Mother (or Monday night revisited)

I had the strongest sense today that my heart was in the Hands of Someone Whose Hands Heal. The Sense spoke in the words that poured from her as I pointed out my broken bits. In my mind’s eye, I could see her drawing herself up straight, looking right into my eyes, smelling like home, soft hands almost more familiar than my own, with that look that is clarity, and breathing directly into my center:

“There you are.

There.

Look away if you want, but between the light and the shadow, you exist.

When you forget, I will remind you.

You exist, and even when I disappear from this crust, I will see you.

I can see you.

You glow, and you are not lost.”

Seams give out somewhere not visible on the surface.  Sewing it up is truly an endless task, and the needle pricks are sometimes more than I can stand, and sometimes I have to pause, to rest, to remember why I’m sewing and not just tossing the dress of a life I’m living OUT.

It feels worn out.

I took a misstep. This wasn’t what I was making when I started, not the way the pattern was supposed to work.

Needs patches.

May be time to throw it in the rag bag.

Must have been if that seam blew…

So I stop. I put it down. I stretch, I lay flat, wiggle fingers and toes.

If all else fails,

The ground, with no help from me whatsoever, will hold me up.

Also call for help.

She can hear you over the noise.

She can always hear you.

Will always want to know your favorite color and what you learned in class today.

Will always laugh loudly at your jokes that are only funny when you’re telling them to her.

Will always read the words once you’ve lined them up again.

Also Life is, among other things, a gift.

Breathe.

Begin again.