Saturday, December 18, 2010

The Motherline

THE MOTHERLINE:EVERY WOMAN'S JOURNEY TO FIND HER FEMALE ROOTSby Naomi Ruth Lowinsky
(Recent recipient of the for Obama Millennium first prize writing award.)

Our mothers are the first world we know, the source of our lives and stories. Embodying the mysteries of origin, they tie us to the great web of kin and generation. Yet, the voice of their experience is seldom heard. The Motherline describes a woman’s journey to find her roots in the personal, cultural, and archetypal realms. It was written for women who have mothers, are mothers, or are considering motherhood, and for the men who love them. Telling the stories of women whose maturation has been experienced in the cycle of mothering, it urges a view of women that does not sever mother from daughter, feminism from “the feminine,” body from soul.

Here what a few reviewers have had to say about The Motherline:

“(In) this perceptive and penetrating study . . . (Naomi Ruth Lowinsky) imaginatively applies Jungian, feminist and literary approaches to popular attitudes about . . . mothers and daughters and movingly, to personal experience.”
—Publisher’s Weekly

“A combination of years of scholarship and recordings of personal journeys, this book belongs in every woman’s psychology/spirituality collection.”
—Library Journal

“In this accessible volume, Jungian psychologist Lowinsky explores the pain that women feel when their mother-love is undervalued or erased.”
—ALA Booklist

In addition to The Motherline: Every Woman’s Journey to Find Her Female Roots and The Sister from Below: When the Muse Gets Her Way, Naomi Ruth Lowinsky is the author of numerous prose essays, many of which have been published in Psychological Perspectives and The Jung Journal. She has had poetry published in many literary magazines and anthologies, among them After Shocks: The Poetry of Recovery, Weber Studies, Rattle, Atlanta Review, Tiferet and Runes. Her two poetry collections, red clay is talking (2000) and crimes of the dreamer (2005) were published by Scarlet Tanager Books. Naomi is a Jungian analyst in private practice and poetry and fiction editor of Psychological Perspectives.

Naomi Ruth Lowinsky has recently been awarded first prize in the Obama Millennium contest for her poem “Madelyn Dunham, Passing On” in which she imagines the spirit of of Obama’s deceased grandmother visiting him as he speaks to the crowds in Chicago after his election. The poem will be published in the literary magazine New Millennium Writings this fall. www.sisterfrombelow.com

The Motherline: Every Woman’s Journey to Find Her Female Roots
—ISBN 978-0-9810344-6-1
Published by and available for purchase directly from Fisher King Press.
Also available from your local bookstore, and a host of on-line booksellers.
Publication Date: June 1st, 2009

 
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Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Cries of pain


to you I will not bow
nor blink an eye
cruelty and deceit
you’ve crushed my spirit

how dare you speak
of twisted lies
you have no remorse
of my constant cries

midnight shadows
lurk in the dark
through the windows
moon dressed in cloak

your sharp words like a dagger
pierce through my heart
your sweltering hand
harshly grips my neck

I cannot breath
my body limps
engulfed with heat
from limb to limb

roughly you swing
one hand over
the loss of your bearing
made you crave for more

swing after swing
infused your ignition
hostility becomes your ally
increasing with passion

blood gushes out
as I cry in pain
no one hears me
there’s none to gain

my eyes completely shut
from the wild clout they took
yours become wide
I can feel you are hooked

you left me in a heap
as you walked out the door
I rock myself to sleep
in a pool of deep horror

let the night be over
let the music begin
for when the morning comes
the birds will sing
the sun will come
so will the day
I will not bow



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Saturday, June 5, 2010

Ralph and his Magical Zucchini

Ralph has 22 zucchini plants, so we were told. I can't tell you more about Ralph because I barely know him, but he's got lots of zucchini, tomato plants and apricots. Word is, he's got money too—lot's of money. He lives alone and probably lonely—or not. He came by the house the other day and dropped off a bag of these fast growing green giants. He was telling us how one day they're just little buds, and like magic, the next day, full-grown greens ready to fulfill zucchini lovers' appetite. He said, you can literally see them grow if one stood long enough to watch. I wonder if he's done that before and spent the night with a zucchini plant. Did I already say he lives alone?

