Excerpted from the book by Naomi Rose.
Copyright 2014 (revised from the earlier edition). All rights reserved.
When I first had a mother, when I was very young, I loved her happily and completely. I loved her like God must love the morning in spring, when the mist rises golden on the meadows, when the sun moves a gold hand through the forest. I loved her like God must love the ocean, its vastness and depths, its dancing light and gravitational pull, every wave, every bit of foam, every little treasure it tumbles toward the shore. Drinking at her breast, searching her dark-brown eyes with my blue ones, burrowing into the fragrance of her hair, my adoration for her fed my spirit as much as her milk fed my growing body. And in that state, all was good, all was well, all was beautiful.
It was scarcely a breath of difference from her arms to the lake where she taught me to swim, holding me stiffly from underneath, and letting me kick and flail and splash. “I’ll fall!” I cred; but her hands stayed with m e until my body believed that this invisible, wet water would actually hold me up. There was a lurch in my torso when the warmth of her hands went away. But even with my flailing, the water held me.
I swam in the green lake, surrounded by greener trees, watching the reflected world appear and disappear with a single stroke of my small, swimming hand. At such times I belonged to everything, and bliss was too ornate a word for the deep happiness I knew, just being there, looking, swimming, breathing. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. No mountains, no conquering. Why should I want to conquer what held me up and made me buoyant? Should I slice the water with a sword? Should I challenge the trees to bend to my will? No, my beautiful young mother sat on the bank, talking to a friend and smiling at me. I had been made to lie down in green pastures; I had been led to the still waters. I swam inside my own, patient joy.
With the presence of my mother there, in nature where she and I belonged down to the smallest cell of a leaf, the largest sweep of a hill, I could receive the world. It was all there; there was nothing to do but receive it. To make my mark on it was to separate myself from it. And that I would never do; for all my delight was in expanding to meet the thousand and one emissaries of Motherlove: the breeze fragrant with vow dung, the mud squishing between my toes, the fields ripe with wild flowers, lilacs and daisies, dandelions sassy yellow and gone to seed for wishing on.
Everything and more was there. My father might go Out, into the Big World, and I might miss him; but my mother and I were in the embrace of God. What was going Out for, except to take it In, and revel at the wonder of simply being of it?
MotherWealth: The Feminine Path to Money
weaves a magical story of how the death of an old sense of self can bring an endless ocean of treasures from within ~ including money. This inside-out approach to money takes into account the inner life that holds the key to our fortunes, and offers a much-needed perspective on why the soulless patriarchal model of money isn’t working ~ and what will.
In this deeply warm-hearted and beautifully written book, Naomi Rose takes us with her on a journey to discover a woman’s way into the realms of money. Through her very personal and profound journey she helps us move through and past our shame around money, and learn an instinctual way to open to allowing our wealth to come to us by giving up going out to get it.”—Barbara Wilder, author, Money Is Love: Reconnecting to the Sacred Origins of Money
Naomi is a princess weaving straw into Gold…. There are very few books being written today that come close to this kind of genius.”—Judith Avalon, author, Entering into the Heart of the Mother
To purchase Naomi Rose’s MotherWealth and find your own Feminine path to money, click here.
To return to the “About Naomi” page, click here.
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