It all starts with a drop of dew. You should drink one every morning, directly from the face of a leaf. It’s the first step. The drops form a liquid pouch in the womb, because in the beginning, water merges with sun rays to start life. I had to wear dark clothes to prevent light from escaping. Then you feed on seeds that grow in the nooks of rocks and in the depths of secret fountains. They shoot roots in the lower stomach and begin to grow. Mosses clench to create a thick carpet, creepers and shrubs weave a cradle to protect the new life from outside knocks and insidious ailments. Once the baby is cushioned on all sides by leaves and vines, flowers hatch one by one. Turning their faces towards you, they shook the golden powder from their heart over your face, teaching you to close and open your eyes. Their corollas, throbbing, blew their scents up the two small caves in your nose, thus endowing you with the might to breathe. If the newborn is not watched over by enough flowers, her nose stays closed to the perfumes of deep hollows, and she suffocates.

Next I gobbled the whole eggs of birds and fish. As the waters gently rock them, and the blood of the mother warms them up, they are able to hatch. Fish of all shapes and colors beamed iridescent rays for your benefit, because you were still so small, the size of my finger tip, yes, their reflections lavished the prettiest pink on your skin. If the fishes do not swim with enough tenderness, if the birds do not cause the water around the child to sparkle, her skin is dull and yellow when she is born, and soon she dies. The birds flew by the thousands above the promontory that would become you, their long, vaporous feathers floating like fluttering lashes, their eyes perky as blueberries. They sang their songs, each bird its own, and your tiny lips hummed along. Shush, close your eyes, lay quietly while I tell you more. These melodies penetrated your ears to fill your small belly with joy and laughter. You have seen newborn babies, their stomachs are uncommonly round unless the birds did not sing dazzingly. In that case, sadly, the babies lack the zest for life, and they die.

However, you were still as formless as a slug. I walked barefoot on sand and pebbles until they climbed up my legs, vivifying my blood. By rallying in your back, they gave direction to your body. The spine and bones held close your flesh with sweet intent. You were nearly whole: breath, skin, soft belly, strong bones. Finally, I could rest and share my body with you. From each organ you had your share. Your heart kept the beat of your unfurling, your liver accumulated the will to prevail, your kidneys allowed you to unwrap and become, your spleen gave you strength, and your womb, which nurtures the thousand and thousand dreams of babies to be, flowered.

But if I had bared my belly to the sun and to the air, a wind would have rushed in through the navel. The umbilical cord that connected us would have vibrated, eventually forming sentences and commands and laws and decrees. Your womb would have come down, your ovaries and your vagina would have inverted, and you would have been a boy.

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This is the 71st of 100 women who talk to their daughters over 2500 years.

Before the Crusades:

The 56th woman was a powerful preacher, as was common in medieval times. The 55th woman was upset at her father’s trade. The 54th woman tells a fairy tale about aging. The 53rd woman, having climbed up socially, rejects her own mother. The 52nd woman‘s sister, a smart and lucky business woman, improves the fate of the daughter. The 51st woman leads the hard life of a hunchback. The 50th woman’s mind is as feeble as her back. The 49th mother explains why women should not fish. The 48th woman finds refuge in a fishing village. The 47th mother lulls her baby with an optimistic song. The 46th mother rebells against the wealthy.

Earlier times (Roman Empire):

The 29th woman preferred her life as a captive of the Barbarians. The 28th woman gives sexual advice to her daughter (explicit). The 27th woman resents her mother using her for her ambitions. The 26th girl feels powerless to stop her father’s violence. The 25th girl is an orphan, or is she? The 24th woman falls for an indigenous rebel.

It all starts here: first thread, and the last stories will take place in … present day America.