So yesterday, for dinner, I whipped up zucchini stir fry. First time! Organic extra virgin olive oil, garlic, green onion, tomato, thinly sliced pork, shrimp and julienne zucchini. Of course salt and pepper to taste. If the stench of fish sauce doesn't bother you, use that in lieu of salt. If you've never used fish sauce before, consider yourself warned! Serve over steamed white rice....mmmmm... buono!

Today, here's something I made. First time, too! Surprisingly, it turned out amazing if I may be so blunt. Here, try this!

Naughty Nutty Zucchini Bread

Ingredients
  • 3 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1 teaspoon baking soda
  • 1 teaspoon baking powder
  • 3 teaspoons ground cinnamon
  • 3 eggs
  • 1 cup vegetable oil
  • 2 1/4 cups white sugar
  • 3 teaspoons vanilla extract
  • 3 cups grated zucchini (do not drain off liquid)
  • 1 peeled and grated apple or crushed pineapple
  • 1 cup chopped walnuts makes it Nutty
  • a jigger of fruit liquor makes it Naughty (totally optional)

Directions
  1. Grease and flour-dust or sugar-coat two loaf pans. Preheat oven to 325 degrees
  2. In a medium bowl, mix and sift, flour, salt, baking powder, soda, and cinnamon. If you don't feel like sifting, it's okay.
  3. In a large bowl, dump eggs (without the shells of course unless you want your zucchini bread to have that extra crunch), oil, vanilla, and sugar and get to work and develop good muscles with your whisk. Mixer works wonder especially if you're lucky to own a Kitchen Aid. Is it creamy? Yes? Then stop! Slowly add dry ingredients to the mixture, and beat or mix well. If you want to look like you've slaved yourself over these, go ahead, pour the dry mixture in one heap, and turn the mixer on high. 'Have a blast' (no pun intended). It will be very sticky, but this is not the time to worry. Stir in (do not use a mixer at this point) zucchini, apple and nuts until well combined. Pour batter into prepared pans. Now worry. The oven is hot!
  4. Bake for 30, rotate pans, and bake for an additional 15-30 minutes, or until toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool in pan for 20 minutes. Remove bread from pan, and on cooling rack. If you're like me, cut into it when it's still warm. Slap a generous spread of butter and let it melt in your mouth. Ah, this is soul food! Stays moist for days and they freeze well.
When baking, don't be afraid to use your imagination and be creative but most of all, have fun! Very seldom I follow a recipe to a T. Some turn out to be flops and most turn out to be good, and better the next.

Tomorrow, pork and zucchini kebobs.

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Thursday, June 3, 2010

A night spent in the garage

It was just a few minutes before midnight after a long three and a half hour drive from the coast when I pulled into the driveway of the totally empty Grangeville house. A long refreshing shower was in order and I know this was the place to take one. As I enter the side door from the garage, I announced my presence to the emptiness with a tune from the 1982 movie, Annie that went like this, 'the sun will come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, come what may . . .' Forgetting the line that came after that, I decided to whistle instead. I imagined Mr. Warbuck probably whistled better than I did and would have had a better way of masking his fear, if any. Flashlight in hand, this tune carried me throughout the round to make sure all four walls and windows of each empty room were intact. When satisfied and convinced myself that all the bad spirits have left the empty building, I opened the garage door and by design, backed the car into the garage in case of a quick and easy getaway . . . well, now is not the time to think about ghosts and goblins. I rummaged through a small suitcase in the trunk to find a fresh set of clothes to change into.

Not wanting to alarm anyone in the neighborhood, I decided to leave all the lights out except for the lamp on auto timer that was lit on the kitchen counter. It gave enough light in the hallway to the bathroom as long as the door was left open. So, left open it was. The much needed shower was soothing, and instantaneously washed my fear away. It was short-lived—so was my shower. Thinking I heard a scuffing noise from the kitchen, I quickly rinsed, shut off the water, dried off, dressed, brushed my teeth, all in a matter of five minutes. 'Forget the lotion' I thought. Gathering my belongings was done in a jiffy. I already knew where to spend the night—in the car—in the garage.

Like a stranger in the night and making sure that no traces were left in the house, I made for the car, locked myself in, and did a quick check. Flashlight, keys, garage door opener, cracked-open windows for air, and to fill the hunger pain—a Fiber Bar. I decided to opt out on the latter in case it did its job before the sun came out. The thought of having to run to the bathroom in the dark made my stomach more nervous. After a long hard day, it wasn't difficult to doze off as soon as my head hit the lumbar pillow that often traveled with me in the car.

