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  • Out of the Mouths of Babes

    This blog series on motherhood and creativity explores The Village: Who else is here while you mother? Amanda Magee, Barbara Ungar, Marisa Goudy and more... The Out Posts

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    Ignite your voice in the next Powder Keg Sessions: Writing Workshops for women. I lead two different Sessions in the Berkshires. Special event August 20 in Escanaba, Michigan at the Bonifas Fine Arts Center- TBA. Follow the fuse

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    The International Women's Writing Guild is hosting Mapping Motherhood at their summer conference. Come explore the territory of motherhood with writing and mixed media. Right this way

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The Village: Morgan Nichols

Morgan and Jude at Midsummer Camp

The Village: Who else is here while you mother?

Freedom, Community & Mothering as Creative Soul-Seeker

by Morgan Nichols

“What is inherently free is who you are. Who you are does not become free. It is free. In recognizing this, there is the natural ability to respond. Before that, responsibility is a concept of duty or of something to be shouldered. It may be tempered with love and care, but it is also something to be born. Therefore, your child becomes an objectification, a separation between you and that which you really are. This is a deadly joke! You are this very child. Recognize this and you are not searching around for personal freedom. Then nothing can be an intrusion.” – Gangaji*:

As a creative, soulful, multi-passionate single mother only just emerging out of the early years of motherhood, I struggle with this notion of freedom on a daily basis. I sometimes feel tethered by responsibility, longing to escape and spend days dancing under a wild blue sky. I’ve seen my child as the barrier between me and my true freedom. And yet I know this is an illusion that causes us both pain. Yes, I have real, driving needs for space, quiet, creativity. I am a highly sensitive and introverted person who becomes easily overstimulated and needs regular time alone like a fish needs water. But when I do get a break, much as it refreshes me, after a time I realise that I need my son as much as he needs me. Mothering is an anchor in my life. I have been forced by parenting responsibility to root out a lot of my self-absorption and emotional-roller-coaster tendencies, to become more grounded, present and consistent.

Morgan and Jude

When I allow myself to truly see my son, instead of past him to where I want to be; to look deeply into his eyes that change daily from green to blue to grey, and crinkle up at the corners when he laughs, using his whole face; I can see him as a companion on my journey, an ally even, that I’m blessed beyond measure to have. I see that the freedom I long for is right here now. I realise I’m only given as much as I have the strength for. Being a mother has led me to places that I needed to be: for my soul, for my creativity, for my work to be birthed into the world.

Every step of the way I’ve been given the village I’ve needed. It just hasn’t looked the way I imagined it. I thought I’d have a nuclear family, a safe, cozy oasis in the tempestuous world. When my rocky relationship finally ended when my son was 20 months old, this dream dissolved in ash. We were homeless for several months after the split, reliant on friends’ charity. I was provided for in ways I’d never have expected: finding a house-sit with a country walk at the end of the road, where I could nurture myself with my favourite soul-connector: Nature. I learned the generosity and kindness of my fellow humans in a way I’d never have experienced had I stayed in the nuclear family bubble.

I was terrified to live alone with my son. I had always lived with people; I thought I wouldn’t be enough for him, that I’d be isolated and alone. Then I happened to see a flier for a week long summer solstice community camp. I knew at once that I had to go there. We traveled for a long sweaty 5 hours by public transport with all our camping gear, and arrived on a field to find more than I could ever have dreamed. It was, simply, home.

Camping Circle
Camping Circle

For a week we lived in groups of 20-30 within a larger camp of 90 people, and in those groups grew surprisingly close. In fact, to me it felt like family. We shared chores and everyone did what they were best at – which meant I did far less cooking than usual and much more drifting, daydreaming, and dancing. People shared their skills for the benefit of everyone: chopping wood, making temporary kitchens, massage, teaching yoga. My son, then 2.5, had the opportunity to interact with people he wouldn’t usually: seven year old girls, childless older adults. And of course, we were living right on the land and outdoors most of the time. I unwound myself into the space of blue sky and the simplicity of cooking over a fire, surrounded by caring, open-minded and creative people. I was woken up to a way of living that I recognised in my bones: being in community in openness and mutual respect. It was so overwhelmingly beautiful that one night at the evening meal sharing circle I collapsed into sobs: “I want to live like this.”

