The Alchemy of Belonging

This morning, as I eased into my day, sitting propped up in bed and reading Souleika Jaouad’s The Book of Alchemy, the ceiling fan hummed, slicing through the sticky, thick late-June heat, and I found myself transported to another time and place.

My mother sits, similarly propped up in her bed, reading in the morning. Her favorite chunky grey ceramic mug by her side, half-filled with lukewarm Folgers instant coffee lightened with a splash of milk and sweetened with a heaping teaspoon of sugar; likely quietly placed there by one of my brothers or me, ever attentive to her contentment…

The sight of milk or cream marbling its way to the bottom of a tall glass of iced coffee still mesmerizes me, bringing me back to those early childhood days where everything seemed to revolve around my mother, and my gaze was always transfixed upon her long face and the way her wiry hair formed an afro, like a halo, around it. Studying her, learning her, and never not knowing her anguish in my bones as if it were my own… a cigarette dangling from her lips, or poised between her fingers, curls of smoke billowing around her… I still see and feel this scene viscerally in my mind’s eye.

Sometimes she’d be pressing a stick of charcoal across a large sheet of newsprint at the brown oval dining table. The awful green shag carpet spanned the long length of the open concept space of our first home on Schoolhose Lane. Grogat, the big orange cat I’d named before my tongue had begun to fully form words, luxuriating in a stream of sunlight pouring through the windows that overlooked the dirt driveway we shared with the next-door neighbors.

Most of the time, she’d be surrounded by friends—some were her students, others were her fellow teachers—all of them appeared cool and knowing through the lens of my innocence and intrigue. 

I can feel the languid energy and the collective pulse of their sharp intellects and warm connections. I had no real understanding of their conversations—most likely they were talking about art, literature, culture, love, and the heartache I know my mother held close even as she conducted those in her midst like a symphony, distracting them with her dynamic wit and wisdom from her pain that hung in the air like a murky smog.

This was my childhood… hippies with long wavy hair, hanging around in their cut-off shorts, barefoot, sweaty, smoking weed and cigarettes, drinking wine and coffee, talking, laughing, crying, making art, and making love. 

I felt enlivened by their laughter and enveloped by the inflections in their voices. And I simultaneously felt gutted by the insatiable hunger of wanting more of my mother’s presence and attention. Because in those moments when I received it, I felt so safe, so cherished, and adored. I felt like the most radiant, sparkling jewel, as if it was she who was mesmerized, and I was the center of her universe. I felt at home and like she was so much mine, and there was no trace of loneliness or need.

Her beloved grey ceramic mug sits perched on my altar, filled with a small cluster of my grandmother’s tarnished silver spoons—a simple vessel signifying memory, lineage, and quiet devotion.

It’s wild to think about how separate and disconnected so many of us feel in the here and now as we watch in wonder and disgust, waiting in perpetual uncertainty to know which flavor of dread will befall humanity each day as we try our best to sink our teeth in to savor the sweetness that is summer, with all its sultry, sensual invitations to let go and release; to feel the warmth of the sun beating down on our skin reminding us to seize the day and make the most of our one wild and precious life.

This is the heart of what I hold space for—women navigating the tender terrain of memory and becoming, who are ready to feel at home in themselves through it all: the beauty, the ache, the longing, and the quiet truths and reckonings that rise in the in between spaces.

This morning was one of those moments.

Now and then, someone weaves their way into my life with a readiness to receive that mirrors the depth of care I’m here to provide. These moments remind me that my work—while not always sustained by monetary exchange—is part of a people-powered movement of mutual uplift.

Through the Underground Fairy Godmother Network, I get to offer refuge and support to those in need of remembrance and reconnection. It’s a quiet kind of reciprocity, but it’s a powerful one.

If you’re longing for this kind of support—or if you’re curious about how to help keep it flowing for women who might not otherwise have access—I’d love to hear from you. The UFGN is one of my work's most tender, purpose-filled threads, and your presence and generous contributions create a ripple of care that really makes a difference.

Steady on, my loves. Still one spot available for Sanctuary Sessions—three months of powerful, intuitive support to anchor you and realign you with your truest truthiest truths, your hunger pains, and your deepest longings, yearnings, knowings, and power.

Reach out if you know you’re ready for a wee spot of warm MotherLove and Mama Jewels magic.

Here for you when you’re ready💚