if not for dying,
for seed’s song undone and gone
if not for shining
if not for flooding
pounding me into darkness
birthing colors new
if not for the loss
our song unsung would be all
lost, encased refuse
but life breaking me
open, spilling all my knowing
into ground spreading
lil tendril roots’ reach
as all I knew died to be
all these songs released
Mother’s Day conjures up the many names by which we address our mothers…
Mama (my favorite)
Mom
Mother
Ma
Mommy
to name a few.
My youngest son took to referring to me as “birthgiver.” I can’t read or say the word without chuckling. He has a flair for the dramatic and while he doesn’t literally call me that very often, it’s memorialized on his iPod. He receives texts from “birthgiver.” And then there’s “momnoms…” one of the often-used nicknames my middle son loves. I can’t decide which I like better. It’s a spin off from “nom nom” and appropriate, I’m thinking.
We mamas give birth, are consumed – some of us literally giving sustenance from our own bodies – and then our schedules, our energy, the old identity all of it consumed as we watch our children grow from adoring little creatures to sometimes scornful boundary-bucking beauties. And it is, all of it, beautiful. Ok, most of it.
For obvious reasons, the phrase “birthgiver” hit me today as I looked over pictures from way back before my own mama gave birth to me, to my life…
And as I reflect on mamas and life and birth and giving and consuming it strikes me how we are, all of us, capable of becoming birthgivers. I think of at least one man when that word hits my brain. So many give birth to offspring of the soul, nurturing, conjuring and calling forth dormant aspects of our personalities, our potential. It’s a beautiful truth.
My own children have birthed me in ways no others in this world, in this lifetime, can ever lay claim to… My own Mama has gifted me with a bounty of love-awareness no hiccup in our relationship can ever destroy. She is a beauty, inside and out.
And then there is the sense of a dance eternal, of a weaving and woven tapestry reaching back into fields and lifetimes centuries back…so often I have thanked my children for finding me, for choosing me to be their birthgiver. For that is what we are here for, all of us. We’re here to give birth to each other by our love and support, our encouragement and courage in truth with each other. We can choose what we allow and what we refuse to birth. Such a beautiful handiwork we can, each one of us, make of our lives and of our interactions with each other in love.
It’s an especially wonderful gift to be able to receive from those we are supposedly “in charge” of, to receive on levels that nurtures their awareness that they, too, give birth and especially that they give birth to vital parts of our own souls … just. by. being. And especially by being encouraged to question everything.
So here’s to all of the birthgivers out there and the momnom yummy folk who have nurtured soul, encouraged confidence and facilitated independence… we are all grateful for the dance.
“There are love stories,
and there is obliteration into love.
You have been walking the ocean’s edge,
holding up your robes to keep them dry.
You must dive naked under and deeper under,
a thousand times deeper. Love flows down.
The ground submits to the sky and suffers what comes.
Tell me, is the earth worse for giving in like that?
Do not put blankets over the drum.
Open completely.
Let your spirit listen
to the green dome’s passionate murmur.
Let the cords of your robe be untied.
Shiver in this new love beyond all above and below.
The sun rises, but which way does the night go?
I have no more words. Let the soul speak
with the silent articulation of a face.”
Rumi, The Big Red Book
Four packed tightly under covers…eight feet gifting each other with warmth, one pair seeking another less warm, giving kind remedy; sharing space tangled up in an attic bedroom with no power but two candles and giggles and then sweet sleep in a hushed daylight filled with ice. Soft snores after a breakfast too big except for nothing else to do in a town coated in winter’s grasp.
Then firelight and stove top sustenance, candles lit all over a house bathed mostly in shadow and cold but oh so warm. Games and face time, firewood and laughter, gathered ice for coolers salvaging what we can. Tallulah River stone soup for feet unaccompanied, gathering hot river gems up in cloth to carry up to bed, settling in for a night of no heat.
And.
A renewed, stark, startling awareness of what conveniences pilfer,
their insipid gain robbing us of something only an ice storm can bring…
connection more profoundly felt, reliance more sweetly known.
Face time…
firelight…
turning to the earth for protection…
ingenuity…
appreciation for life’s turns less convenient
reminding us of treasure sometimes lost
in what we understand as wealth.
Maybe the earth conspires to remind us how vulnerable we are, both in our advancements and without them. And without our bonds of love, our shared space and renewed survival ability, we would wilt under a perpetually shining sun.
