Been sitting with thoughts of motherhood, the divine feminine, home, lineage and the like.

On a whim, opened my heart and calendar up to committing to Putting The Creative In A Creative Nonfiction Memoir. It felt right to take this course now when I saw it pop up on the Antioch Continuing Ed newsletter. I haven’t done much writing, but it’s becoming more and more obvious to me that it is an outlet that is calling to me, if only to be able to process life.

So I jumped in and 4 weeks later, I am giddy to have my feet wet again with creative writing. 

Week 1

• What Is Creative Nonfiction Memoir and What the Hell Have I Gotten Myself Into?
• Assignment – Submit draft of creative non-fiction memoir essay 5-7 pages

Week 2

• Dialogue
• Assignment – Dialogue Piece

Week 3

• Character Development
• Assignment – Character Study

Week 4

• Memory/Timeline/Structure
• Assignment – Revise essay based on new learnings

This may not be its final form. The edits are only the ones I made during the span of the 4 week course. However, I feel it’s a living artifact in that I may further shape and sculpt it AND I still want to share and document where it is having just completed Putting The Creative In A Creative Nonfiction Memoir!

---

Now I Dream of Motherhood As Water

“Nope. Not interested in babies. At all.”

George, a love interest at the time, who was a few years older than me replied, “Many of my female friends said that when we were younger. Well, that changed for several of them already.”

“Honestly, the world doesn’t need me to reproduce!” I stated with incredible self-assurance, “and for as much of a shit show as I am, that’s probably a good thing.”

Over a decade later, I chuckle to myself realizing that I’m more similar to many of those female friends than I had chosen to believe at the time. Adolescent Tiffany was so darn confident and naive to the soon-to-come experiences that would continue to evolve not only my body, but also mind, emotions, perspectives and very being. Adolescent Tiffany had yet to fathom the incredible ebbs and flows of life as we progress through ages and stages of the human life cycle. Adolescent Tiffany had yet to even face the maelstrom of her twenties full of restlessness, burnout and turbulent identity formation.

Present me continues to ruminate, as I travel down the Spirit Trail in North Vancouver, on a crisp February morning, passing by the Squamish First Nation Cemetery and taking the concrete bridge over Mosquito Creek. As I look to the stream below, the burbling water on the rocks glisten as they continue their journey to the sea. I continue on my own journey across the train tracks to stop at a local bakery for an indulgent treat for the morning walk.

I resume my inner dialogue about my prior stance on procreation. Never say never. As I chomp into the pain au chocolat, my mouth salivates and incorporates the buttery, cocoa and sugar flavours that dance on my tastebuds, and I recall a more recent conversation.

“When are you going to have your own babies Auntie?” Maya asked as she took strands of my hair and continued to twist and braid.

My comedic reflex and deflection kicked in and I gave a dramatic eye roll and exhaled, “Duh! I’m waiting for you to grow old enough to be our au pair!” As I tickled her and then enveloped her with a big bear hug.

My sister Sacha chimed in, “You should have seen Auntie when she held you the day you were born,” she chuckled recalling my awkwardness when, for the first time, she passed me this itty bitty human that had only recently emerged from her own body.

“And now look at us…” I gazed wistfully at the creative, loving and joyful child who had resumed weaving dark strands of my fine and thin tresses in her tiny yet dextrous hands, “When Mom handed you to me, I was frightened of accidentally dropping this bundled burrito of baby and had no clue what to do with you.”

Maya’s eyes locked on mine and she gave a wry smile having heard this retelling of the day she was born on numerous occasions and my sister chimed in, “It was bad! Auntie was aaaawwkward!”

“And I only dropped you a few dozen times!” I remarked.

“Auuuunntiieee”, Maya sighed in exasperation at my apparently lame and overused quips.

“Truly, though… You were one of the biggest joys of my life because you taught me how amazing babies and kids are. It’s a pretty cool miracle that you were created and grew in your mummy’s tummy,“ as I put my hand on my sister’s abdomen and then throw my hands up towards her and continue, “Now you’re this incredible human being with your own body, a soul, a unique personality and the whole shebang. That’s pretty darn incredible.”

It still is astonishing to me how quickly after Maya’s birth my harsh views on babies melted and a surge of positive emotion flooded over me. I plunged proudly into my new role as Auntie, which was magnified with the arrival of my second niece, Maddy. Soon enough my tepid feelings about little humans warmed into interest and appreciation for this stage of the human life cycle and its significance in shaping big humans.

It begins to drizzle, as is characteristic of the aptly nicknamed “Wet Coast” (West Coast) or “Raincouver” (Vancouver), and I carry on without putting up the hood on my rain jacket. A deep inhale of the crisp Pacific Northwest air fills my nostrils as I place my hand on my lower abdomen and ponder the power and meaning of giving life and my thoughts on motherhood. The droplets coalesce and continue down my skin. Each additional drop that merges becomes part of a greater whole, a mini puddle of precipitation collected in a fold of my rain jacket. I can’t tell exactly when my perspectives on me procreating shifted, like I can’t tell when the raindrop was no longer a singular entity. It’s still H2O, but it takes another form as it goes through its journey.

