"Storytelling is at the heart of life. In finding our own story, we assemble all the parts of ourselves." ~ Marion Woodman
Dear Reader,
Today, as we celebrate Mother's Day here in the UK, I wish to honour my mother by sharing this heartfelt reflection.
This year, I’m embarking on a deeply personal journey: writing a memoir inspired by the stained glass window my mother stood before while she was pregnant with me. According to family lore, its luminous panels not only inspired my name, Deborah, after the biblical figure depicted within the glass, but also shaped my approach to layered storytelling.
I often wonder about that day – what she saw, what she felt. Although I can only reimagine it here, this is my way of reflecting on her moment and placing it into the mosaic of my own story.
While crafting my memoir, I’ll be piecing together fragments of my life – unique moments and experiences that, when joined, will form a cohesive whole. My hope is to uncover deeper truths and share insights that may inspire and uplift others.
Fragments of Light
The church was still. Its sacred quiet enfolded my mother, Yvonne, in an embrace as gentle as the arms of the Great Mother. The faint scent of candlewax lingered in the cool, damp air, intertwining with the soft rustle of leaves beyond the heavy wooden doors. In this sanctuary, Yvonne found reprieve – a fleeting calm amidst the storm she dared not name.
Standing before the stained glass window, she rested her hands on the curve of her belly, feeling the quiet stirrings of life within. The rhythm of her child’s movements echoed her heartbeat, fragile yet enduring, a whisper of hope in the stillness.
Her days were marked by shadows. Her marriage scarred by violence and control. But while her husband was away, Yvonne had slipped out, seeking solace in the church. The kaleidoscope of light streaming through the stained glass danced across the stone floor, shifting with the clouds. In the interplay of colour and shadow, she glimpsed a clarity she hadn’t felt in months – a fleeting vision of a world beyond fear.
Estranged from her family, Yvonne bore a deep ache for connection. She longed for her child to know the belonging that had been stolen from her.
Her gaze wandered over the scenes in the window, each pane telling its own story. Then, one figure drew her in – a woman whose presence radiated strength and tenderness alike. Deborah, the judge and prophetess, stood bathed in sapphire blues, amethyst purples and rich golds, as though the light itself conspired to magnify her strength. Her serene yet unyielding expression carried the weight of divine wisdom and earthly resolve.
For Yvonne, this was more than a design or artwork – it was a promise, a bright star shimmering through fractured glass. Her lips curved softly as she studied the window. The name "Deborah" had danced in her thoughts for weeks, but now, standing here, it felt destined – a name whispered by the universe itself.
"If this child is a girl," she murmured, her voice barely audible, "her name will be Deborah."
The name became a prayer, a talisman of hope. It held the promise of a radiant future – a life unbound by the shadows that enveloped her own. In that luminous moment, a decision was made. It settled over Yvonne like a revelation, as though rooted in something archetypal and profound.
Yet, even as hope rose within her, Yvonne knew the fragility of promises born in moments of light. Could this whispered name ever truly shield her child from the darkness she herself could not escape? Her heart stilled as she leaned into the silence, letting the question remain unanswered yet alive – a quiet rhythm within her soul.
As I think about my mother standing there beneath that bright window, I recognise how much of her story resides in me – not only in my name but also in my desire to make sense of life’s fragments, as she did. Like her, I’m drawn to the interplay of light and shadow, to transforming fractures into something whole.
The warm glow of my lamp casts gentle shadows across the desk, mingling with the faint aroma of tea. As I sit here quietly, I reflect on the story of my naming, the one my mother shared. It isn’t just family lore; it feels like a prism, refracting her unspoken hopes into a vibrant mosaic that continues to unfold my story.
And still that moment haunts me. Did she ever find the clarity she sought that day, I wonder? Did she sense the courage within me to carry her unspoken burdens, to rise beyond the shadows? The echoes of her prayer seem to ask the same of me: how far have I come, and how much farther must I go?
