In the Honoring of this most Special Day I would like to reflect in Thanksgiving
for all who have nutured our lives...
To the Divine Feminine in all women who by virtue of thier very presence
have Nutured, Blessed and given Sustenance and Strength to a
World hungry for thier Gifts of Love.
To the life-giving ones
Who heal with their presence
Who listen in sympathy
Who give wise advice ... but only when asked for it.
We are grateful for all those who have mothered us
Who have held us gently in times of sorrow
Who celebrated with us our triumphs -- no matter how small
Who noticed when we changed and grew,
who praised us for taking risks
who took genuine pride in our success,
and who expressed genuine compassion when we did not succeed.
On this day that honors Mothers
let us honor all mothers
men and women alike
who from somewhere in their being
have freely and wholeheartedly given life, and sustenance, and vision to us.
On this most Sacred of Days let us also, give Honor to Beloved Mother Gaia...Our Earth Mother...Unconditional Provider and Nuturer of All...
In the Spirit of this Sharing I offer homage by way of several pieces honoring
Our Beloved Mother Earth and All the Women that have graced our Lives...
May all my Beautiful Sisters be Blessed this Most Precious Day...
The following is in dedication to them and to the Most Beloved Mother of All...
To Mother Gaia...Earth Mother to All...
"Every man for the sake of the great blessed Mother in Heaven, and for the love of his own little mother on earth, should handle all womankind gently, and hold them in all Honour". ~Alfred Lord Tennyson
Morning Hummingbird
Beloved Mother
I am your morning hummingbird
hovering in dreamlike winds
around the fragrant rose
of your radiant heart light
Sipping the sweet white nectar of your divine love
I am nourished and sustained
I am ablaze with whirling galaxies
of undivided joy
I am drunk and swooning
as I press my long slender beak
deep into the luminous petals
of your Great Heart
to sip the rapturous flowing currents
of your shining being
~ Reprinted from the book Soft Moon Shinning by Ethan Walker III ~
Mother Earth
Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed,
Mother of all the grass that weaves over their graves the glory of the field,
Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-bosomed, patient, impassive,
Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sorrows!
Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth below thy breast,
Issued in some strange way, thou lying motionless, voiceless,
All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate, yearning,
Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth returning.
Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time to these measures,
Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly, irresistibly
Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down, down
Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in the sand.
But the souls of the singers have entered into the songs that revealed them, --
Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and grief and love and longing:
Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they echo above thee:
Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those that love thee?
Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by some old enchantment
Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speechless,
Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy Lord and Lover
Working within thee awakened the man-child to breathe thy secret.
All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flowing waters
Are but enchanted forms to embody the life of the spirit;
Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and meadow and ocean,
Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and emotion
~ Henry Van Dyke ~
Mother Earth and Father Time
How very special are we
For just a moment to be
Part of life’s eternal rhyme
How very special are we
To have on our family tree
Mother Earth and Father Time
He turns the seasons around
And so she changes her gown
But they always look in their prime
They go on dancing their dance
Of everlasting romance
Mother Earth and Father Time
The summer larks return to sing
Oh, what a gift they give
Then autumn days grow short and cold
Oh, what a joy to live
How very special are we
For just a moment to be
Part of life’s eternal rhyme
How very special are we
To have on our family tree
Mother Earth and Father Time
~ Unknown ~
To All Women Everywhere
"Mother's Day is in honor of the best Mother who ever lived -the Mother of your heart." ~Anna Jarvis
See the Woman
(a Poem by John Trudell)
She has a young face
An old face
She carries herself well
In all ages
She survives all man has done
In some tribes she is free
In some religions
She is under man
In some societies
She’s worth what she consumes
In some nations
She is delicate strength
In some states
She is told she is weak
In some classes
She is property owned
In all instances
She is sister to earth
In all conditions
She is life bringer
In all life she is our necessity
See the woman eyes
Flowers swaying
On scattered hills
Sundancing calling in the bees
See the woman heart
Lavender butterflies
Fronting blue sky
Misty rain falling
On soft wild roses
See the woman beauty
Lightning streaking
Dark summer nights
Forests of pines mating
With new winter snow
See the woman spirit
Daily serving courage
With laughter
Her breath a dream
And a prayer
~ John Trudell is an acclaimed poet, national recording artist, actor and activist whose international following reflects the universal language of his words, work and message. Trudell (Santee Sioux) was a spokesperson for the Indian of All Tribes occupation of Alcatraz Island from 1969 to 1971. He then worked with the American Indian Movement (AIM), serving as Chairman of AIM from 1973 to 1979. In February of 1979, a fire of unknown origin ( which he is convinced was not an accident) killed Trudell’s wife, three children and mother-in-law. It was through this horrific tragedy that Trudell began to find his voice as an artist and poet, writing, in his words, “to stay connected to this reality.” ~
Imagine a Woman
Imagine a woman who believes it is right and good she is a woman.
