Mother Blood Memory

Within the silent labyrinths of the psyche, there is a landscape memory not wholly our own, pulsing through us like the echo of ancient psalms. Maternal blood memory speaks not in words, but in symbols etched into the marrow of our soul, whispering truths older than language. It is the dream we inherit before birth, the scent of water, wind, fire and earth, the taste of grief and joy mingled on the tongue of time.

Through the maternal line, we carry the wisdom of hands that have healed, voices that have cried into the wind, and hearts that have broken open. Through the maternal line we carry the promise of birth, new birth, resurrection, and redemption. This memory is not instructed but awakened and unfolding in moments of deep knowing, when our bodies remember what our minds have never learned.

In our rituals, and strength, their stories breathe again. Trauma too rides the blood, unseen yet shaping, but with it comes the power to witness, to weep, to name, to transform. We are the living altar of those matriarchs who came before, vessels of persistence, resilience, and sacredness. There is a silence that speaks when we touch the earth, a shiver that means more than cold, a tear that belongs to infinite mothers.

When we attend, really attend, we come to be the bridge between what was, what is, and what will be. The inheritance is not just pain, sorrow and suffering, but also beauty, creativity, and the courage to rise in phoenix fashion.

Through this lineage of blood and beyond blood, through this universal womb and cyclical menstrual tide, we remember who we are, and who we are becoming onto the ages of ages, the present age and all the ages of all ages before.