Morgan alone at camp

My son was free to roam in a much larger space than was possible back home, benefiting from the input of a safe small group of supportive adults and other children. I felt both free and supported, and came home overflowing with love and a new openness to the world. We discovered other community camps and re-found our home each summer for the next 4 years. This ‘village’ inspired me to learn the ukulele and sing in a scratch band for the first time, finally having the confidence to share my life-long love of music with others; I taught yoga under a big oak tree; tried out new ideas for Wild Writing workshops, and was able to let more of my vivid, colourful, wild self out to play because of the support of such a nonjudgmental environment.

I read somewhere that as human beings, we expect, on an evolutionary level, to live in this way: sharing parenting among the members of a tribe of 20-30 people, living in connection with the cycles and seasons of the land. This is the way we lived and thrived for thousands of years. This affirmed for me that there wasn’t something ‘wrong’ with me because I didn’t want to, and couldn’t, fulfil all my son’s needs 24/7. That I wasn’t a bad parent because my needs as a human being weren’t completely fulfilled as a single full-time urban parent. We could be surrounded by other parents and children at the park and I’d still feel totally isolated; and to meet my needs for mental stimulation and adult companionship often required a lot of exhausting organisation and time away from my child. This set my needs against his. At the camps, this conflict was lessened because our needs could be met by different people – we were not woven into an interdependence so tight it hurts.

I wondered if there was any point in surrendering into an experience that, beautiful as it was, wasn’t going to last and couldn’t be translated into my life as an urban single parent. But the village has been evolving in its own way here. I moved to a smaller, country town and made more connections with other mothers, exchanging childcare and text conversations and coffee chats about being a mother creative and soul-seeker. My local Red Tent community nourishes my femininity. I collaborate with other women on creative projects and workshops. I’ve continued to take little steps towards my dreams, and seeing how these little seeds take root and flower, I find my life barely recognisable from 7 years ago, when I first became a mother and felt so isolated, even with a partner. I am hoping that the roots of community and music will slowly spread right underneath the foundations of my life. Who knows where they will come up to light and flower next?






*from Gangaji’s question and answer session printed in ‘You Are That':



Morgan dancing 5 rhythms


I’ve been a lover of words since before I could actually write, walking up and down the garden telling stories to myself. I was initiated into the Wild Mother path in 2007 when my son Jude was born. He is my live-in spiritual teacher and often my creative inspiration – the reason that my book, Wild Motherhood: Keeping the Creative and Soul Fires Burning, and the support network Wild Motherhood, came to be. I’ve been running supportive writing groups and workshops for mothers since 2008, and am a freelance writer, published poet and short story writer, and copywriter with two novels on the back burner. See here for some of my published work. In-between mothering and working I love to stare out of train windows, read about astrology, and dance the 5 Rhythms, enjoying the freedom of expression and mindfulness discipline rolled-into-one that this embodiment practice provides.

wobbly mother

Glorious Sunday. #berkshires #beauty xoS

A photo posted by Suzi Banks Baum (@suzibb) on


Keep your eyes open and tell me what you see.

after Jena Schwartz and Polly Hatfield

Gray pants and two feet on an ancient, craggy white boulder,
quartz, this could be, all quartz,
it is sloped at the top so when I clamber up,
queen of all I survey,
my legs wobble. I wonder if I will crash off.
I persist.
Breathe in one million dandelions,
each petal a cry of jubilant spring,
the sky pollen-glazed.
I stand tall, stretch my arms up
to salute this Sunday morning.
My gaze unlatches from the horizon
where it was keeping my balance for me.
And this is when I see it.
A brilliant blaze of orange
streaking across the sapphire sky.
A Baltimore oriole, its call mingled with a Red-Winged blackbird.
{Oriole: the appearance of joy.
Red-winged blackbird: Black Madonna, divine feminine.}

But there it is.
My eyes open.
One wobbly woman sacrificing balance in the name of beauty.

Suzi Banks Baum
May 19, 2015



This is what is going on.
And the return of the tall children.
Cookies in the jar.
Juice in the fridge.
Crock pot burbling.

Morgan Nichols offers us a guest blog post tomorrow on The Village: Who else is here while you mother? for Out of the Mouths of Babes blog series.

I am off to pack my son home from school.
Much love,


Terri Bocklund

There is a farm in Sweden that I am connected to, but only by DNA lines and story lines.

