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MotherWealth

The Feminine Path to Money

by Naomi Rose

Revised Edition

"Naomi is a princess weaving straw into gold....

There are very few books being written today that come close to this kind of genius."

How wealthy could you be if your whole, real Being were taken into account?  

When money is an outgrowth of your inner wealth, it comes to you.

You don't have to “go out and get it.”
You just have to be Home to receive it.

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"In this deeply warm-hearted and beautifully written book, Naomi Rose takes us with her on a journey to discover a woman's way into the realms of money. Through her very personal and profound journey she helps us move through and past our shame around money, and learn an instinctual way to open to allowing our wealth to come to us by giving up going out to get it.”

—Barbara Wilder, author, Money Is Love: Reconnecting the Sacred Origins of Money

"After reading MotherWealth, I knew I had read a finely crafted literary work which had carefully plumbed the depth of poverty-mind and what it is like to be born a woman in this time. The story is one which carries the seeker back to her center in a world of scarcity and confusion. Naomi embraces her losses, disillusionments, and heartbreaks, undoing her conditioned programming to a false self and finding compassion for her real self. Abandoning the myth of 'Going Out to make money,' she courageously enters the path of awakening. Naomi is a princess weaving straw into gold, using her experiences and interpretations of deprivation and tragedy as the path to the abundance of The Mother within herself. There are very few books being written today that come close to this kind of genius."

—Judith Avalon, author, Entering into the Heart of The Mother: Spiritual Practice Embodied in Daily Life

"An interesting exploration into one woman's complicated and highly personal journey to a healthy relationship to her money."                     —Susan McCarthy, "The Soul Authority on Money Management";

author, The Value of Money; host, PBS special, "Money and Emotions"

"MotherWealth captures the way it feels to value the soul's journey as least as much as money.

How we are with money speaks volumes about how we relate to our own inner riches, as the book illustrates through deeply personal, feminine stories and reflections. This book poignantly addresses on an intimate level what The Soul of Money by Lynne Twist has done on a societal level: bringing the heart of compassion into our evolving understanding of how money is connected to the soul. This feminine approach to money and its place in our lives has the potential to connect and heal us. One of MotherWealth's valuable contributions is to open the conversation and offer a pathway to wholeness. Read it and join the conversation."

—Kay Sandberg, Director, Lynne Twist's "The Soul of Money Institute"

 

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MotherWealth: The Feminine Path to Money

weaves a magical story of how the death of an old sense of self can bring an endless ocean of treasures from within ~ including money.  This inside-out approach to money takes into account the inner life that holds the key to our fortunes, and offers a much-needed perspective on why the soulless patriarchal model of money isn't working ~ and what will.

This moving account of an intimate journey to embrace money

by reclaiming the heart and body,

and rediscovering the ever-present ground of Being available in the moment,

has universal—and timely—implications for our personal and collective economies.

 

Here is a short excerpt from Chapter 5, "Tuning":

When I thought of love, I thought of the Weaving Woman, at ease inside herself, simple and true, generous and clear, her hair lit by sun, her eyes shining, her voice low and wearing a recent song. She glowed with happiness. She walked like the animals she loved. She was the undamaged child whom nature loved because her mother loved her. She was the fine yarn-twist of fleece into wool. She was the knitting that was whole, all the dropped and twisted stitches unraveled and reworked into a garment both usable and fine. Her breasts were the undulating valleys and hills, her skin the summer wind on the grass. She opened her arms to embrace the world.

“But when I thought of money, I thought of my father's wobbling shadow. I had followed it into offices, carrying a briefcase, looking important, and quavering inside. I was convinced that Going Out was required to make money, and making money was required to live. Why I couldn't produce from my own being the substances needed for life, as I had produced blood and milk and a baby, made no primal sense. If survival were based on shells, as in the long-gone past, or sheep, or pigs, or songs, I would be wealthy. For the ocean washed up shells, and a song could always be given. I would never run out of songs, if I were willing to find and sing them. But money was an artifact. It could not be created from the body's flow of blood and milk. It could not be given in the middle of the night to a fretful child, a lullaby. One could not pay the rent with a song."

—From Chapter 5, "Tuning"

 

 

 $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $     More reasons to read MotherWealth    $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ 

What readers  have to say:

“Pure joy!”

“This book went straight to the core of me and touched me in inexplicable ways.

The experience was unquestionably sacred and because of that, some form of healing took place.”

“This book isn't just for women. As a man, I also find this book true ~ and beautiful.

It isn't just women who have been wounded by having to Go Out.

The machismo way of working doesn't work for any of us.”

“I took the book home. I stayed up with it all night.

I wept, and came out cleansed, and as pure of heart as when I was a girl.”

“This book is like Holy Scripture.”

