Calm, the morning air,
mind lost in reflection,
mirror-still waters
Raise my eyes skyward,
pray for release, an end
to Mother’s suffering.
Nothing. Death
has its own rhythm –
emotions mud.
(I wrote this poem a year ago, when my Mother was in and out of hospital with heart failure and pneumonia. Now, a year later, she continues to struggle. “We live too long,” she says. “Pray for my release.” Photo: Mom at 94, courtesy of my son.)
She rises from the river –
a culmination of my prayers
and tears, I suppose
Eyes glow with a ungodly hunger
Is she predator or night prowler
I wonder, frozen from fright
Disinterested in ego, ignoring
perfection, she multiplies
her energy frenetic
I try to harness her,
tame the primal, raw force
fear I cannot house her
But she is no one’s property
moves with fluidity, a shapeshifter
mythical in her stride
Like Eve, she is original sin
searching for deeper meaning
beyond this man-made paradise.
(Image and poem originated in a dream. Not sure I did the message justice but it begged delivery.)
I dream of a woman
Mother-centred
grey-haired essence
oozing strength –
a vessel, rain focused
decoding political lies.
Leaders are locked
targeting anxiety
selective stances
patriarchal bedmates
ending unsafe
Rioters blow up
martyr consciousness
metamorphosis in throngs
chemicals insignificant
when innocence ignored
temples violated.
What is next?
A future gatekeeper
spouting personal freedom
recalling pleas, charming
ghosts of the past?
We need
discernment,
a woman
Mother-centred
grey-hair wise
leading the way.
(I dreamt of a goddess figure, and attempted to capture her in the pencil drawing featured. Working on that dream, many things have emerged. The poem above is just on example.)
Mother is fearful,
time slipping through her fingers,
loneliness enveloping her.
I hold space for her in my thoughts,
my heart aching in beat with hers.
Guilt tosses me up and down –
inadequacy knows no bests.
If I was a kitchen, I’d want
an old-fashioned woman
at my counters, rolling dough,
canning pickles, chutney, jam,
homemade pasta sauce, and
every Sunday a roast. She’d
wear her sweat like a saint,
ignore her aching back, one
practiced hand feeding her
Carnation baby, while other
children flocked to Formica,
hot flesh sticking to vinyl,
as they picked at fresh made
sweet buns, the pot on the
stove perpetually simmering.
Or give me modern efficiency –
ninjas and presses, air fryers,
and induction cookers – let the
children belly up to the breakfast
bar, chomp on veggies and humus,
while Mom totes baby in a sling,
and preps her bone broth, strains
of Baby Einstein emitting from
a propped up iPad, while a cellphone
vibrates on granite and the Keurig
spits out one more Starbucks Pike.
Just don’t abandon me, piles
of unopened mail, or tossed
aside receipts company for
coffee rings on my counters.
Please don’t litter my surfaces
with rotting takeout containers,
or dishes caked with process
cheese residue, leave my
stainless steel sinks stained,
spoiled food reeking in the
refrigerator, traces of late night
mishaps curdling on the floor;
the absence of familial sounds
declaring my presence invalid.
(Originally posted on June, 2016)
An earlier post that seemed to be fitting to post here, in the spirit of “Black Madonna”.
Like silk
whispering across my skin;
a gentle mist
kissing my soul;
kindness unburdening me;
warmth, and cinnamon spice;
She comes.
Of the Earth, is She
whose heart beats with mine
a rhythm of life
renewal
and deepest bliss
Her essence luminous and night
shimmering at the water’s edge
or pulsating at the core
of darkness
Alive. Very much alive.
No fanfare proceeds Her,
No choir of angels.
In stillness, know Her.
In openness, receive Her.
She is here.
She is here.
“I’m so mad!” My nine-year-old self slammed the front door and stomped down the hallway to the kitchen, where my mother was constantly positioned. My little sister sat at the table, her legs swinging contentedly as she finished off a fresh baked cookie and glass of milk.
“Well, hello!” my mother responded. “Not a good day?”
“That Chet Tesney makes me so mad, I want to kill him.”
Mom looked me up and down. “Looks like you already did.”
“Not today. I got in a scuffle with some kids at the bus stop.”
My mother sighed. “There are cookies or muffins, but you are not to touch the pie until after dinner. I’d wash up first if I were you.”
Catching myself in the mirror, I saw that I was a real sight. I pulled a twig and a piece of leaf out of my matted hair, and washed the muddy scrape on my cheek. Both hands, caked brown, were red beneath. Looking down, I saw the stockings I had put on this morning now had a big hole in one knee, and mud was caking on more than one place on my clothes. Stripping off the dirty clothes, I ran upstairs to change.
“How was school today?” My mother asked cheerfully as I helped myself to a warm cookie and pulled up a chair. My sister had wandered off.
“Okay, I guess. We were picking parts for the class play and that Lesley Mann got the main role again. I hate her, it’s not fair! Mom! Jane has my favourite Barbie! Put that down you little brat!”
“Girls! Play nice.” Mom seldom skipped a beat from her dinner prep. She wouldn’t intervene. I sighed.
“School is so unfair! Miss P. said we’d be able to pick our topics for the history project, but Michael and David picked the same as me, so now I have to choose something else. I hate school! Now, she has my Barbie car, too! Moooommm! She’s going to break it!”
“Shreeeeeeaaaakkkkk! my sister screamed as I tried to retrieve my treasures.
“She won’t hurt it. Let her play. Why don’t you play with her?”
“It’s not fair! You always take her side. Why don’t you support me for once?!” I could feel the rage inside me boiling over. I wanted to hit someone and fast.
“Tee hee. Ha ha. Ho ho.”
“Don’t you start, Mother!”
“Ha ha, ho ho, he he, ha ha ha.”
“Mom, I mean it!”
“Ho, ho, ho, ho, ha ha ha ha ha ha, he he he he he he, ho, ho.”
Giggle. “Mom, don’t make me! He, he.”
“Heeee, heeee, hoooo, hoooo” The laughter was so contagious I couldn’t help but join in. Soon we were laughing so hard we could hardly catch our breath.
“What’s so sunny?” my four-year-old sister couldn’t say her ‘f’s, sending us into another howl, until the tears rolled down our cheeks.
“It’s not sunny!” But it was!
“Oh, I’m going to pee my pants!” Doubled over, my mother ran for the bathroom.
We laughed some more. By the time the laughter subsided, I couldn’t remember what I had been angry about.
This is the gift of my mother.
One Woman's Quest 