Mothering and Living

It is not simple or beautiful in the small picture, the nitty-gritty, the daily minutiae. It is not accompanied by serene music, ornately-coiffed hair or exquisitely tailored clothing. It is most definitely not a time of gentle moods that lap around the house as a relaxed tide from the far-flung ocean.

It is a smattering of instruments. There are drums. An oboe, a violin, a trumpet. Certainly a flute, alongside a strumming guitar. It is a sonata, an invention, a composition without end.

It is becoming an orchestra. With a distinct tone added by each voice. The music builds to crescendo; fades to a single note. There is silence and a breath, the baton is raised. The composition builds again, adding new emotion, flowing from the former. The instruments twine together in accord and discord, finding the tempo, beating a rhythm, becoming a unit.

Living a life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Through my minuscule eight years of mothering, I have seen phases, moments and patterns. Phases I prayed would pass quickly, moments I fell into and longed to hold. Patterns I discovered and smiled with, recognizing them and comforted by the continuity. I am learning.

Yet it is not about me.

not about me not about me not about me.
Becomes the litany, the reminder and the truth.
Some days with grace and a mile to spare, other days by an inch and a begrudging acknowledgement.

I am a vessel, bearing and raising.
Pouring out all I have been given, that small ones may thrive.
In my brightest moments I give freely with joy and fervor.
Dark times I submit robotically and with small sighs.
not about me not about me not about me anymore.

With this choice, I myself sacrifice. That in the creating and giving and teaching, something larger may become real.
Some purpose spiritual and natural may be fulfilled. I might be consumed and come forth again stronger and more willing to lay this life down again.
Again.
Isn't that why we do it?
To capture some small piece of eternity, stamp it with our mark, set it free to walk this world?
To be one with the Creator?
To know the nature of the One who would give all?

And it comes in the unlovely, the daily small matters and the moments you wish would end.
And it also comes in the enraptured blinks of an eye, the sparkling times where you see eternity in that little being.
You know your purpose, your skin prickles with the sense of the divine.
The created has walked alongside the Creator.
The giver has walked alongside the Giving One.

And in doing so has become more than was thought possible.
Has grasped for an instant or maybe longer, that thread of synchronicity that winds throughout life.
Confirmation.
The giver has found depth and grace in situations both mundane and enraptured.

And so I wish to friends and mothers near and far, that those moments of grace be many.
That we may all see them, open to them, and recognize a deeper purpose.
Allow the orchestral nature of life's cycle to dose these days with a bit of sparkle.
A touch of the divine.
A glimpse into infinity.

A second in the hours of not about me that it IS about me. About you. About mothers.
About the ties created and nurtured.
Happy Mother's Day...