I'd like to think I was already fast asleep and just dreaming about the noises that came that night and the people peering through the dusty, spider web-covered-blinds that hung sloppily over the garage window. I've always wondered why a window and such a large one in a garage. In the 'dream,' an older woman was peering through the crack of the car window inviting me to go inside where it was more comfortable while Papa and Meme paced outside by the window calling out my name. This seem to have gone on forever until I woke up at the first crack of dawn. My mobile phone read 5:16 a.m. Drowsy, a bit confused and aware of the ever presence of knots and kink in my neck, I sat up and decided to move to the passenger seat. Placing my computer bag on the floor and reclining the seat, I was able to get a good stretch and slept till 8 with no interference. I should have taken the passenger seat from the start.

The house that goes back three generations was under the care of property management and I didn't want to be found in the premise should he show up with prospect renters. It was still early, so I decided there was time to put lotion on after my morning shower.

As I roam the dairy farm town that morning and right through the early afternoon, hunger pain struck so I decided to stop at Panera for a bite to eat. As I situated myself comfortably in a booth with an Asian salad and a turkey panini, I decided to write about last night's dream. The night's experience in the garage was so vivid that when I was about to start typing on my computer, the most unusual thing happened. I had hairs standing up and it made me wonder . . .

I never had the opportunity to meet her, but they called her Grama Van.


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Wednesday, June 2, 2010

A Place I call Home

What is a Home? How should a Home feel like? Where is Home?

Not sounding like a nomad, these are some of the questions that come to mind when I'm battling with 'nostalgia.' I once had a home—a beautiful home. Not so much in a physical or structural sense but the unmistakably oozing warm feeling of homeyness. Toys strewn and two boys running around making their presence known. The occasional loving and sometimes not-so-loving screams of defense from one child to the other was their way of relating and making sure that someone especially a parent was listening. The fuss made over a spilled hot chocolate on a rug that had every flavor of each day's family meal only played a small part on a chapter about growing pains and growing up. The aroma of home-cooked meals that permeated the walls including a hand woven wall decor that hung ominously above the family room brown sofa was hard to forget especially after a two day cook-a-thon in preparation for a Christmas eve dinner and later finding out that the offensive-to-some smell during Midnight Mass was made up of the family's Christmas dinner menu. My eyes wander among the various ethnic groups during an Advent hymn as I try to match the different smells that lingers in the packed church. I can bet the 'collection basket' that a perfect match each time was right on the money.

Sounds like a stinking chaos? But it's my definition of 'Home'—a real Home! Not according to Merriam Webster or Wikipedia or anyone else for that matter. I yearn to be in that kind of home again. A place to call my own, to do whatever I darn well please. Where without fear of complexity, bacon will sizzle in a frying pan and tilapia fish baking in the oven will send out a stench as far as the Carmel river runs. Where I could freely walk around naked and not have to worry about anyone seeing my unwanted hanging love handles as a sign of a well-fed soul. So maybe the latter is just a bit much and won't stand a chance but it's definitely going on my Bucket List.

Here's a letter I wrote to a friend shortly after the move to a place that briefly felt like Home:

Yes, we’re just about settled in at our new place. What I love most about the area is the beauty of nature that surrounds us. Looking out from our third floor apartment living room windows are lush green mountains with a few houses randomly slapped on them. From our small veranda, if allowed, one can almost touch the various birds that land on the huge pine tree with limbs that partly dip into our balcony. Yesterday, a Wood Pecker worked a hole and today was a Blue Jay that landed on a large pine cone. Directly behind the apartment building, although pricey, is a nice little market to make a quick run for basic necessities. Yes, they even carry a lot of organic produce and serves a variety of hot meals for the Village yuppies and worker bees. This small quaint village of Carmel offers about half a dozen wine tasting outfits and a variety of cozy restaurants and a neat little library where a free membership was issued without any troubles.

Tourists flock here mostly on weekends, and soon, the entire summer. Waking up to the song of birds and the scent of pine trees that travel through the slightly opened windows along with the rays of morning sunshine is refreshing especially when mixed with a hint of eucalyptus flowed in from the nearby trails. At night, the chorus of frogs can be heard from a river a mile away. That, combined with the sound of the neighbor's soothing wind chime is something that makes me wish of breezy nights.