A woman who honors her experiences and tells her stories.
Who refuses to carry the sins of others within her body and life.
Imagine a woman who believes she is good.
A woman who trusts and respects herself.
Who listens to her needs and desires, and meets them
With tenderness and grace.
Imagine a woman who has acknowledged the past’s influence on the present.
A woman who has walked through her past.
Who has healed into the present.
Imagine a woman who authors her own life.
A woman who exerts, initiates, and moves on her own behalf.
Who refuses to surrender except to her truest self and to her wisest voice.
Imagine a woman who names her own gods.
A woman who imagines the divine in her image and likeness.
Who designs her own spirituality and allows it to inform her daily life.
Imagine a woman in love with her own body.
A woman who believes her body is enough, just as it is.
Who celebrates her body and its rhythms and cycles as an exquisite resource.
Imagine a woman who honors the face of the Goddess in her changing face.
A woman who celebrates the accumulation of her years and her wisdom.
Who refuses to use precious energy disguising the changes in her body
And life.
~ Patricia Lynn Reilly ~
Angels in the Bedraggled Earth
(A remarkably stunning and moving piece by Independent Journalist Ira Mathur)
As your eyes scan this page millions of women are in various stages of childbirth - in fields, and huts, homes, apartments, hospitals and health centres. A few are alone and scared, but many, even the poor or obscure, are not.
No matter where or how this happens, it is seen as an important event. Every birth is greeted with a unanimous astonishment and acknowledgement of the vast unknown. Despite the problems of overpopulation, India recently celebrated the birth of its billionth baby. The birth is greeted with shouts in every conceivable language and culture of “It’s a miracle!”
A lifetime of intensity is poured into these moments: the wave of undiluted pain comes pounding in, subsides and rolls back with a more forceful crash, forcing out cries that burst out from the depths of a woman. From her cocoon of pain she dimly hears shouts to bear down, hold back, push, as if they are from another world, nothing to do with her. The faces of doctors and midwives in crisp blinding white of glints of steel, masks and gloves are a blur. She barely feels the hands she is clutching for support.
Finally, wrapped up in red life-forming placenta, a tiny body emerges out of her ripped body. With the child, she is handed a lifetime injection of love tinged with the pain that comes from loving too much. Her tears, her sweat pouring from her brow, her flowing and clotted mess of blood is mingled now with relief, laughter, and exhaustion, wonder, and above all hope.
And something changes in the woman - she is no longer a human being with selfish desires. Even after cord is cut, even if she or her baby dies the mystical ties that bind her to the child remains tightly bound, flowing somewhere together into the stream of the universe.
Living Paintings
The mother and child, Madonna and bambino, have been immortalised by great painters, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, Botticelli; in Hindu Mythology; in the earliest cave etchings, in world art, literature and history.
But this is no static tableau to be admired at in an art gallery. There are millions of living paintings around us in our modern age. The images no less endearing for their ordinary-ness, perhaps more so, since they go unrecognised unseen. Consider a few:
· A mother sits in her working clothes pumping out breast milk into a container for her newborn and swallows her tears after dropping her child to the baby sitter so she looks smart for the office meeting. Like a juggler she finds ways to somehow hold down a job, find time for her child, rush to the supermarket and drug store, make PTA meetings, and time to bake a birthday cake.
· A mother gets her pay docked, and puts up with angry employers and threats so she can spend the day taking her sick child to the hospital. An inner barometer in her will happily forego self-preservation to safeguard her child’s health.
· A mother sits in a camp where hundreds like her are battling famine, with her baby to her breast, too weak to even brush away flies, but her grip on her baby doesn’t weaken even after she or the baby dies.
· A mother at home spends all day taking care of three children: makes sure they brush their teeth, get their meals on time, wipes bottoms, and tears, fights back anger when they don’t listen or disrespect her, takes them to school and lessons, spends time over their homework, admonishes, hugs, and praises, dispenses advice and medicine, separates fights, and tries to teach them the small curtsies like please and thank you and the big ones, like right from wrong.