My journey has now merged with my love, my Liebe, my husband – Stefi. These days we’re discussing co-creating a future that expands our present family situation – currently copious plants and two felines. Aptly, thoughts of parenthood flow through me as the rivers and creeks of the mountains of the Pacific Ranges flow into səl̓ilw̓ət (Sleilwaut), the hən̓q̓əmin̓əm̓ (Hun’qumyi’num) name for Burrard Inlet. Here I stand, and having finished the pastry, I just stare at the opaque yet gentle waves illuminated by the diffused overcast sky.

What is it to be a mother? 
The questions dangles in the air, as the rain has ceased and the mist of the morning is imperceptibly dissipating from between the lush evergreens – the trees that I would often paint using phthalo and cadmium greens, working off archived Bob Ross videos. I think of the mother vinegar currently forming in the fruit wine on the kitchen counter at home, yet another experiment to do with learning and interacting with living systems that Stefi and I have started. I think of mother earth in her 4.5 billion years of aliveness and birthing life that has now existed and evolved for 3.5 billion years. I think of my human mother who is foundational to my genetic and physical existence. I think of the mothers of Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), Səl̓ílwətaʔ (Tsleil-waututh) and xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam) Nations on whose land I settled through the act of my birth from humans from lands abroad. I think of the Mother Tree, as researched by ecologist Suzanne Simard, who feeds and nourishes the wood wide web of the forest, and in relation with the whole network of organisms. I think of Mother of pearl, produced by molluscs, prized for it with its strength, resilience and iridescence, and brought back to me from the country of my mother’s ancestors.

A tear of happiness wells up in my eyes as I recall the purposeful vows that Stefi & I had exchanged during our wedding in his parent’s garden the prior year. Stupidly having forgotten to tuck tissues into my bra, I found myself sniffling while reading off the printed paper of words onto which I had poured my heart.

“I believe our ancestors would be proud of the love that we have discovered together and a love that we will continue to nurture for our loved ones and future generations.” 

Snot was dripping out from my damn nose. Fortunately Sacha, from behind me, shoved a paper Emelle’s Catering napkin into my hand and I paused while the joyful waterworks continued and I blew my nose. Then I resumed, “I promised to nurture and care for our life. To care for what is alive between us and the growing and evolving relationship we co create. To tend to the natural world we share our family of animals, plants, gardens, and larger community in the land on which we live.”

A blink from my short-lashed eyelids presses out briny teardrops that have formed while recalling this precious and emotional memory. Then a seal pops his head out of the water. My human eyes ask hers, “Ocean friend, are you a mother?” If so, how does she nourish, provide for and care for her offspring? I get lost in these streams of thought while gazing at the harbour ahead of me and lose track of how long it has been. I lean into the ancestral time where I allow myself to become in tune with what gives us life. The air. The water. The earth. 

What is it to build a home? 
This notion of home ever being purely a physical space was dropped long ago, when 17 year old version of me moved out of my parent’s house in British Columbia, and across the country to an island on the St. Lawrence River – Montreal, Quebec. My parents, like many Canadians around retirement, downsized, and so there was no familiar physical place of home to which I could return. I continued to move every 1-2 years for over a decade, until this little virus that you may know – COVID19 – disrupted my plans to live in a new city in a different country each month for a year. It was then, with Stefan, I settled down at a dwelling that was more than a mailing address. We made, and actively continue to make it, a home.

Having walked down to the shore, my fingertips dig into the rough sand, each grain millions of years in the making. As a homo sapien, I marvel at the wonder of circumstance in which the technology, cultures and civilizations exist and enable my own existence. Mumsy came from Luzon, a Philippine island in the Pacific, the salt water surrounding the soft powder sand shores. Across the Atlantic, Dad came from the rolling hills surrounding the Rhein in northern Switzerland, hydrated by a a freshwater river known for its mineral-rich qualities. These two humans then traversed great distances and over oceans in travels each of their respective ancestors could barely dream. I was forged in the kiln of a colonized land of Canada, a country built on shame and barely-there-conciliation (much less re-conciliation). Here I stand, a confluence of cultures, ways of knowing, and methods of relating that led to a brackish identity. 

Home has inherently for me always felt far and wide, and I’ve yearned for identifying with more than simply place and space. I picture a raindrop that falls to the ground, and then nourishes a plant through its roots. Eventually the water transpirates back into the air as vapour, which then forms a cloud whose droplets eventually condense enough it creates the rain that showers the flora below. Like that drop, I find myself – after a journey through seven continents over the years – grounding myself back to the place where I was born.

Here. Again. But not the same.

A watercolour tattoo of the Philippine archipelago starting on my left ribs down to the hip is balanced by a quote in cursive writing by Swiss-German poet, novelist, and painter Hermann Hesse on my right ribs. These are superficial representations of a deeper lived experience in becoming me and integrating what I had taken as separate pieces of identity into a harmonious whole. 

