a mother’s day meditation
May 12, 2024
I think a lot about myself when I’m thinking about you on this day. That is – you in relation to me. What would you think of me now? What would we be doing together? What conversations would we have? I’m sure it’s because I want to feel close to you. And so much of my concept of you is wrapped up in me– my mommy. When you died, I was starting to understand more that everyone is an individual– their own person despite and not ceasing because of their relationships with/to others. I’m starting to understand and untangle that now for myself in the context of being married. I’m sure I won’t understand what it means in the context of parenthood until I’ve lived it. But I know maintaining a sense of who I am as an individual– ever-changing as it may be- is pivotally important to me. Becoming too absorbed is easy- and it’s the things I know about myself, the rituals with which I create me, that guide me back into balance.
Thank you for keeping journals– of your time in Spain, in Atlanta, of your experiences with home care patients you looked after and of your dreams- the meaning you interpreted, the associated feeling. I carry on that tradition and doing so is one of the things that makes me feel the most whole. Whether I knew you were passing me the ritual or not, whether or not you did so intentionally, you provided me with the means to give and receive guidance- exchanged by the versions of me- which I so often long for in your absence. Thank you for being, in many ways, nontraditional. For doing life your own fucking way. Sometimes I feel like the oddest sheep out, stumbling forward on intuition alone. Seeing that you navigated it, even if you didn’t know how, helps a lot. Knowing that you stood in your power as the leader of your own life until the very end.
Even in connecting with family, friends, it’s hard to get a true picture of the individual- we all interpret and play back experiences, people through our own lens. I wish I could hear more directly from the source herself- but I’m glad to hold knowledge that maybe not even you could communicate. Something ancient and cellular and made of blood and something we can feel but not name. Something related to what you’d always say, that people live forever in your heart. I love you, mommy, and I’m proud that you’re mine- but your own all the same.