In Between
In between there somewhere she forgets who she is, suppresses her longing for her paintbrush or office, travel or ambition. She wonders at night, when it’s quiet or over the kitchen sink, where all the years, and the carefree laughter and the sense of possibility went. Forgets that she has a body and mind that needs care. When her children are grown and sophisticated, they come and go, like butterflies, chastising her for her old fashioned ways. She continues to love them, and suffer pangs of pain when they are in trouble or go away, or buy a motorcycle or are out too late.
· A mother sits by her critically ill child who nearly drowned for trying to save a friend. As she passes her hands over his brow she thanks God for his courage, his good heart, and then goes numb with fear, rocking up and down as if in a trance, “I can’t lose him, I can’t lose him.” She is not alone. A thousand mothers feel for her.
· A mother thinks of the worst thing that could ever happen to her is her child dying before she does. The child dies. But she never lets the child go. She holds on to that child, and by a supreme act of will, keeps him or her alive in her heart, because if she didn’t do that she couldn’t live.
· A mother shops and laughs, travels and gossips with her children who drop in all the time to see her. Somehow she is among the luckiest ones. She has learned to hold on, not with guilt, or recriminations, but with a wacky sense of humour and wit that never grows old. She has become their friend without asking for anything in return because she too has made a full life for herself. She has given them the gift of independence, of huge spaces and possibilities, of going after impossible dreams, because she was brave and wise enough to recognise that although she loves her children she has her own destiny. She may have had to go away for periods of time - may have not always been there to comb their hair or pick them up after a fall, but by allowing herself to fulfil her own potential she has given them the gift of theirs.
There are so many types of mothers. Call it a mystic tie, a finer, purer tie than any ties that bind. Whatever it is, you, our mothers gone, and mothers present, mothers to be, and mothers who’ve lost their children, working mothers, frail mothers, mothers who’ve adopted, and those who’ve had to give up their babies, will go on being what you’ve always been, angels in this bedraggled earth of ours.
The difference is even if it is just for one day, today, Mothers’ Day, we acknowledge you.
~ Ira Mathur is an Indian born Caribbean freelance journalist/writer working in radio, television and print in Trinidad, West Indies. She has been a regular columnist since 1995 and currently writes for the Trinidad Guardian.
Ira spent her childhood in India and Tobago, her University years in Canada, lived in England and settled in Trinidad.
Like most children of the Diaspora, she inhabits many worlds, not quite belonging to any one, but improvising, choosing and claiming chunks of most. ~
for all who have nutured our lives...
To the Divine Feminine in all women who by virtue of thier very presence
have Nutured, Blessed and given Sustenance and Strength to a
World hungry for thier Gifts of Love.
To the life-giving ones
Who heal with their presence
Who listen in sympathy
Who give wise advice ... but only when asked for it.
We are grateful for all those who have mothered us
Who have held us gently in times of sorrow
Who celebrated with us our triumphs -- no matter how small
Who noticed when we changed and grew,
who praised us for taking risks
who took genuine pride in our success,
and who expressed genuine compassion when we did not succeed.
On this day that honors Mothers
let us honor all mothers
men and women alike
who from somewhere in their being
have freely and wholeheartedly given life, and sustenance, and vision to us.
On this most Sacred of Days let us also, give Honor to Beloved Mother Gaia...Our Earth Mother...Unconditional Provider and Nuturer of All...
In the Spirit of this Sharing I offer homage by way of several pieces honoring
Our Beloved Mother Earth and All the Women that have graced our Lives...
May all my Beautiful Sisters be Blessed this Most Precious Day...
The following is in dedication to them and to the Most Beloved Mother of All...
To Mother Gaia...Earth Mother to All...
"Every man for the sake of the great blessed Mother in Heaven, and for the love of his own little mother on earth, should handle all womankind gently, and hold them in all Honour". ~Alfred Lord Tennyson
Morning Hummingbird
Beloved Mother
I am your morning hummingbird
hovering in dreamlike winds
around the fragrant rose
of your radiant heart light
Sipping the sweet white nectar of your divine love
I am nourished and sustained
I am ablaze with whirling galaxies
of undivided joy
I am drunk and swooning
as I press my long slender beak
deep into the luminous petals
of your Great Heart
to sip the rapturous flowing currents
of your shining being
~ Reprinted from the book Soft Moon Shinning by Ethan Walker III ~
Mother Earth
Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed,
Mother of all the grass that weaves over their graves the glory of the field,
Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-bosomed, patient, impassive,
Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sorrows!
Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth below thy breast,
Issued in some strange way, thou lying motionless, voiceless,
All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate, yearning,
Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth returning.
Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time to these measures,
Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly, irresistibly
Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down, down
Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in the sand.
