Stories From the Motherhouse
shipping in early December 2026
In this new collection of short stories, poems and essays, Sylvia V. Linsteadt follows the threads of matrilineal ancestors—both personal and collective—across continents and millennia, seeking a ground of belonging older than patriarchy, a ground she calls “the motherhouse.” There, the floors are full of generations of foremothers’ bones. There, Persephone was never stolen from Demeter: she went into the earth and back willingly. There, midwives were the first priestesses, women could become bears, the goddess Rhiannon taught her people the language of birds, and Ariadne’s labyrinth led her to a cave full of bees. This collection is a map made of archaeological fragments, long walks, Cretan dancing, lost loves, animal encounters, and mythic retellings that span the lands of England, Greece, California. It is the kind of map made not to tell you where you are going, but to bring you hope that even in the most difficult of seasons, there has always been an ember under the ashes in your motherhouse waiting for your breath, and a red thread that will guide you back home.
Stories From the Motherhouse
shipping in early December 2026
In this new collection of short stories, poems and essays, Sylvia V. Linsteadt follows the threads of matrilineal ancestors—both personal and collective—across continents and millennia, seeking a ground of belonging older than patriarchy, a ground she calls “the motherhouse.” There, the floors are full of generations of foremothers’ bones. There, Persephone was never stolen from Demeter: she went into the earth and back willingly. There, midwives were the first priestesses, women could become bears, the goddess Rhiannon taught her people the language of birds, and Ariadne’s labyrinth led her to a cave full of bees. This collection is a map made of archaeological fragments, long walks, Cretan dancing, lost loves, animal encounters, and mythic retellings that span the lands of England, Greece, California. It is the kind of map made not to tell you where you are going, but to bring you hope that even in the most difficult of seasons, there has always been an ember under the ashes in your motherhouse waiting for your breath, and a red thread that will guide you back home.
