Our Mother

       …the cure for pain is in the pain.
       Good and bad are mixed. If you don’t have both
       you don’t belong with us.

       When one of us gets lost, is not here, he must be inside us.
       There’s no place like that anywhere in the world.

                   Rumi



In every wandering, there is an urge to return to the original. In this circuitous journey we leave and arrive at the same truth. We are like moons hurtling through space; all revolving around the same emerging star. And this has given us a sameness that makes us want to break away and stand apart. But we cannot, because we have shared attachments and shared afflictions. In all our movements and cessations, we are one. And together we stand as one before our mother. Our mother, who at times didn’t give enough and at other times gave too much, until she ran out of herself.

There are things about our mother that we know but don’t talk about. The way it feels to hold her hand or to hug her. How there had to be a very good reason to do those things and then to feel that slight jerk that would end it. How warm she always was but how her forehead felt cold and hard. How her perfect face would shine in a dream and haunt in a nightmare.

Growing up, we had all the carefree ways of children, yet even as we glided over grassy slopes and filled our throats with bounding laughter, we watched the skies nervously for sudden gusts and chills. There were days when our Mother would sit cross legged with us on the floor and play. She even had a doll of her own which she kept in the top most shelf of her cupboard. And when that doll came down, the sky was clear, blue, wide and smiling.

And then there were times when our mother would beat us. Beat us, perhaps, like any good mother. But behind her purposefulness was something that had nothing to do with us, and nothing to do with mothering. To be utterly overwhelmed and broken by our protector and nurturer was what first turned us into unbelievers. We cursed our mother, and we cursed God, and we cursed ourselves; anything that would give us our courage back; and make us more deserving of punishment. Still; she was a good mother because she was ours.

We thought we knew her well; her face with all it’s expressions etched on our minds; each wrinkle and line heralding what was to come. But there were certain times, and in certain places, where her face would change. We would catch a glimpse of this other mother, sometimes in crowded gatherings, when she would look wistfully at nothing. And the brown in her eyes would get lighter, like a flame dimmed in the gentle breeze of some sad thought. A distant memory in which we played no part. A time when she was unaware of our coming. A time when she walked with a surer step and a lighter heart. In such moments she seemed so vulnerable and wounded that the urge to protect her would leave us feeling helpless and condemned.

We realized that there was more to her than the absolute power she wielded over our lives. That she was a woman, and she sometimes laughed too cheerfully, and sang too loudly , and wept too easily. The other mother would at times surface due to some unforeseeable event. A surprise visitor, a telephone call, an unexpected opening, when she would get a chance to reclaim bits of her neglected self. And it was then when we would see her falter. And her fragile humanity became apparent. Strangely enough, the other mother, with her unkempt hair, desperate eyes and ready smile, left us bewildered.

We judged her with a harshness that youth and inexperience fosters. As we watched her fumble and flail, we gained strength from the sure knowledge that we were different. There would be no grappling and floundering in relationships for us. We believed we would each find a companion who would quench our deepest thirst.

“Here is everything your heart desires” or
“here is my heart which is above everything” or
“here I am and here I shall be” or
“here I am and here you shall be”.

Our search for such words revealed to us the hollowness of many hearts. And we have become unbelievers again. Our shared cup of bitterness, regrets and sorrow has left us tired and aged, beyond our years. So much so that the possibility of being trapped in a deathly embrace on a lonely road with an icy knife plunged in the neck, holds for us a promise of freedom…..of release. And more often then we admit; even to ourselves, our mother stares back at us in misty mirrors.

Our mother indulged in fantasies of escape as well. She threatened to leave, to walk into the dark night without a single look back. We protested openly but wondered secretly what it would be like. Would we gather and savor the profoundness of her absence. That heavy serenity that would finally keep us grounded in monotony and all the certainty it brings. Or would we have followed her into the dark fields of her yearnings, wailing and calling out her name.

As we walked on our separate paths, we tried to forget our mother. In our constant need to come undone, we remained locked in a half embrace. But distance always lends a better perspective. Maybe because it gives moments of rest by allowing us to disengage. We have grown and we are strong. The changing sky has no hold on us. Our strides are measured and our throats raw from choking on truths. Although, we daughters, in our fleeing didn’t get out too far, we did get lost.

Now we head home. Home; with it’s arched doors and windows that reflect our natures, and the marble floor that mirrors the storms within us. Until we arrive we may only think that we are free but in our hearts we are in that dark field of wails and winds. Our mother is always ahead, no matter how fast we run. And in our desperation and blindness we touch every crooked form, thinking it’s her.

We hope that she hears our pleas and stops running. We pray that we may stand as one before her and show her our wounds. Then she might show us hers. And while we count and compare them, the wind would drop, a stillness would descend, and the skies would clear; once…and for all.