About 4 miles into the mouth of Carmel is Garland Ranch Park where we hike. Among many wild animals, it is known to inhabit mountain lions, rattle snakes and poison oaks. Fortunately I have only encountered the latter and quickly learned to recognize their season colors and avoid them. I hike alone when a partner is unavailable . The feeling when on top of the mountain looking down at Lupine loop that marked my starting point, and the winter green mountains that cradle the village is exhilarating. No fear for mountain lions will take that away. Not even the two-legged creatures they strongly warn female hikers of.

It was an honest feeling that seem to have dissipated too quickly by a force of random disposition. The recipient of this letter responded with a "wow" and adding "this was written beautifully and very descriptive. Thank you for allowing me to participate and giving me the feeling of being there."

I hope to someday feel like I have a Home again, and where? Who knows. Like the healer of all wounds, Time will tell.

This photo of a mother Dove with her two babies on a glass pie plate is a classic example of 'being Home.' The 'pie plate-turned-nest' sat on a corner pillar of a patio gazebo built between the house and a swimming pool. The Dove, oblivious to the small gathering in the gazebo cooed as she played with her babies.
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Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Fire, where's the fire!


It was three o'clock, early Sunday morning on May 23, 2010, I had just turned off the reading light after a few chapters of Tatiana de Rosnay's novel, Sarah's Key and barely dozed off when I heard my name excitedly called out from the living room. Disoriented from the intrusive sudden awakening, the first thing that came to mind was 'fire', where's the fire! Literally, there was a fire. Hungry flames engulfed a building among the few homes that were randomly slapped on the mountain not far from our apartment complex. It looked mean with a promise to full destruction. I felt a sudden pang of sadness as we stood from our third floor apartment living room window watching a horrific site and can't help but wonder and worry that there may be people trapped in that towering inferno.

As we stood by the window for what seemed like an eternity, it was apparent from the movements of revolving red lights, that fire trucks were having to drive back up and down the hill to what we suspected was due to poor water supply in that location, therefore water had to be hauled in from the nearest point of origin.

Later on that day, we learned from the local news that it was the Robles Del Rio Lodge—a vacation destination that sat idle for more than a decade that was completely destroyed by the fire. Sadly, Carmel Valley California had just lost an iconic structure to what the local newspaper reported, 'Fire officials called 'suspicious blaze'.' Although the building can be replaced, the artifacts that were once held inside will never be seen and admired again. But fortunately, no one was injured in the fire.

Never before have I witnessed anything like it. My mind was racing with the consequences and the 'what ifs' as I stood and watched helplessly. It wasn't difficult to figure out when the water supply had run out and when it was in full blast judging from the rise and fall of the blaze. Spent from this awful tragedy, I decided to go back to bed an hour or so later. Sleep didn't come easy and when it finally did, it didn't last very long. It was shortly after 8 when I woke up and immediately got up to see the progress made by the fire crews. A thinning smoke rose and danced with the obvious slight morning breeze into the horizon. I felt at ease knowing that the blaze had been successfully extiguished and the unharmed fire crews were able to contain the fire. This triggers a childhood memory about a time I was asked what I wanted to be when I grow up. "A firefighter." I beamed with purpose.

It is a brand new day, a sad day for some, but for the most part, no one was injured and in some ways, it is a good day! Thank you to the many men and women who have chosen firefighting as a career. Truly, you make a difference!

Patty Cabanas , is the co-editor of Feasts of Phantoms and Sulfur Creek, and copy editor of several Fisher King Press publications, including The Sister from Below and Re-Imagining Mary. Her Out of the Shadows book cover design, have garnered rave reviews from a chorus of Jungian enthusiasts. Find out more about Fisher King Press at www.fisherkingpress.com and Genoa House at www.genoahouse.com.

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Friday, May 14, 2010

Farmers Market

It's Thursday—Farmers Market day on Irwin Street. I've had my first Farmers Market experience at the coast last summer. It was good but not like my experience on Irwin. The previous night, my 'sorta like' dad was talking about his day at the opening last week. Just listening to him made me ache for that same experience minus the aching and blistering feet. "Can you take me with you tomorrow"? what sounded like a little girl's voice excitedly asked. "We leave at about 5 to get a good parking spot" came the immediate reply. The last thing I remember before falling asleep that night was my grandiose plan of taking in as much of the day including a sno-cone, funnel cake and corn-on-the-cob.