Either way, there’s nothing like the pleasure of finding your kids will make, not complaint, but fun in the face of one more dance with winter’s whimsy.
Behind the headlines, we live our lives; we flesh out the stories no one hears about. Behind the headlines and media streams, screams and body-shaking laughter shape the lines we call the daily grind, routines, dances and chores. And on a plane heading for the continental equivalent of “another country” by comparison to the deep south, I sat in the same row with three beautiful young men, a window seat providing views of everything from the loblolly pines of my stomping grounds to the Grand Canyon, Death Valley and finally, L.A. These fellows were, from what their conversation amongst each other revealed, heading to Cali for a musical debut, maybe their own. One looked familiar, his voice reminiscent of a rap song I couldn’t quite place. My cultural lens suggested hip hop haunts, at least. They had presence, however low-key but not easily missed. In any case, they were the story behind my headline “Ruth’s Plane Trip to Cali” but they had no idea, minding their own business, alternately napping, checking out Youtube videos and discussing plans while I dottilized and pondered the work and fun awaiting me. We were cordial, considerate and appropriately distant as some travelers can be on long flights. Besides the passing smiles, considerate shared space and taking turns to get to the loo, nothing eventful or significant occurred.
But then the plane landed and the long line trailed down the center, people disembarking as quickly as they could. The three guys disappeared and I stood, somewhat hunched, in no hurry to trample my way past people. It seemed the typical “every man for himself” and I didn’t want to participate. I waited for a lull. And finally this pause as a young man, my former row-mate, comes back up the center, moving against the flow. He’s maybe 3 rows up from me as I’m inching my way closer to moving into the flow of bodies exiting and our eyes lock. I smile, wondering what’s he doing back here, looking around to see if he’s left something behind, seeing nothing but assuming he did. I inch forward and look up to see if there’s anything I can do to get myself moving and assist if he’s left something and in those short increments of time he’s moved up to an arm’s length closer, stopping exiting passengers and looks at me: “Do you need help?” I’m puzzled. He’s not grabbing any lost gear. He’s standing there, blocking the flow and making it possible for me to get out of my row easily. I do so and respond “I’m good but thank you.” He won’t relent, opens the overhead, sees the lone carry on (mine) and asks “Is that yours? Can I get that for you?” I’ve been accused of not knowing when I’m being flirted with but the truth is, I typically do know and by the time I’ve fought my initial shyness it’s over. (Youngest of 4 daughters typically expects to be unseen except for the red hair. Old imprints die hard.) I can say this was no flirtation or con or, or even the effort of a man to get his gear and be helpful to assuage the reality of blocking traffic. He wasn’t looking me up and down, a strictly eye-contact encounter. Nothing unusual except an enormously unusual concern. He didn’t get anything for himself, hadn’t left anything. I don’t know what initially prompted him to work his way back up the row, against the flow of people exiting but he wound up right there, looking at me and insisting on helping, like a kid brother who realizes he’s left his sis behind. In spite of my previous “I’m good!” he reached up, noting my nod when asking if the bag was mine, grabbed the carry on and hefted it down, pausing a split second to find the handle, pulling it out for me and then turning around to exit the plane in front of me. Nothing solicitous. No interactions with others. I was dumbfounded and thankful, expressing my appreciation as I grabbed the handle, moving forward. “Sure, no problem.” he said, disappearing again ahead of me. I melted into the long line, appreciating the time to let it sink in as I smiled to myself: “Gee whiz…welcome to L.A., Ruth.”
I passed him in the tunnel and paused “Thanks again. I really appreciate it.” He didn’t miss a beat, standing with his friend, looking up briefly from a cell phone: “You’re welcome. Have a great time in L.A.!” I don’t believe in karma. Not mostly. Not usually. So many people do loads of beautiful and generous things out of a desire to make the world a happier place and get precious little in return for it (except the not insignificant reward of knowing they have made a quiet difference). Karma? Ha. But I had been helpful on a connecting flight, it was knee-jerk, a seemingly small endeavor, no big deal. It certainly wasn’t in proportion to what came at me, up that aisle, a generous regard against the tide of exiting passengers but I thought about karma as I left that plane and I wondered why it sometimes appears to exist and other times, not so much. It didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
I know people are kind. This is no newsflash and it’s seldom in the headlines. I get it. But this? It was more than the typical consideration, hitting home, reinforcing something somewhat frayed by life’s less gracious rides. We have any number of headline events to contend with, blurring what’s happening in aisles and homes, towns and countrysides all over the world, all at once. The 2013 headlines for me were such a surreal mix of tragedy, betrayal, renewal and grace I may well have looked wary as I boarded that plane ‘though I was excited and glad to be there. All those headlines make an impact, if we’re not careful, on our ideas of what is “out there” in the big world and in our futures. The truth is, when we make it past the headlines and manage to nurture some level of faith in love, we discover the beauty of what it means to be human in the mean streets and tunnels taking us to places where we can discover a deeper richness of living.