The old ones lived there, Anna and Hilmer. It was a sheep farm. Their farm had a guest cottage where my mother stayed when she visited. Anna would totter over to the guest cottage every morning balancing a serving tray to deliver a very pale breakfast of boiled potatoes and smoked fish and transparent cucumber slices. And strong black coffee.

Anna and Hilmer had a ritual they undertook every morning. They’d walk the lane to that certain place in the fence where certain sheep would inevitably have lodged their necks while trying to curl their tongues around the greener sweeter grass on the other side. Anna and Hilmer knew each sheep by name, and would oh so lovingly extract each jammed sheep from the fence, then pat them and send them on their way.

Anna and Hilmer are with me now in the newest and strangest phase of my mother journey. They are all gone, my darling girls. Independent and resourceful, talented and loving and funny times four, they have graced into their grown-up lives, chasing their dearest dreams with all the courage and fortitude I could have ever hoped they’d have on board by this time.

There are many other loving adults in their lives now, and these folks have sometimes seemed like a threat to me; competition for my daughters’ time and affection. I have dreamed bad dreams that others have become the preferred mother-figure to my girls, and that the most beautiful word in the world, “mom,” was no longer falling from my ears into my heart, but into someone else’s.

But I am Anna and Hilmer, I’ve discovered. Maybe they don’t spend Christmas with me, but when my daughters stumble into something difficult, or sorrowful, or frightening along the path, it turns out that I am the one who knows the just right words, can knit my arms into the just right hug, can silently attend their tears, and without words, let them know tears are the just right thing. Best of all, I am the keeper of our shared memories.

Mom, I thought he was the one, she wailed.

The surgery is next Thursday. Can you be there, Mom?

Why did this have to happen to me, Mom? How could God let this happen?

Mom, do you remember that boy who always teased me on the bus in elementary school?

Yes, I am Anna and Hilmer. And I will be at that certain spot in the fence for my little flock until my last breath. They know it, and I know it, and it’s a very dear place to be.




Terri Bocklund is a life long singer/songwriter and guitar picker, a world-class doodler and visual journaler, and a rabid knitter. She grew up in Minnesota and now lives and works in the suburban Baltimore/DC area.

Terri Bocklund

Lilies of the Valley deck my garden walk

My Helen House heart is very full. Sometimes Facebook offers gifts. Thank you for this one. XoS


Ohhhh where have you been Suzi Baum Suzi Baum?

Lassies and lads, there are stories backing up here in my studio.
Photos, adventures, ferns unfurling.
And I am sunk in memories of my mother, as spring opens her jacket, loosens her scarf and reveals her tender neck for us to nuzzle. Lilies of the Valley. The last tulips.
Lilacs under this window heavy with rain. The Horse Chestnut tree across the street is laden with its fairy candles.

The simple beauty of this bouquet of lilies of the valley brings my mother in to view and the song White Coral Bells. I found this sweet video of three generations singing.



Below is a bit of writing I did at the Rites of Passage writing workshop for the Berkshire Festival of Women Writers in March. Nancy Rothman gave us the prompt of “After you left…”

After the funeral, after you left, when we were sitting in the living room with beers and Chex mix party snacks made from scratch- toasted squares of General Mills goodness seasoned with Worcestershire sauce, then, after that, when you walked away from my confusable aunts who are twins, who my sisters and I look like, who sat on the couch clutching my 13 year old daughter’s hands like she was a balloon not to be let go of, like there was no tomorrow, because in this instant, there wouldn’t be a tomorrow, after you left? Well, really, since you’d died and were tenderly placed in to a hole in the chilled October soil of Escanaba, sandy weeds layered above clay soil unfertile and dense-after that? We ate and drank and all of us, clustered in your living room with photos of us on the bay windowsill next to the plastic flowers you loved in your post-gardening era-after that?

We missed you terribly.

We expected your laugh, your pointing forefinger, the tears rolling down your cheeks and your glasses needing to be wiped. We all missed the you we’d been missing for 8 years since Alzheimer’s came to town. After you left, we nursed and tended and planned and arranged and sang and read and wiped, until, finally and at the last, you left town for good.

We missed you then and more than ever.

After you left….

Thinking of you all while weeding my garden, singing.


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