Oh how sweet it is! Shortly after 5pm the next day, I walked the sidewalks and the blacktop of Irwin Street. To my right was my 'sorta like' dad and to my left was my 'sorta like' mom who skipped work as an RN because I like to think she wanted to take me to the Farmers Market too. The crowd was thick and the delicious aroma of different food was playing 'catch' with my increasingly excited nostrils. We caught the smell of steaming jambalaya 3 tables down and soon had our first flavor of the Market. The man at the next table was not so lucky and displayed an empty food shelf as the work of a dysfunctional portable fryer. He supposedly has one of the best fried food at that event. It must be my lucky day! I've been spared a few steps into coronary.

As lady L and I walked and browsed the line of tables, our plastic spoons rhythmically worked from the jambalaya to our mouths until we hit the bottom of the container. We had no trouble finding the next Market flavor at a table that offered Portuguese donuts and rolls. Few tables down, a clump of politicians was quickly paced by many people including myself. At the corner intersecting two streets were two side by side long lines that were hard to miss. My 'sorta like' mom, Lady L walked the long line for funnel cakes while I patiently took the longer line for roasted corn-on-a-cob. We smiled and waved at each other as we got closer to our respective windows. Corn-on-a-cob on a stick was first bathed in butter then liberally smothered with mayo then generously sprinkled with parmesan cheese and for a little bit of heat, finished with a quick dash of cayenne. We needed to sit down to thoroughly enjoy our newly acquired taste buds pleasers. But wait, at the next table, I see giant sno-cones in all sorts of flavors. I walked up and ordered a favorite flavor—mango. It was a difficult task to juggle a corn-on-a-cob on a stick with one hand and a sno-cone in another and not expect an accident. Well, I lost the top of my sno-cone to an avalanche and it hit the crook of my arm then slid right down to the sparkling rhinestones of my left shoe. I was more upset in losing the best part of my sno-cone than the sticky yellow syrup that landed on my new shoe.

I found Lady L sitting on a pile of bricks that made a flower bed and I joined her while 'sorta like' dad chatted with Bingo and his girlfriend named Mary something. We sat there and devoured every bit of what we had while we laughed at the scary thought of shrunken feet. Perhaps it's just a scary optical illusion when one gains weight and see that their feet seem to have shrunk.

Next, we checked out the array of fresh produce. We see the first 'Organic' sign at a table. The three of us looked at one another and smiled. JR, was with us then! Later on, a bunch of organic freshly rooted garlic, non-organic daikon radish, kettle corn and another container of Jambalaya are among the items that went in our free bags compliments of a local hospital.

Stuffed and fully content, we slowly made our way to the car. People stopped and chatted with my 'sorta like' parents while I mused myself watching people dance to a live country music. On the dance floor, a woman in her 2 sizes too small green t-shirt that exposed her bulging waist line when she raised her arms was dancing with another female whose bra size appear to be...well let's just say my minus A cup was no match for her triple D , and beyond. This is one of those times when I say "life is just not fair." I looked away but only to the site of a man who wore his funnel cake including whipped cream topping and strawberries when he completely missed his mouth trying to shovel in a much bigger piece than his mouth was capable of taking. My little mishap wasn't that bad compared to his ultimate food accident of the day! He won the medal and wore it too!

That night, I slept soundly like a little girl who appreciated the many blessings of simple pleasures in life!

There's a story behind the words 'sorta like' which I am going to blog about 'sorta like' soon!

Patty Cabanas , is the co-editor of Feasts of Phantoms and Sulfur Creek, and copy editor of several Fisher King Press publications, including The Sister from Below and Re-Imagining Mary. Her Out of the Shadows book cover design, has garnered rave reviews from a chorus of Jungian enthusiasts. Find out more about Fisher King Press at www.fisherkingpress.com and Genoa House at www.genoahouse.com.