Is to be a mother to feel an aliveness and birth that into the world?
In giving birth, one is also birthing a new relationship. Something that was once part of you will eventually grow into their own authentic being. I recall a particular feeling that bubbled over me when I looked at a photo of Mumsy pregnant with me in the photo color palette of 1988 browns and oranges. The era was rich with the hues that remind me of autumn. Now, it’s early spring, and I observe the incredible and fierce rebirth of life in the new buds peeping out of the wood stems and the cheerful yellows and soft lilacs of crocuses poking out from grassy patches of ground.

In the picture, Mumsy and I are still one. Her heart literally pumping for us both. Now our similar enlarged bluish veins pump blood through each of our bodies, to and from where we are most comfortable: the heart. Though the age gap between Sacha and I is just shy of 8 years, my parents insist that I was not “a mistake”. Mumsy has transparently said that she didn’t initially want kids, but her mind changed. Perhaps we are more alike than younger Tiffany had assumed.

Her heart once fed mine, and in many senses, it still does. My mother is from whom I inherited the divine feminine – the wild abandon and swinging hips that move to the as her torso mimics the undulation of ocean waves. Dancing isn’t simply a hobby, dancing is a necessity. Like her, I feel the rhythm of life, and dance to the beat of my own drums. This mother taught me, neigh, embodied movement within me. My family jokes that she is the only Filipina woman I know who doesn’t cook, yet she found her own way to nourish our family. 

I feel a deep sense of gratitude for our time together recently in January 2022. The family-coined “ElseNew Year” gathering at my parent’s house in Las Vegas turned into what we rebranded as “COVIDcation”. My palms remember the feeling of holding Mumsy’s soft, religiously moisturized hands between them during one of the evenings spent sifting through and connecting over decades worth of photos in file boxes and drinking tea. I can’t recall exactly what we spoke of, as I was more entranced in observing her as she was in the moment. As I feel my now damp hair in the messy bun of brunette locks atop my head, I recall gazing at Mumsy’s fine and straight hair, which she always complains is too limp. Before taking any photo, it is almost tradition for her to complain, “my stupid hair”, unhappy with its lack of volume. She bears a deep scar across her lower abdomen, a result of bearing both my sister and I through caesarian. Her varicose veins are prominent, serving as a reminder of how strongly her loving heart pumps oxygen through her body. At a petite 5’1” and under 100 lbs when conceiving my sister, I marvel at how she contained either of us within her. 

Now she carries a scar on her body, a reminder of the life she has brought to earth and nurtured. She carries the scars of the hardships of immigration, discrimination as an Asian female, and violence of colonization to name a few. She carries the generational trauma living in our ancestors. She carries the scars of my storm surges of unbridled emotions. It hurts to hurt her, but it’s like biting on a split lip and, though knowing chewing on it isn’t logical, still not being able to stop. 

What scars do we inherit? What scars do we pass down? What scars do we inflict? I run my fingers over a glue gun burn scar on the side of my thumb and feel the bumps of hives on my flesh. My genetic predisposition to atopy means that the organ that’s meant to protect me as an individual is hypersensitive and often works against me. Chronic cold urticaria is only one of many skin ailments I have that I nervously factor into the decision for having a biological child. Anxiety Mosquito, a cartoon character from Big Mouth pops up, and also reminds me of my already low egg count that I had learned from the specialist when I considered freezing eggs after celebrating my 30th birthday still single. I keep walking and allow Anxiety Mosquito to get caught up in a metaphorical spiders web.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Just breathe. I continue to breathe and walk. My lungs have taken in the crisp air of high alpine winds. My lungs have taken in the salty humid air of the tropical ocean. Both places are home. Now I am home here and these lungs expel carbon dioxide into the coastal temperate rainforest. Will these lungs one day fuel another life within me?

I dream of being a mother because it honours my wild, my softness and the divine feminine, yet my lived experience reminds me that life plays out in ways our little homo sapien brains could never have anticipated. 

What is needed now is not certainty, but rather trust. A trust that motherhood will come; however fluid the shape may be. 

Mumsy has, on numerous occasions, hidden glow-in-the-dark rosaries into family suitcases to make sure that meditation and prayer tools are available regardless of where we go. A staunch Catholic, I can hear her in my head reciting one of her most-used lines: “God takes care of us.” (Which she exclaims even in response to something as trivial as finding a parking spot).

Almost at home again, finding my way up the paved path along the creek, I start humming the tune of, “Que Sera Sera” in my head. Many times I’ve heard the song through Mumsy’s voice, singing while donning exaggerated facial expressions accompanied by direct eye contact and raised eyebrows.

Que sera sera 
Whatever will be will be

There is only this moment. I exhale and place one hand to my lower abdomen. This time I also place my other hand to my heart and feel the connection in trusting the divine feminine. 

The future’s not ours to see
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be

I dream of motherhood as water, in whatever glorious form it will be.