But the souls of the singers have entered into the songs that revealed them, --
Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and grief and love and longing:
Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they echo above thee:
Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those that love thee?
Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by some old enchantment
Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speechless,
Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy Lord and Lover
Working within thee awakened the man-child to breathe thy secret.
All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flowing waters
Are but enchanted forms to embody the life of the spirit;
Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and meadow and ocean,
Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and emotion
~ Henry Van Dyke ~
Mother Earth and Father Time
How very special are we
For just a moment to be
Part of life’s eternal rhyme
How very special are we
To have on our family tree
Mother Earth and Father Time
He turns the seasons around
And so she changes her gown
But they always look in their prime
They go on dancing their dance
Of everlasting romance
Mother Earth and Father Time
The summer larks return to sing
Oh, what a gift they give
Then autumn days grow short and cold
Oh, what a joy to live
How very special are we
For just a moment to be
Part of life’s eternal rhyme
How very special are we
To have on our family tree
Mother Earth and Father Time
~ Unknown ~
To All Women Everywhere
"Mother's Day is in honor of the best Mother who ever lived -the Mother of your heart." ~Anna Jarvis
See the Woman
(a Poem by John Trudell)
She has a young face
An old face
She carries herself well
In all ages
She survives all man has done
In some tribes she is free
In some religions
She is under man
In some societies
She’s worth what she consumes
In some nations
She is delicate strength
In some states
She is told she is weak
In some classes
She is property owned
In all instances
She is sister to earth
In all conditions
She is life bringer
In all life she is our necessity
See the woman eyes
Flowers swaying
On scattered hills
Sundancing calling in the bees
See the woman heart
Lavender butterflies
Fronting blue sky
Misty rain falling
On soft wild roses
See the woman beauty
Lightning streaking
Dark summer nights
Forests of pines mating
With new winter snow
See the woman spirit
Daily serving courage
With laughter
Her breath a dream
And a prayer
~ John Trudell is an acclaimed poet, national recording artist, actor and activist whose international following reflects the universal language of his words, work and message. Trudell (Santee Sioux) was a spokesperson for the Indian of All Tribes occupation of Alcatraz Island from 1969 to 1971. He then worked with the American Indian Movement (AIM), serving as Chairman of AIM from 1973 to 1979. In February of 1979, a fire of unknown origin ( which he is convinced was not an accident) killed Trudell’s wife, three children and mother-in-law. It was through this horrific tragedy that Trudell began to find his voice as an artist and poet, writing, in his words, “to stay connected to this reality.” ~
Imagine a Woman
Imagine a woman who believes it is right and good she is a woman.
A woman who honors her experiences and tells her stories.
Who refuses to carry the sins of others within her body and life.
Imagine a woman who believes she is good.
A woman who trusts and respects herself.
Who listens to her needs and desires, and meets them
With tenderness and grace.
Imagine a woman who has acknowledged the past’s influence on the present.
A woman who has walked through her past.
Who has healed into the present.
Imagine a woman who authors her own life.
A woman who exerts, initiates, and moves on her own behalf.
Who refuses to surrender except to her truest self and to her wisest voice.
Imagine a woman who names her own gods.
A woman who imagines the divine in her image and likeness.
Who designs her own spirituality and allows it to inform her daily life.
Imagine a woman in love with her own body.
A woman who believes her body is enough, just as it is.
Who celebrates her body and its rhythms and cycles as an exquisite resource.
Imagine a woman who honors the face of the Goddess in her changing face.
A woman who celebrates the accumulation of her years and her wisdom.
Who refuses to use precious energy disguising the changes in her body
And life.
~ Patricia Lynn Reilly ~
Angels in the Bedraggled Earth
(A remarkably stunning and moving piece by Independent Journalist Ira Mathur)
As your eyes scan this page millions of women are in various stages of childbirth - in fields, and huts, homes, apartments, hospitals and health centres. A few are alone and scared, but many, even the poor or obscure, are not.
No matter where or how this happens, it is seen as an important event. Every birth is greeted with a unanimous astonishment and acknowledgement of the vast unknown. Despite the problems of overpopulation, India recently celebrated the birth of its billionth baby. The birth is greeted with shouts in every conceivable language and culture of “It’s a miracle!”
A lifetime of intensity is poured into these moments: the wave of undiluted pain comes pounding in, subsides and rolls back with a more forceful crash, forcing out cries that burst out from the depths of a woman. From her cocoon of pain she dimly hears shouts to bear down, hold back, push, as if they are from another world, nothing to do with her. The faces of doctors and midwives in crisp blinding white of glints of steel, masks and gloves are a blur. She barely feels the hands she is clutching for support.
