I Reach for the Mother in Springtime
a seasonal prayer
Dearest friends, it has been too long. Words seem to be flowing again, and I thank you deeply from the well of my heart for receiving them.
I Reach for the Mother in Springtime
I reach for the mother in springtime. I follow my hands and notice how they trace the book covers of all the teachers that I admire. I learn again and again, of expansion, of devotion, of birth, of death, of what it is like being on the threshold of each changing season. I learn of the enormity of grief that comes with these changes in body, in heart, in nature, in time. I know that I could learn to hold more, I tell myself, if only grief was able to just give herself her name. I am reminded once again of the great mystery of it all and the ways in which being a mother in springtime reminds me that I am connected to something so much greater than myself. Love pours out of me as I see the rising daffodils and elegant tulips, and I wonder what might be next to bloom.
I reach for the mother in springtime. I wonder how this re-emergence will be. Growth, I am quickly reminded, is not a gentle task. My bone-tired fatigue has told me so. Contractions have been plaguing me as of late, as I have been learning myself as a seed tucked deep within the soil. I have also been learning how when wind comes, she has a way of blowing me more open. When I can just get myself to surrender to her, she knows exactly how to unravel me. Breathing in new life. What once was an embryo deeply resting in the center of the seed, is now being breathed. The past and future is rooted here. New life is in each breath, I remind myself. Beginning again, birthing again, renewal comes again, yet I so quickly forget. So I thank the forget-me-nots that are rising up all over my yard — I shall do my best to try to remember the cyclic rhythm that can so easily be forgotten.
I reach for the mother in springtime. I do not think it is a coincidence that Mother’s Day falls in spring. I also do not think it is a coincidence that so many don’t stop to wonder why. Creation happens here, this I know. Feminine energy flows while earth-based knowledge trembles the ground. I reach for the mother in springtime and I bow to her, thanking her for her bounty and for helping me to remember all of ours.
I reach for the mother in springtime. My own; myself; and all the ones I’ve made along the way, while bowing to those I have yet to meet. I think about how the word mother lands in the back of my throat, how it feels in my heart. A word so known, but carries such a complexity of memory, of lineage, of bone-deep story. I wonder about these stories—mine and yours—and how the heart knows each one so differently. I say mother and think of loss; I say mother and think of love; I say mother and think of pain; I say mother and think of being held; I say mother and think of grief; I say mother and think of wisdom; I say mother and think of healing; I say mother and think of hope. All crammed together in the back of my throat.
I reach for the mother in springtime. And I also know that she reaches for me too. Her brighter self, her new growth sprouting right before my very eyes. Too dazzling to look away. The tulips are flirting with me as the softness of the wind plays upon my skin as lovers do. Everything miraculously comes alive—too vibrantly, too beautifully—to not keep your eyes open, even when it hurts too. So my eyes learn the gifts of the soft gaze. Her reach grabs me as my awe for her brilliance leaves me speechless. I reach for the mother in springtime. Her elegance, I know, is teaching us to stay awakened to this precious life.
One of my most cherished yearly events in happening on Friday, Mother and the Mic, a virtual gathering where we come together to honor the many expressions of “mother” through poetry, story, memory, and presence. There is still a few spots left if you feel called to join.
Take tender care of your hearts.
This is so beautiful, Leesha. I'm grateful to receive it today.