In my work as a psychotherapist and poet, I often find myself drawn to the archetype of the wise, guiding woman. The biblical Deborah's strength and leadership resonate deeply, shaping a path I now walk. Within me, I see reflections of the Maiden, Mother and Crone – facets of a mosaic that is ever-evolving.
My mother’s quiet moment beneath that stained glass – the radiant hues shifting with the sun, her whispered decision – feels more than a memory. It feels like a piece of my own mosaic – etched with her courage and longing, catching the light in its own way.
It makes me wonder about the stories our names hold – how they carry meanings far deeper than we often realise. Tracing back through families, cultures, and the shared threads of human history, names often reflect hopes or honour loved ones. For some, their importance is clear from the start. For others, like mine, their meaning deepens as life continues to unfold.
Stained glass windows, with their intricate designs, hold a mirror to life itself, and, in many ways, to my own story. Each fragment, etched with its own history, reflects the light – some refracting joy, others softening shadows of pain. It’s the light weaving through fractures that transforms both the glass and our lives into something whole, something numinous.
Writing, too, is an act of transformation – a way of gathering those fragmented moments and weaving them into threads of gold. Each story I reclaim from the shadows becomes part of a greater renewal, lifted into the light to be seen anew, adding resilience and clarity to the whole.
In this memoir, I hope to honour more than just my own story. I wish to celebrate the universal threads that connect us – light and shadow, strength and surrender, transformation and grace. For, like stained glass, life’s greatest beauty lies not in spite of its fractures, but because of them.
As I near the end of this reflection, I’m reminded of a poem I wrote twenty years ago, titled after my name. At the time, its fragmented final verse puzzled me, each word standing alone. Now, all these years later, I finally understand its meaning – how broken pieces have the potential to form something beautiful, even if they don't always create a unified whole.
This poem sleeps and dreams in my first poetry collection, A Liberated Sheep in a Post Shepherd World, on page 223.
And so, as I bring these thoughts together on this Mother’s Day, I return to the name my mother gave me – a name that has carried her hopes, her courage and her light through the years. It continues to shape my story, just as it did hers.
My Name Is Deborah
My mother gave me the name that would be the story of my life. From womb to world I did not choose this poet’s path, it chose me. And, as of this hour, it continues to choose me, as I walk hand-in-hand, death my constant companion. For illumination, I learn to strike matches. Dropping light into shadow, burning blue-black fingers as the gates to my muse close tight, barred by angels with fiery swords. Just as birth requires a mother, I know that poetry requires a spiritual Mother. The goddess Calliope, to light the fire within. She who yearns to polish words forever and ever and ever. My mother gave me the name that would be the story of my life. Maiden, Mother, Crone, Poetess, Dancer, Healer, Butterfly, Sappho, Light. I am woman, I am all names. Goddess, Sister, Soul, Black, Widow, Spider, Deborah, Witch, Jew.
Yours in words, Deborah
If my words strike a chord and you feel inspired to dive deeper into my poetry or explore my essays on Jungian thought, I invite you to visit: The Liberated Sheep
Hi Deborah,
A stained glass window, a mosaic — how beautiful an image to visit the reciprocal gift of mother – daughter. Piecing together the fragments of your story made me wonder about how the intent in the writing of the story itself calls the ancestor’s energy — an absorbing ritual in and of itself — your intention to ‘share insights and uplift others’. 💜 🙏
And the presence of the divine ‘Great Mother’ already a nurturing comfort, holding the sanctity of space and connection for mother and child. The ‘hope’ in choosing your name — I felt of an expanse of innate and ancient love — yes, her story, your story — our story. There is an energy in our name that is embedded in our being, our body. “I am a woman, I am all names”.
Beautiful. Thank you for sharing. 🥰
This paragraph—-“Each fragment, etched with its own history, reflects the light – some refracting joy, others softening shadows of pain. It’s the light weaving through fractures that transforms both the glass and our lives into something whole, something numinous.”—-has my heart today. And your comments and the synchronicity of my own post today. What a wonder! Also, the source of beauty within and not inspire of the fractures. Deborah, this is so incredibly moving and wise. I look forward to more than of your writing. Happy Mother’s Day.