FERT

  That a child doesn’t fly immediately after birth , why do I worry myself over those I couldn’t change? Why do I allow what I lack the power to shift to cripple the very things my strength could build? Why am I clumsy? Why do I think I can do it all alone, when even my birth required two bodies becoming one? Time is endless, but progress is gradual. Process is the deal, not wishfulness. My mind may have it all figured out, but birthing anything is never that easy. Teach me: one plus one is never eleven; it is two. Two hands make a grip. Two feet make a walk. Two breaths make a rest. Teach me to breathe easy. “When a man sees his end, he wants to know there was some purpose to his life.” - Marcus Aurelius Not panic. Not speed. Just the next small brick. Purpose is not a scream. Purpose is showing up like a seed that doesn’t ask the dirt for a rush order. Consistency is the mother of all flying, even if the child waits a year to try.

  As narrated by the Mother: “When I was young, my mother was a lover of children, not just her own, but everyone’s. Other mothers in our community would bring their little ones to her door. They knew she would cook for them, tend to them, scold them when needed, and love them as fiercely as if they had sprung from her own womb. And I? I walked tall. I was proud to be mothered by such a woman. But pride, like peace, can shatter in a single night. I remember one evening when a woman came rushing to our home, clutching her limp, lifeless infant. Her eyes were wild, not with grief, but with accusation. She pointed a trembling finger at my mother. “You poisoned my child!” Then, without another word, she abandoned the baby with us and vanished into the dark. My mother panicked. She gathered the child in her arms, woke my younger brother and me, and hurried through the night to her elder brother—a renowned herbalist, a man whose hands knew secrets the living had forgotten. My uncle took ...