NAOMI ROSE is a third-generation writer (both parents were writers), the creator of Writing from the Deeper Self, an award-winning Book Developer & Midwife (see www.essentialwriting.com), and the author of several books on Money & the Inner Life, including MotherWealth. She served for two years on the Board of Directors of her local credit union. 

 

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 $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $       Give yourself your MotherWealth    $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ 

You can purchase MotherWealth: The Feminine Path to Money right now.

Or you can scroll down to read more chapter excerpts,

then give yourself the gift of your own inner wealth

by buying the book.

Its healing is for you.

 

~$~Buy Now ~$~

Print edition: $17.95

E-book: $12.95 

Audiobook (2-CD set): $19.95

 

~$~Print edition: $17.95 ~$~

Outside California:

Within California (.875% state sales tax is included in shipping):

 

       ~$~  E-book edition: $12.95 ~$~       

(Your e-book will be sent to you by email within 24 hours of placing your order)

Outside California:

Within California (.875% state sales tax is included in shipping):

 

      ~$~   2-CD Audiobook: $19.95 ~$~         

Outside California:

Within California (.875% state sales tax is included in shipping):

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 $ $ $                                   A LOOK INSIDE THE BOOK                                     $ $ $ 

From the Introduction, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, and Chapter 5 

$ From the Introduction" $

I had made some peace with the earth-as-Mother, could feel her delicious, sap-like energy rise up into my belly and absorb the nimbus of worries that circled my head like flies. And this was a triumph in itself: to have feet, and roots beneath them; to feel a connection to the earth-body in my body.

But one day I knew that my healing required that I know the Mother through my mother—that hers was the womb, heart, and body I knew in my most intimate of cells. And until it was all right to be of my mother, one with my mother, and in some way like my mother, all my wishes to belong to the earth would be so much rhetoric.

At a time when I was in need of money yet found it hard to push myself to make money, this process of reaching out to mend the rift with my long-dead mother conferred help in unexpected ways, grace in a place I had not been looking. My mind fumed and sputtered, "What will I do?" but my body told me that the space to have whatever I needed was in me. It was not a matter, this intimate knowing said, of "going out and getting": there was a whole other, magnetic, inherent way of having what I needed.

And so it was. Out of my fears and longings and missteps, I had happened upon a natural phenomenon available to every woman and to every man who blesses that he is of woman born. Without any "going and getting," the money I needed just came.

 

$ From Chapter 1, "The Myth of Going Out to Make a Living" $

Chapter 1, “The Myth of Going Out to Make a Living” ~ When you can't go out to make a living, you have to come in (to yourself). When the mother and nature are present and whole, a unity of belonging exists. But when going out into a world separated from the Mother determines financial survival, things begin to fall apart.

 

“One season, one 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, especially since my recent, raw divorce. 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. If I deserted myself, there was no one to pick up the pieces. My mind needed to go as slow as my body.

“Severely restricted by my cast-bound ankle, my lack of funds, and my lack of family support for the first time after the ending of my twenty-three-year 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.”

#      #     # 

Just before my 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 23-year marriage had ended, I didn't have my former appetite, or, it seemed, the resources. This time, when a severe financial crisis surfaced (I was alone, divorced, and without funds), I could not mobilize my 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. Despite my own internal demand to "catch up" to the brisk, no-nonsense career women of the day, I felt like Rip Van Winkle, asleep in a cave for generations, staring into the light of an unfamiliar world.

"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 was 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....

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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 mo relation to any I'd ever known. Convinced that I had to learn a whole new, foreign way to survive in order to make money, 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. And 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 thos who were In and those who were Out. I just wanted to know how to survive....

Where was the place where who I was and what I needed to know matched? In these "guides" to survival, I recognized at best an aggression, a love of abstraction, a symbol taken as reality, and worlds built on that quasi-reality. It frightened me that there was no reference point inside me that I could touch by which to learn. There was no way to make of it a direct, mystical experience. It was a game; it had its own rules and language; and if you didn't play, you could literally, in this society, die.

 

$ From Chapter 2, "Following the Threads" $

Chapter 2, “Following the Threads” Seeking a remedy for grief, loss, and poverty (inner and outer) by excavating within to find the source of loss and separation through cutting off from the mother, and the desiccating effects of this disconnection, including financial.

[My father's mother died when I was a child, and] my father lit one candle in the kitchen, in silence. I watched him move like a dead man, stiff and slow. If he said prayers, I did not know them. Like laughter and death, he had not carried these down through the generations.

 

When I followed my father out into the world, later, it was his shadow I was following. It carried a briefcase, and dressed neatly, and even smelled of cologne. But it wobbled imperceptibly, and it had not grieved the loss of its mother.