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Thursday, May 6, 2010

Perogies Wanted

Who would have thought, at 12 midnight I'd be sitting here at my desk writing my first personal blog about Perogies? Yes, it's a craving but not what you're thinking. In Canada, Perogies are in every freezer of most Supermarket. And if you're fortunate enough to be in a community of larger Ukranian or Polish population, well what better way to have Perogies than freshly made, sauteed with bacon and onion then generously smothered with sour cream and topped with cheddar cheese? Oh, the site of sour cream and gooey cheese running down the side of a mountain of Perogies in a plate is almost sinful yet guilt-free when eaten in slow-motion and letting it roll around your mouth while identifying the various ingredients that's in every bite. In California, most people I have come across with have never heard of them. I've not seen them anywhere in California either, so it doesn't surprise me that not too many Californian know about Perogies, just like I don't know about the addictive Chin-Chin that Kehinde spoke of. Denninger's in Hamilton have the best Perogies I've ever had.

What brought this on? I was having a conversation with an ex-tractor salesman and I used the word "prerogative" and Bingo! One spoke and remembered the first experience he had with Perogies while visiting Canada. Needless to say, this California native is no longer a Perogy virgin. Hah! It's his fault that I have this craving and the feeling of nostalgia is so high that I will attempt to make my own perogies at the crack of dawn while he snores and play tug-o-war with a little spider hanging from the bedroom ceiling.

California is beautiful and has a lot to offer, plenty of sunshine, miles and miles of sandy beaches, hiking trails with snakes and mountain lions  and great Mexican Food, but not big on Canadian favorites such as Perogies, Poutine, coffee crisp and crispy crunch candy bars and Canadian Bacon, just to name a few.

Patty Cabanas , is the co-editor of Feasts of Phantoms and Sulfur Creek, and copy editor of several Fisher King Press publications, including The Sister from Below and Re-Imagining Mary. Her Out of the Shadows book cover design, have garnered rave reviews from a chorus of Jungian enthusiasts. Find out more about Fisher King Press at www.fisherkingpress.com and Genoa House at www.genoahouse.com.


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Sunday, May 2, 2010

The Motherline for Mother's Day


The Motherline: Every Woman's Journey to find her Female Roots
by Naomi Ruth Lowinsky.

Product Description
The Motherline takes the perspective of the mother who is always also a daughter. It is a book for women who have mothers, are mothers, or are considering becoming mothers, and for the men who love them. Telling the stories of women whose maturation has been experienced in the cycle of mothering, it urges a view of the psyche of women that does not sever mother from daughter, feminism from "the feminine," body from soul.

It argues that the path to wholeness requires us to reclaim aspects of the feminine self that we have lost or forgotten in our struggle to free ourselves from constricting roles. It describes a woman's journey to find her roots in the personal, cultural, and archetypal Motherline.

Our mothers are the first world we know, the source of our lives and our stories. Embodying the mysteries of origin, they tie us to the great web of kin and generation. Yet the voice of their experience is seldom heard. We have no cultural mirror in which to envision the fullness of female development; we are deprived of images of female wisdom and maturity. Finding our female roots, reclaiming our feminine souls, requires us to pay attention to our real mothers' lives and experience. Listening to our mothers' stories is the beginning of understanding our own.

Reviews
“(In) this perceptive and penetrating study . . . (Naomi Ruth Lowinsky) imaginatively applies Jungian, feminist and literary approaches to popular attitudes about . . . mothers and daughters and movingly, to personal experience.”
—Publisher’s Weekly

“A combination of years of scholarship and recordings of personal journeys, this book belongs in every woman’s psychology/spirituality collection.”
—Library Journal

“In this accessible volume, Jungian psychologist Lowinsky explores the pain that women feel when their mother-love is undervalued or erased.”
—ALA Booklist

About the Author

Naomi Ruth Lowinsky is the author of The Sister from Below: When the Muse Gets Her Way and The Motherline: Every Woman's Journey to Find Her Female Roots and numerous prose essays, many of which have been published in Psychological Perspectives and The Jung Journal. She has had poetry published in many literary magazines and anthologies, among them After Shocks: The Poetry of Recovery, Weber Studies, Rattle, Atlanta Review, Tiferet and Asheville Poetry Review. Her two poetry collections, red clay is talking (2000) and crimes of the dreamer (2005) were published by Scarlet Tanager Books. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize three times and the recent recipient of the Obama Millennium Poetry awarded for "Madelyn Dunham, Passing On.” Naomi is a Jungian analyst in private practice, poetry and fiction editor of Psychological Perspectives, and a grandmother many times over.

Order The Motherline and the many Fisher King titles directly from

Fisher King Press

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.UK

Amazon.CA


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