Rebecca Woolf

Thus far the mighty mystery of motherhood is this: How is it that doing it all feels like nothing is ever getting done.

Thus far the mighty mystery of motherhood is this: How is it that doing it all feels like nothing is ever getting done.

– Rebecca Woolf –

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W.B. Yeats

The Mother Of GodThe threefold terror of love; a fallen flareThrough the hollow of an ear;Wings beating about the room;The terror of all terrors that I boreThe Heavens in my womb.Had I not found content among the showsEvery common woman knows,Chimney corner, garden walk,Or rocky cistern where we tread the clothesAnd gather all the talk?What is this flesh I purchased with my pains,This fallen star my milk sustains,This love that makes my heart’s blood stopOr strikes a sudden chill into my bonesAnd bids my hair stand up?

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