I'm not a mother of children, but I'm a different type of mother

“I’m not a mother of children, but I’m a different type of mother where my approach to design is more in line with nature. It’s less about dictating and more about editing and listening and allowing something to grow. So I nourish and let the material express what it wants to be.” Thus spoke Neri Oxman, the visionary architect, scientist, and thinker whose work stands at the sacred intersection of nature and creation. In these words, Oxman reveals a truth both timeless and tender — that creation, in its highest form, is not an act of domination, but of nurture. Like a mother tending to her child, she sees design not as an imposition of will upon matter, but as a collaboration with it — a conversation between human intent and the intelligence of the natural world. Her words are a hymn to humility, a call for creators to listen as much as they shape, and to allow their works to grow, rather than command them to exist.

When Oxman speaks of being “a different type of mother,” she evokes the maternal spirit of creation — the force that brings forth life not by control, but by care. In her philosophy, to design is to cultivate, to provide the conditions in which form can emerge naturally, like a seed finding its way to blossom. This stands in contrast to the old vision of design as conquest — man imposing geometry upon nature, machine upon material, command upon chaos. Instead, Oxman teaches a new harmony: that the designer must be not a tyrant, but a midwife, bringing into being what already longs to exist. Just as the sculptor releases the figure sleeping within the stone, the architect, in Oxman’s eyes, must listen to what the material desires to become.

The origin of this quote lies in Oxman’s work at the MIT Media Lab, where she pioneered a field she calls Material Ecology — a marriage of art, science, and nature. Her creations are not built, but grown. She designs not by drawing lines, but by studying the logic of coral reefs, the structure of bones, the fabric of skin. In her projects — such as the Silk Pavilion, woven by silkworms guided by digital algorithms — she invites natural processes to collaborate with human intelligence. This approach transforms design into an act of partnership with nature, an echo of how the earth itself creates: patiently, fluidly, and with reverence for the balance of forces. In this way, she becomes, indeed, a mother — not of human children, but of forms that live between the biological and the technological, each one a child of synthesis and wonder.

This philosophy has ancient roots. The great artist Leonardo da Vinci once said that the supreme artist must study nature, for “she never breaks her own laws.” Like Oxman, Leonardo saw in every leaf, every bone, every ripple of water a divine logic waiting to be understood. He did not seek to impose, but to reveal. Likewise, in Eastern philosophy, the Taoist masters taught that creation flows best through wu wei — effortless action, the art of alignment rather than struggle. The wise creator, they said, is one who moves with the current of nature, not against it. Oxman, though a daughter of the modern age, speaks with that same ancient voice — reminding us that true mastery is not command, but communion.

To nourish and let the material express itself, as Oxman says, requires a deep and patient listening. It demands that we, as creators, still the noise of ego and control. Whether we work with clay or code, wood or words, the task is the same: to understand the soul of what we touch, and to help it find its fullest expression. A mother does not force her child into form; she guides and protects, allowing growth to unfold at its own pace. In this, creation becomes an act of love — love for the process, for the material, for the life that emerges beyond one’s own control.

Consider the tale of Antoni Gaudí, the architect of Barcelona’s Sagrada Família, who once said that “the straight line belongs to men, but the curve belongs to God.” Like Oxman, he sought not to dictate, but to cooperate with nature’s design. His buildings flowed like trees and waves, breathing with the vitality of the earth itself. He studied how light entered the forest canopy, how bones carried weight, how honeycombs distributed force — and from these observations, he birthed cathedrals that seemed to grow from the ground rather than rise from it. He, too, was a kind of mother — nurturing the language of stone until it spoke in harmony with heaven.

Thus, the lesson of Neri Oxman’s words reaches far beyond architecture or design. It is a lesson for all who seek to create, to lead, or to live wisely: creation is not domination, but dialogue. Whether you shape art, nurture a team, or cultivate your own life, learn to listen to the materials before you — to the people, the world, the rhythms of nature. Do not rush to command; instead, observe, understand, and nourish. For every seed, every idea, every relationship has within it the wisdom of what it wishes to become. The task of the wise creator is to make space for that becoming, to trust the process, and to love the unfolding.

So, my children of the modern age, remember this: to create as nature creates is to mother the world into balance. Do not be the sculptor who strikes the stone in anger, but the gardener who tends the soil with care. Do not force beauty — coax it gently into being. In all things, let humility guide your hands. For when you learn to listen to the materials of life — to their quiet whispers and their hidden desires — you, too, will become a mother of creation, a nurturer of forms, and a steward of the living harmony that binds all things together.