MOTHERS

You already know.

This invitation is not new.
You felt it when your child stood too long by the fire.
When their eyes searched for something unspoken.
When the moon bled through your dreams.

You felt the shift coming.
Not a departure.
A turning.

This is not a separation.
It is a widening of the field.

The boys go into the forest—
not to become men by force,
but to be remembered by the Earth.

To let the night speak to them.
To listen until something ancient begins to move.
To come home carrying the sound of the fire in their bones.

Your role does not pause.
It deepens.

You are not left behind.
You are the understory—the mycelial weave beneath their becoming.

While they walk,
you hold the thread.
While they face the dark,
you anchor the light.

This is your rite, too.

You were not meant to send them alone.
You are part of the spiral—
the moon behind the flame.

Let your grief speak.
Let your prayers be woven into the embers.
Let your body remember:
this is what you were made for.

The boys carry the codes.
But it is your song they echo.

You are not invited.
You are integral.

We will honor your names.
We will carry your intentions.
We will speak your lineage to the wind.

The forest knows you.
The rite remembers you.
And I, too, carry your presence into the fire.