 

#    #    #

 

When I first had a mother, when I was very young, I loved her happily and completely. I loved her like God must love the morning in spring, when the mist rises golden on the meadows, when the sun moves a gold hand through the forest. I loved her like God must love the ocean, its vastness and depths, its dancing light and gravitational pull, every wave, every bit of foam, every little treasure it tumbles toward the shore. Drinking at her breast, searching her dark-brown eyes with my blue, burrowing into the fragrance of her hair, my adoration for her fed my spirit as much as the milk fed my growing body. And in that state, all was good, all was well, all was beautiful.

 

It was scarcely a breath of difference from her arms to the lake where she taught me to swim, holding me stiffly from underneath, and letting me kick and flail and splash.“I'll fall!” I cried; but her hands stayed with me until my body believed that this invisible, wet water would actually hold me up. There was a lurch in my torso when the warmth of her hands went away. But even with my flailing, the water held me.

 

I swam in the green lake, surrounded by greener trees, watching the reflected world appear and disappear with a single stroke of my small, swimming hand. At such times I belonged to everything, and bliss was too ornate a word for the deep happiness I knew, just being there, looking, swimming, breathing. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. No mountains, no conquering. Why should I want to conquer what held me up and made me buoyant? Should I slice the water with a sword? Should I challenge the trees to bend to my will? No, my beautiful young mother sat on the bank, talking to a friend and smiling at me. I had been made to lie down in green pastures; I had been led to the still waters. I swam inside my own, patient joy.

 

With the presence of my mother there, in nature where she and I belonged down to the smallest cell of a leaf, the largest sweep of a hill, I could receive the world. It was all there; there was nothing to do but receive it, To make my mark on it was to separate myself from it. And that I would never do; for all my delight was in expanding to meet the thousand and one emissaries of Motherlove: the breeze fragrant with cow dung, the mud squishing between my toes, the fields ripe with wild flowers, lilacs and daisies, dandelions sassy yellow and gone to seed, for wishing on. Everything and more was there. My father might go Out, into the Big World, and I might miss him; but my mother and I were In the embrace of God. What was going Out for, except to take it In, and revel at the wonder of simply being of it?

 

 

$ From Chapter 5, "Tuning" $

Chapter 5, “Tuning” ~  Listening for the return-home call of the Mother Who Loves Her Children, and how tuning to this in the heart, mind, and body brings treasures beyond telling.

I began to almost look forward to this time of retreat, of Coming In. For no matter how crunched and scared and grouchy I might be at the start, really, all I had to do was be present and receive. And everything would be given.

It was a matter of getting to the ocean in the belly. I began in a hot desert windstorm, the "ohmigod" of desperation ragging my throat and neck and chest. I believed the windstorm, I believed the desert; its dunes went on for relentless miles. The exodus from where to where was endless.

"Here I am," I whispered to myself by habit, now, even as I stared the desert in the face: "Here I am"; the merest whisper. And then something remembered that there was more than a desert, and translated this remembrance as a bodily awareness. "Oh, tension in the neck. Ah, okay. There it is, all right." And that embrace was enough to change it.  Like the car that had exploded in the face of my neglect, it only needed my loving attention to begin to unfold its story. And this was its story:

Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved her mother so much

that all the world was good. The sun was gold and beautiful because

she held her mother's hand. The birds sang all day long, and their song

made the little girl dance. The waters were warm and held her up

because her mother swam beside her, and held her in her arms.

And when the girl was big enough to let the water hold her up

all by herself, it was because her mother was right there on the bank,

laughing and nodding and bright with pleasure at her child.

So everything was given. The trees gave fruit, the cows gave milk,

the sun gave liquid gold, the moon gave light and shadow,

the stars gave dreams. All was well because the mother was in the world.

But then the mother left the world. She went underground, and never came back.

And all the plants died. And all the birds stopped singing. And all the cows

dried up. And people became allergic to milk. And no one sang. And babies

were born in the tight-fisted desert. And their mothers wept underwater

and could not reach them.

The little girl went away, far, far away. She went Out, so far Out

no one could ever hurt her again. But she left a tiny part of herself

in the barren land, in case the mother ever returned to the world.

And she left a homing device between the worlds, in case she would

ever want to come back in.

And this device was a sound....

~$~Buy Now ~$~

Print edition: $17.95

E-book: $12.95 

Audiobook (2-CD set): $19.95

 

~$~Print edition: $17.95 ~$~

Outside California:

Within California (.875% state sales tax is included in shipping):

 

       ~$~  E-book edition: $12.95 ~$~       

(Your e-book will be sent to you by email within 24 hours of placing your order)

Outside California:

Within California (.875% state sales tax is included in shipping):

 

      ~$~   2-CD Audiobook: $19.95 ~$~         

Outside California:

Within California (.875% state sales tax is included in shipping):

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