The Feminine Path to Money

A book by

Naomi Rose

Copyright © 1993, 1998, 2007 by Naomi Rose. All rights reserved.


What if having money isn’t about “going out and getting it”?

MotherWealth: The Feminine Path to Money offers a groundbreaking, heartwarming perspective

on why the patriarchal model of making money isn’t working for women (or men)

and what will.


                   Readers cheer for MotherWealth:

                   “Pure joy!”

                   “It’s not just for women. The machismo way doesn’t work for men.”

                   “Couldn’t put it down. Read it at one sitting. Cried a bit. Felt renewed.”

                   “This book is like Holy Scripture. May we all write such books.”

“In connecting the level of being, the Mother-model, with having what we need, MotherWealth offers a new but deeply familiar path that could lead the her, her or his community, and ultimately the planet into a much deeper, truer, more compassionate relation to one another around and even through money. MotherWealth has the power to bring people to their deepest level of vulnerability, and encourage trust in a way that cognitive-level books on money rarely do.”

Common Ground Magazine


How can attending to the inner life

bring wealth into your outer life?

Read MotherWealth for yourself and see.


[From the first chapter, "The Myth of Going Out to Make a Living"]


One season last year I was sitting in enforced retreat because I had broken my ankle. I had no choice but to bear my own company minute by minute, and to examine much that I’d been trying to run away from. Each day for six weeks I sat with my back against the headboard of my bed, wiggling my toes gingerly, breathing the hot breath of desperate fear, and trying to calm myself. “Don’t,” I begged in panic, “panic. At least the toes work.” Bit by bit, week by week, my spiraling world of worries condensed down from the largest of survival, existential, familial, and spiritual of issues to the simplest of tasks: getting from the refrigerator to the sink on crutches, or on hands and knees; navigating the oceanic space between the kitchen and the bathroom; crawling back up to bed on hands and knees, stair by stair.

Time, my enemy, became my friend by default. All my resources were needed to do the tiniest task. I could not afford the luxury of philosophizing, or collapsing. I was injured and alone. If I deserted myself, there was no one to pick up the pieces. My mind needed to go as slow as my body.

Slowly, sitting up in bed, severely restricted by my cast-bound ankle, my lack of funds, and my lack of family support for the first time after twenty-three years of marriage, I saw my choices as suicidal despair or a leap of faith. And so I took a deep breath and began to pay attention to what was going on inside me.

“Here I am,” I began silently, “alone and deserted, broken and without resources. No money, no clients lined up, no cushion of safety, no health insurance.” And as this true litany was recited, I noticed that my chest froze in terror, my mouth went dry, and my head was clogged with swirling hot air.

“Here I am,” I repeated, “and while it's true that I am alone and without funds, I do have the ability to notice the weight of my body on the bed.” And as soon as my attention shifted to my weight, I felt the tug of gravity and my body eased a bit. This surprising response, this moment of physical reprieve, even pleasure, became the touchstone I would use again and again. “Here I am, here is my body, here is the weight of my body, here is the pleasure of rocking my body half an inch, here is the pleasure of being present for the slightest movement.” I felt like a balloon that had been given ballast a kite provided with a tail. I might still be hovering in terror, but at least there was a way to approach the ground, and the faint hope that the darkness that blackened the grasses below my descending balloon might simply be my own unfamiliar shadow.

 #                  #                  #

Just before the ankle broke, I’d been pushing myself to get my life together. That meant, of course, going out to find work, to make money.

I had done it thousands of times before. But since my marriage had ended, I didn't have the appetite I used to have, or, it seemed, the resources. When a severe financial crisis surfaced, I could not mobilize my former capacity to “roll up my sleeves and do what needs to be done.” This time, I was hampered by sorrow, by grief and by shame. And I was embarrassed by my further, internal, demand to “catch up” to career women of the ‘90s, next to whom I felt like Rip Van Winkle.

“Go,” I whispered to myself like the ghost of Competence Past, “get dressed up, make calls, solicit work. Ready, set, march, NOW!” But I was in a state of paralytic shock. I could not move. “‘Just do it!’” I quoted some popular book. “‘Feel the fear and do it anyway!’”

But there was nothing to be done. No amount of badgering myself got me going. If the only game in town were the hustle-and-bustle game, the helmeted battlefield, I could not play. I hadn’t the heart.

What I needed was to spend days weeping. Walking with slow, tentative bare feet. Feeling the weight of the air, the warmth of the sun. Nothing that could possibly bring in money.

  ___________________________________________________________________________________________       ___________________________________________________________________________________________

In those times of our lives when the old ways no longer work,

when we are caught between the worlds,

in our very vulnerability we have access to another way of being

another way of calling in what we need.

Sometimes we must be brought to our knees to ask for it, in desperation and supplicating prayer.

And sometimes we can listen to the still, small voice inside

that whispers of our connection to all that is

without needing to be harshly stripped of who we thought we were,

and how we were certain the world worked.


“So little of me was left from my old life. I was so foreign to myself that the world outside seemed more foreign than ever. And money—the need for it, accumulating of it, managing of it, spending, investing, and general grooming of it—took on the proportions of a foreign language in an alphabet that bore no relation to any I’d intrinsically known. I would rally myself with Self-Improvement Programs, beginning with a visit to the library. Bustling with productivity, I’d carry home thick books on Money Management, Women and Money, Money and the Divorced Woman, Investments for the Savvy Woman, and so on. But my initial steam quickly vaporized. All bright and perky, aggressive and no-nonsense, these books required a bilingual translator I didn’t have. Further, they all seemed to agree that this vibrant, aggressive, individualistic fascination with money and its keeping was a great thing.

“I did not want to become a member of their exclusive club, complete with secret language, passwords, and those who were In and those who were Out. I just wanted to know how to survive.”

So begins a magical story of how the death of an old self

brings an endless ocean of treasures from within—

including money.




For anyone who has gone through life transitions that stirred things up,

yet illuminated something wonderful behind the veil...

For anyone who is tired of pushing themselves to reach an outer goal at the expense of their inner being...

For anyone who seeks to heal their relationship with their mother,

and to receive the abundant largesse of The Mother...

MotherWealth: The Feminine Path to Money is ready to give itself to you.


[From the ending of the book:]

"By two hours later, this bliss was a dream. I neither remembered nor believed it. But it had been enough. It had been a prayer, stronger than my doubts or my returning cynicism. I had said “I need.” The phone rang. Within two days, I got five new clients and two book projects. All things I could do at home, with my ankle in a cast. And I was so slow, so valley-floor slow, so ocean slow from all those weeks of Coming In that I had called in another reality entirely. For what I had done, in utter, sincere ignorance, was to call out for help; but to call out from the very energetic substance of myself, like a flower opening without a word."

You don’t have to “Go Out” and get it.

You just have to be Home to receive it.




To get your own copy of the book now, follow these simple directions:

MotherWealth is available in print version for $22, and in downloadable pdf version for $17. You can purchase either version by using PayPal or sending a check (details below).

For the print version at $22, add $3.81 S&H for a total of $25.81 (plus $1.93 sales tax for California residents).



For the pdf version, the total is $17 (add $1.31 sales tax(for California residents).




To order by check, mail to:

Naomi Rose

P.O. Box 21622

Piedmont, CA 94620