The grouse began drumming as the sun was just beginning to streak pink across the horizon- a low, rhythmic pulse echoing through the trees, like the forest remembering the heartbeat of spring.

Barefoot, I stepped onto the soft green grass. The earth, still dappled with patches of melting snow, welcomed me with a chill and the thrum of new life.

I carried a steaming cup of ceremonial cacao to the small, white filigree garden set; an heirloom once belonging to my grandmother, then my mother. Their hands touched it. Their stories linger in its delicate curves.

As a child, I held tea parties for stuffed animals and imaginary friends on that delicate-looking furniture when it beckoned to me from the manicured lawn of my grandparents’ Nebraska farm. Now an altar, the white, doily-like filigree carries more than its weight in wrought iron. The bench holds memory, moonlight, magic, and the soft laughter of children across time.

I sat. I prayed. I sipped. Heart open, I honored the women who shaped me - now beyond the veil, yet so deeply present. Their love stirs in the breeze, shimmers in sunlight, and wakens the motherliness in my bones.