Mother's Song

Beautiful Painting by Nora Kasten

Something is different these days. It is as if my little girl self finally arrived at the intersection with my Wild knowing self, and after extensive nurturing by this wise woman, the little girl feels safe at opening her eyes, relieved to be waking up from her nightmares, and perhaps even a little excited.

After being sung to, rocked and soothed for so long to a place of release, the little girl self has climbed down off the Wild woman's lap and is ready to get outside.

The song of the wise Wild woman rests within in me as I venture out. Home is no longer clinging to the safety of four walls shutting out the outside. Home extends out the front door, out the garden path, up the mountain, to the river, ocean--wherever the dance may lead. The seeds I have sown are safely in the womb, there is no need to open the womb to see if the life-force has taken. It is time to trust. It is time to let go and let the life-force insure survival. It is time to wake up from all of this intense fear of miscarry and trust that what is meant to be born will be born, and that allowing this will birth a unique life-force all its own.

The wise Wild woman directs me to the tasks at hand, and with childlike curiosity and the openness of someone who hasn't been beat into submission, I carry, and clean, freshen and reconfigure, combine and season; there with the tasks, no where else to be-- in the wonder, in the magic, knowing that this is what supports thriving, permission to be here now, permission to take just a step at a time.

I find myself falling in love, but it isn't the kind of fleeting love from a fairy tale, but a deep enduring love that comes from getting your hands dirty, from struggling to dig out the stubborn blackberry bush--the kind that comes from mending and tending to...

The trying and striving has slowed way down, so that I can see what is truly important right now. The world rushes around in a fearful, confusing blur, but I can make out two figures that remain perfectly still, lit by the sun. A golden haired adolescent almost-woman, and a baby-faced big girl who can't part with any of her baby dolls who are alive to her. There is the cat hiding in the cupboard surprising us and making us laugh. Watching the hamster bound on the grass on his field trip outside. There is working away on tasks, simple ones, like putting shoes in orderly rows, cleaning off desk tops.

 just one step at a time for all of us.

The girls are little by little falling in love too. It didn't seem possible, but home is getting warm and soft, all fleshed out with a bosom to snuggle into.

for all of us.

I take a breath this morning. It is the first real breath of life, that gasp that you hear when a person is brought back from not breathing.

I am here.

The breath is the life-bringer. The restorer of life. Enlivening us to use the senses, to feel them instructing us. Bringing back the energy of the Mother.

I've needed my mother. I've needed to be the mother. I've needed to be both. 

It's the little things that are life-giving, that create the breath. No hollow edifices to God needed, just the gesture of a tender touch, a forgiving heart, a brave heart ready to begin again.

brave enough to get outside and tame a wild garden where nothing beautiful grows, but where in forgiveness the earth heaves open to accept a bulb for the promise of bloom.

Tonight my girls and I will plant as many bulbs as the ground can hold.

Brave enough to clean a toilet, scrub mold with bleach and a toothbrush, create a circle with sworn enemies, to meet needs and to keep meeting them until there is an openness of heart, new trust, new life rising out of the ashes.

Making lentil soup for the sisters, seeing the beautiful space right in front of you, the people right in front of you, realizing the part they have all played, just like in Alice in Wonderland, when she sees all the characters lined up to greet her. How she must feel wonder. Delightful curiosity for all those who signed up to play a part in her story--wondering do they know somewhere deep down that all of their actions were meant to become written on her pages too?

Ahhh, Wild mother, thank you for your patience, for your simple, bittersweet, strength imbuing melody. Thank you for how it echos in my heart, becomes my song at the grindstone.

And there is no place I'd rather be. No place but home.