister-in-law
took them for a walk to stretch their legs. Though they weren’t
in the room when she died, they did come in afterwards to see her
and whisper ‘farewell’.
That evening we went back to Elizabeth’s house. Now, there
was a time in my life when the thought of sleeping in the bed of
someone who’d recently passed over would have filled me with
horror. But you know, that night, as Paul and I cuddled up in Nana’s
big, soft bed, I felt nothing but comfort. It was the most perfect
place to be. There was nowhere else on Earth I would rather have
been as we experienced both the loss of a wombyn we loved, and marvelled
at the beauty and magic of her transition. She was right there with
us. Love transcended our different dimensions.
As we lay in her bed, I saw, not in my mind’s eye, but with
eyes wide open, Elizabeth in a hot air balloon, way up high, smiling,
waving, healthy. The same happy image of her as in my dream a few
weeks before. She was saying goodbye.
The next day, Bethany and Eliza, ran with joy on Nana’s beach.
Half naked, despite the cold winter wind, they played and danced
fully, enjoying life in a place their Nana had looked out over every
day, for many years. She’d have smiled.
Nana’s funeral/cremation was traditional. Our ceremony for
her, more reflective of our beliefs, will be to plant a tree with
some of her ashes at Moondawn Farm (home of The Mother magazine’s
family camps, and a placenta burial site). The girls are choosing
to plant some of the flowers and bushes that grow in her garden,
too.
There are many parenting publications, even those that promote
natural parenting, which assume a political correctness by presenting
the pros and cons of vaccination. Until MY dying day I will shout
from the rooftops that there are NO pros to mass vaccination! I
don’t expect you to believe me. I do, however, hope that you’ll
have enough wisdom to do your own research. The information is out
there. The truth, the facts, the research. It’s all there!
Just don’t expect your doctor or the government or pharmaceutical
companies to rush to your aid. They won’t.
Ask your doctor for the ingredients in vaccines. Ask them to sign
a consent form agreeing to take full responsibility, financial or
otherwise, if any reaction happens to your child or parent. Ask
the manufacturers if they are prepared to do the same. And if any
of them are, do give me a call. You may not be able to choose for
your parents whether or not they vaccinate, but you are responsible
for your child. It is their life at risk, not yours.
You, your children and your parents can protect yourselves from
influenza by taking care of your well- being. Get plenty of rest,
cut out junk foods, sugars, fats, drink two litres of water each
day, make daily exercise of some description a priority. Keep happy
company. Switch off the news.
Seek regular chiropractic care for your children. Chiropractors,
the experts in spinal care, will tell you that “through your
nervous system you perceive the world, adapt to stress, coordinate
all your body parts and functions, express emotion, and create your
conscious reality. Chiropractic care aligns the spine so that malfunctions
don’t interfere with your nervous system. You could also try
cranio-sacral therapy. Your health is in your hands. Be proactive.
Don’t be brainwashed into believing that vaccines are necessary
for good health. They’re not.
Injecting poison into the body of an infant, child or an elderly
person to protect them from disease, is the greatest global terrorism
we will ever face. It is only when we step off the hypnotist’s
stage (aka government, and department of health) and look the myth
of vaccination in the eye and say “enough is enough”,
will we truly discover how healthy our children and parents can
be.
Good bye Elizabeth. We miss you.
In memory of
Mary Elizabeth Robinson
22nd February 1922 — 18th January
2006
Daughter of Eliza; mother of Paul, Vernon,
Nicholas and Mark;
grandmother of Hannah, Harriet, Bethany, Eliza,
Elizabeth, Grace, Andrew, Oliver and Gabriella;
mother-by-marriage of Veronika, Elaine, Julie and Julia. |
The Traveller
By James Dillet Freeman
She has put on invisibility
Dear Lord, I cannot see -
But this I know, although the road ascends
And passes from my sight
That there will be no night
That you will take her gently by the hand,
And lead her on
Along the road of life that never ends,
And she will find it is not death, but dawn.
I do not doubt that You are there as here,
And You will hold her dear.
Our life did not begin with birth,
It is not of the earth
And this that we call death, it is no more
Than the opening and closing of a door
And in Your house how many rooms must be
Beyond this one where we rest momentarily.
Dear Lord, I thank You for the faith that frees,
The love that knows it cannot lose its own
The love that, looking through the shadows, sees
That You and she and I are ever one.
|
