05/10/2026
On Mama Dawn & Composting Grief...
(Post 3/3)
As and I gathered upstairs at , I felt a soft yet strong urge that my mom wanted to take up space in this room. Not only who she was, but specifically who she was to me. Here, I give my grief permission to be big and loud, recognizing how it intertwines and dances with love. Like the taproot of a burdock plant, my grief and love for my momma run deep.
This poem is dedicated to my mom, Mama Dawn, and to all the Black mommas who could not live their softest sweetest lives.
What does it mean to compost your grief,
To turn the darkest parts of your existence
into a material so rich in nutrients,
warmth,
organic matter,
that it can’t help but birth new life,
To sit with and face your shadows
and your pain;
To have them envelop you
like a seed
buried deep in the earth
until it emerges as abundance realized
Somewhere in a garden by the river
Or in the space between forest and ocean
Grief metabolizes,
it alchemizes,
it changes shape
A seed
Given to the earth,
Carried and transmuted
by beings who walk between worlds
Washed by water
Carving a path for joy’s return.
This room is curated to be that for you. The medicine you need may come through a whispered prayer. Or a card pulled from the Harvest of Survival deck . It may come as an uncontrollable sob. Or a much needed conversation and hug from whomever you’re here with. Regardless of how your medicine arrives, the water and plants in this room are here to help you release what needs to be released and move what needs to move. Let them if you are ready.
Happy Mother’s Day to the woman who made me, Dawn K. Kipkin. I miss you every day.
Happy Mother’s DWREN RENE the mamas. We honor you.
💐💐💐
Photos by 🌻
The books in photo 4 have been powerful supports on my journey. Check them out if you feel called.
Authors are:
r.bird