The Donkey Mom

He watches me approach with coffee mug in hand, leftover hay sticking to his ears after breakfast. Warm air funnels from his nose to the crook of my elbow: he recognizes my scent. I’m late to yoga because it’s been half a year since I’ve been greeted first thing in the morning by a furry nuzzle that begs stay, just a little longer? Class is entirely worth delaying to be held in companionship without having to utter a single word.

I adopted a donkey. For a week, anyway.

Earlier this month, I stretched and ate and walked and swam in Italy’s Puglia countryside on a retreat led by my dear friend, Donna. Unbeknownst to me when I booked this trip, I’d be in need of creature comforts more than ever. Look, I told myself, this is your time, your money, your trip and you spent a whole lotta energy getting here. Go and do what makes you feel the most full. Nothing less.

I miss being a mom. It’s one of the first things that came pouring out of my mouth to a friend the week of Ferg’s passing. And it still rings true.

The absence of mothering to me feels like a hollow that forms when you are so hungry your stomach is about to eat itself from the inside out: cavernous, raw, seething. Where do I turn to pour this love when I’ve watered all the plants, pet all the dogs and watched too many videos of sea otters holding hands? I need something to fill me up just as much as I need to give back.

Since adopting my other half, I’ve come to realize there are so many ways to mother. Some people have human babies, others nurture sentient beings. The land. Anything that requires an advocate, support, and growth through tender care.

So there I stand, accepting that some of the women on retreat crave naps between classes or podcast breaks or tea time. And for me, it’s the need to tend to four-legged beings.

Near the end of the week, I stand watching all three donkeys from a distance. One of the retreat center owners tells me, “That female one there – see the scar on her leg?” I nod. “She got that while defending her baby from a wolf.” He looks down. “But the baby didn’t make it. Her personality is different from the others. She just kind of does whatever she wants.” Absolutely, she does.

I go toward the things that bring me comfort and joy because I am still here. The kind that don’t require effort and pressure of speaking words that perfectly match how my insides ache or love or bloom or gnarl. I go toward creatures whose eye contact and wags and nuzzles inflate me. I keep writing and watching my pen flow with sumptuous loops and curves beside my frothy milked and cinnamon sprinkled morning coffee. I go to the things that begin to fill barren crevices and eventually it feels like I am starting to fill something back up in return.

Which gets me thinking: isn’t nurturing what makes us come alive a form of mothering, too?

A magnificent illustrator by trade, my fellow retreat comrade Georgia Cowley announces over truffle linguine one night her wish to give back by sharing the skill she has nurtured to life the past few years. So, on a whim, she leads us in a drawing workshop under the olive trees.

For two hours, I feel fiery energy radiating from her toes to her charcoal smudged fingertips. It’s contagious, alive, confident, vibrant, endearing. And there I am hours later still in some sort of creative trance – interrupting my warrior two poses to grab a pen and scribble notes to myself about future stories, ideas, connections. Her passion flies all the way to me. A pure lifeline to the heart; nature in its truest form.

photo courtesy Rita Demeulenaere

photo courtesy Georgia Cowley

You can’t fake this stuff.

We can mother our own insides, nurturing what we care about that no one but us may see in the beginning. We can choose to grow our gifts and talents over time despite seeds laying dormant or undiscovered. I’m learning through this very act of blogging what it means to share this kind of thing with the world. No one else will do it for you, but when we speak our heart language out in the open, we create a very real chance (often unknowingly) of sparking something in another that makes them want to join in, too. It reminds me of an umbilical cord: when you nurture what’s inside you, you give birth to something greater than you.

So for a second, can we think about what this planet would look like if we did more of that?

Donkey shepherding may not be entirely in my immediate future. But saying yes to things that melt me from the inside out, that light me on fire, that beg me to cradle beings and ideas and creativity to life? They’re well within reach. Some are already here. -- New! I'm trying something a little different with the comments section. Have feedback, a story or something to share? You can now leave a comment in this Google Doc OR by typing it at the very bottom of this page. You can also email me here. Either way, I love hearing from you!

photo courtesy Donna Williams

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