Ink, Fire, and the Heart of a Mother

“Ma, the librarian wouldn’t let me check out The Diary of Anne Frank or The Agony and the Ecstasy about Michelangelo. She said they were restricted reading and I was too young,” I said tearfully as my mother stood at the stove, stirring homemade spaghetti sauce.

The kitchen was washed in summer sunlight. Ma’s eyes flashed beneath her glasses.

“WHAT?” she exclaimed, flipping off the gas burner under the pot. “Round up your sisters and brother,” she said. “I’ll get the baby dressed. We’re going to talk to the librarian and set this straight.”

In no time, we were trundled into the old Ford and headed for the Garden City Public Library. Minutes later, Ma marched ahead of me into the building, politely asked to speak to the head librarian—and then, in no uncertain terms, insisted that all restrictions on my borrowing privileges be lifted.

The librarian sputtered, reminding her that I wasn’t even twelve.

That afternoon, I walked out of that sacred space—perfumed with one of my favorite fragrances, the smell of books—carrying the stories of Anne Frank and Michelangelo under my arm.

I had never felt more seen or loved. My mother had recognized something deep within me: a longing to understand the stories of others. She supported me, even though her support was unconventional. Even though it went against the rules.

It’s Mother’s Day 2025, and this morning I spent some quiet moments remembering my mother, now in her nineties. I let myself recall the times I felt her love—and loved her purely.

No mother is perfect. Every single one of us has memories of times our mothers didn’t get it right—moments when they didn’t see us, didn’t show up as we needed, or even let us down in painful, heartbreaking ways.

And yet, Mother’s Day offers a unique invitation. An opportunity to remember the moments they did get it right—profoundly, deeply right. Even if those moments were fleeting. Even if they were almost lost in the sea of everything else.

I remember another time when my Ma got it right.

I was in high school, attending an all-girls Catholic school, Ladywood, in Livonia, Michigan. As editor-in-chief of the Ladywood Star, our school paper, I had just published an edition that included an opinion piece on the school’s bus system.

The writer—not me—voiced concerns many of us shared: a bus driver who didn’t seem entirely stable, and buses that broke down too often. The piece caused a stir.

Sister Barbara Ann, our formidable principal, was furious that the article had upset the parent committee overseeing transportation.

I’ll never forget it: She had me by the collar, pressed against the wall, her spittle flying.

“You will gather every remaining copy of that newspaper so I can burn them!” she hissed. “While I decide whether or not to expel you!”

Shaken, I slipped out of her office, stuffed every remaining copy of the Star into my locker, and called Ma.

Through tears, I explained everything. She didn’t hesitate.

“Get those papers out of your locker and meet me at the circle in front of the school,” she said. “I’ll be damned if she’s going to burn those papers. Or expel you.”

Twenty minutes later, the contraband safely stashed in the back seat, Ma was in the principal’s office, standing her ground. Arguing for freedom of the press.

Not one paper was burned. I wasn’t expelled. I had never felt more protected—or more deeply understood.

Ma was my hero. My protector. My warrior. My comforter. My chief-of-staff. A woman who saw a need in her child and responded with pure love and uncompromising truth.

What about you?

If you pause for a moment and reflect on a mother or mother figure in your life, what memories rise up? When were you seen, valued, supported, nurtured, challenged?

Perhaps those memories reveal something about the unique gift of that maternal presence—or even something essential about you.

As most who know me can attest, I’m more than a bit of a rebel. Because of that, I’ve often made unconventional choices, walked paths that invited rejection, and at times, felt deeply alone.

Maybe that’s why I cherish the moments when my mother stood for me and with me.

As I write my third book—The First Flame: Igniting the Divine Feminine Luminara—I find myself drawn into deep inquiry about who and what the Divine Mother truly is.

I’m seeing just how much cultural conditioning, religious distortion, and my own limited thinking have obscured her. She is slowly emerging from the mist: a figure of wonder, strength, beauty, compassion, understanding… and yes, rebellion.

A sacred rebel who follows her own heart. A Mary, if you will, who says a fierce and holy “YES” when everything conventional would demand a “NO.”

So many of us—women and men alike—are feeling called to live from the ground of the Divine Feminine, the Beloved Mother. To answer that call fully, we’ll need to reimagine her. Reclaim her. Let her power and wisdom rise again.

One way to begin?

Honor our mothers and mother figures for the moments they got it right. Honor ourselves—as mothers or mothering forces—for the moments we did, too. Even if we have to search between the cracks of human missteps to find them.

Because in those glimpses of pure, unconditional love, we begin to catch the light of the Divine Feminine. The Beloved Mother.

She is here. She is rising. And through us, she is loving this world—and all its children—home.

About the Author
Dr. Linda Sandel Pettit is a spiritual strategist, storyteller, and author of Leaning into Curves. Her forthcoming books, Elegies to a Dark Goddess and The First Flame: Igniting the Divine Feminine Luminara, explore the power of intuition, the sacred feminine, and the creative fire within. She helps intuitive, creative women lead from the ground of spiritual consciousness and master their magic.

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