A mother's poetic reflection on simultaneously striving to comfort and teach her children, and learn from her own mother, about the growth that can come from struggle.
A young mother of twins returns to the comfort of the kitchen and cooking rice as she remembers learning from her own mother as a child, and revels in the unique tension between her desire for order and the joyful chaos that her children bring.
2016 is around the corner. What’s the question you’re putting to bed and what’s the one that’s just being born within you at this transitional time of year?
Being a mother is an act of transformation and discovery. Courtney Martin examines the gifts of obliteration of motherhood, and the maternal love that rushes in as responsibility beckons.
It's easy to mentally sanitize and romanticize the creative process, but the real work is done in the clutter and the mess of daily living. An enconium on imperfection, self-doubt, and the importance of pushing through.
Rather than grieve for the loss of “normalcy,” a mother of a child with refractory seizure disorder chooses to exult in her being exactly the way she is. Weaving in the Four Noble Truths, she marvels at the gifts of intimacy, false notions of power and control, and the hope and humor that follows.
A mother contemplates her own addictive need to fix things with her daughter. Using mindfulness as a tool for recovery she answers compulsive behavior with the opportunity to be present in ever-deepening self-awareness, and the ability to witness emotional weather without engaging or reacting to it.
Becoming a mother can be a startling experience — a belonging to a communion of motherhood and the stark reality that one's identity will never be the same again. For this upcoming Mother's Day, Courtney Martin contemplates the fragility, fierceness, and myopia of motherhood and the ineffable beauty of being a mother.
This past summer, I drove to Chicago withGrace Boggs and Myrtle Thompson of Feedom Freedom Growers for some book-signing events and radio interviews. During the four- to five-hour drive from Detroit, Myrtle and I shared stories about raising our children. Grace didn’t say much.