Behind the headlines, we’re thriving, growing a history that defies the worst of our mistakes, flying love in the face of every contradiction of value…as we dare to risk yet another round of adventure.
“There are certain people who come into your life, and leave a mark…
Their place in your heart is tender; a bruise of longing, a pulse of unfinished business.
Just hearing their names pushes and pulls at you in a hundred ways,
and when you try to define those hundred ways,
describe them even to yourself, words are useless.”
– Sara Zarr, Sweethearts
A couple weekends ago, we trekked to the woods of Hillsborough, NC for our annual family gathering at my aunt’s lovely home in the woods. While there, we managed to rub elbows with family from Virginia, Georgia, Illinois and Texas – to name a few. The hug count squeezed itself into the dozens. Doses of Purple Jesus and chocolate chip cookies added a flare of whimsy in the afternoon. Purple Jesus is a bit of redemptive alcoholic juice, 100 proof sanctification for the courageous, awaiting brave imbibers in a white bucket with a lid on it. It sits there begging dogmatic reverence find a new vibe, a sort of salvation from anything stuffy or pretentious. Besides the warning signs, the tiny little paper cups are a dead give away: you don’t want much of this heady stuff unless you’re up for a long nap in one of the hammocks or a loud show of your less-than-reserved self. Or one followed by the other. I have about 4 big sips of Purple Jesus every year as a rule. I laugh at the irony, a bucket of 100 proof liberal for a few diverse backgrounds creates that inevitable doorway into common ground. We’re human after all.
It turned out to be one of the best times for me, in spite of my qualms. I often face these gatherings with a contradictory mixture of reticence and pleased anticipation since it’s a lot to ask of my energy in general these days. And our group of folks consists of a mix of significantly conflicting political and spiritual backgrounds. It includes my parents and sisters, the characters from a past life story within my ongoing dynamic life reality, one far-removed from the territories we had claimed together. I much prefer my religion of love, trees and earth but the divide created by such profound change is often best bridged by a river, with a few sips of colorful salvation to make it all go down. It can feel surreal out there under leaves and sky. But we manage to reach past those differences and find the love in the company of trees long lost to ancient resonance, swaying in breezes oblivious to the mind’s pitfalls, sinking roots into radical grace. We take our cues from their silent testimonies, unaware and sedated by their hypnotic ministrations.
And we often walk away wishing for more opportunity to see each other beyond the woods and songs of an afternoon.
In retrospect, I find myself wishing an annual gathering for all the nations of the world, a greet and hug fest of Purple Jesus and chocolate chip cookies for the body, mind and spirit, where we set aside our differences and remember our appetites for affection and common ground, where we listen to music, pull out our guitars and sit by a fire as the river winds her way through the magick trees. We need our place of remembering where we meet, what we share beyond all the differences we pose as obstruction to unity. We need to remember how we’re all reduced to beautifully being human in the arms of earth mother, the flow of elixirs stripping pretense and pretend under the seeing sky so blue.
from sun afar flung and reaching
we tower but not without first bowing, bowed,
hailed and hailing illumination,
our father finding
our mother receiving,
stretching;
we all entangle ourselves
screaming from womb
to world believing stories of separation,
deluded by a blinding sight
but all these roots tell our truths
born somewhere in a night long languishing
a whisper of patterns repeating undiminished stories
of love unique,
unity in spite of denial’s isolation
see…
we are the stars and songs of dirt
we are the sun and mirth of moon’s wine
we are, all of us, waiting for the rain in a forest where sun shines,
living, breathing tension, sighing into sight
a song of colors colliding eternal rhythm for soul’s dance.
divine.
ripening sunbeams
and earth schemes bursting colors
fattening night’s death
J. Ruth Kelly 