“At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air.”
Vladimir Nabokov
At a certain point in her life she felt a strange need, one that she had not felt before but related to an idea instilled in her mind since her youth. She felt the need to become a mother, the curious need to give life.
She had not chosen to be born, but she repeatedly chose to live despite the struggle life had been in her youth.
Deeply in love with a man she admired, she had found fulfillment in an idyllic relationship that seemed to repair all the interrupted bonds that had left unerasable scars in her soul over time.
They decided to have a child and the miracle of life became slowly part of their existence.
A desire, the most beautiful one because we are always someone’s desire.
Life begins when you conceive it. Not in the act itself, but it’s conceived in the mind with all the symbolical representations connected to it. When the idea of creation is shared in the mind of two, the miracle of life occurs.
She got pregnant and accompanied by the influence of the moon for nine months she felt life growing in her womb.
The metamorphosis of her body made her feel she was about to become a mother. Little did she know… she was already one and she would never cease to be no matter what.
Happy Mother’s Day!
Praise of Folly 