Finally, wrapped up in red life-forming placenta, a tiny body emerges out of her ripped body. With the child, she is handed a lifetime injection of love tinged with the pain that comes from loving too much. Her tears, her sweat pouring from her brow, her flowing and clotted mess of blood is mingled now with relief, laughter, and exhaustion, wonder, and above all hope.
And something changes in the woman - she is no longer a human being with selfish desires. Even after cord is cut, even if she or her baby dies the mystical ties that bind her to the child remains tightly bound, flowing somewhere together into the stream of the universe.
Living Paintings
The mother and child, Madonna and bambino, have been immortalised by great painters, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, Botticelli; in Hindu Mythology; in the earliest cave etchings, in world art, literature and history.
But this is no static tableau to be admired at in an art gallery. There are millions of living paintings around us in our modern age. The images no less endearing for their ordinary-ness, perhaps more so, since they go unrecognised unseen. Consider a few:
· A mother sits in her working clothes pumping out breast milk into a container for her newborn and swallows her tears after dropping her child to the baby sitter so she looks smart for the office meeting. Like a juggler she finds ways to somehow hold down a job, find time for her child, rush to the supermarket and drug store, make PTA meetings, and time to bake a birthday cake.
· A mother gets her pay docked, and puts up with angry employers and threats so she can spend the day taking her sick child to the hospital. An inner barometer in her will happily forego self-preservation to safeguard her child’s health.
· A mother sits in a camp where hundreds like her are battling famine, with her baby to her breast, too weak to even brush away flies, but her grip on her baby doesn’t weaken even after she or the baby dies.
· A mother at home spends all day taking care of three children: makes sure they brush their teeth, get their meals on time, wipes bottoms, and tears, fights back anger when they don’t listen or disrespect her, takes them to school and lessons, spends time over their homework, admonishes, hugs, and praises, dispenses advice and medicine, separates fights, and tries to teach them the small curtsies like please and thank you and the big ones, like right from wrong.
In Between
In between there somewhere she forgets who she is, suppresses her longing for her paintbrush or office, travel or ambition. She wonders at night, when it’s quiet or over the kitchen sink, where all the years, and the carefree laughter and the sense of possibility went. Forgets that she has a body and mind that needs care. When her children are grown and sophisticated, they come and go, like butterflies, chastising her for her old fashioned ways. She continues to love them, and suffer pangs of pain when they are in trouble or go away, or buy a motorcycle or are out too late.
· A mother sits by her critically ill child who nearly drowned for trying to save a friend. As she passes her hands over his brow she thanks God for his courage, his good heart, and then goes numb with fear, rocking up and down as if in a trance, “I can’t lose him, I can’t lose him.” She is not alone. A thousand mothers feel for her.
· A mother thinks of the worst thing that could ever happen to her is her child dying before she does. The child dies. But she never lets the child go. She holds on to that child, and by a supreme act of will, keeps him or her alive in her heart, because if she didn’t do that she couldn’t live.
· A mother shops and laughs, travels and gossips with her children who drop in all the time to see her. Somehow she is among the luckiest ones. She has learned to hold on, not with guilt, or recriminations, but with a wacky sense of humour and wit that never grows old. She has become their friend without asking for anything in return because she too has made a full life for herself. She has given them the gift of independence, of huge spaces and possibilities, of going after impossible dreams, because she was brave and wise enough to recognise that although she loves her children she has her own destiny. She may have had to go away for periods of time - may have not always been there to comb their hair or pick them up after a fall, but by allowing herself to fulfil her own potential she has given them the gift of theirs.
There are so many types of mothers. Call it a mystic tie, a finer, purer tie than any ties that bind. Whatever it is, you, our mothers gone, and mothers present, mothers to be, and mothers who’ve lost their children, working mothers, frail mothers, mothers who’ve adopted, and those who’ve had to give up their babies, will go on being what you’ve always been, angels in this bedraggled earth of ours.
The difference is even if it is just for one day, today, Mothers’ Day, we acknowledge you.
~ Ira Mathur is an Indian born Caribbean freelance journalist/writer working in radio, television and print in Trinidad, West Indies. She has been a regular columnist since 1995 and currently writes for the Trinidad Guardian.
Ira spent her childhood in India and Tobago, her University years in Canada, lived in England and settled in Trinidad.
Like most children of the Diaspora, she inhabits many worlds, not quite belonging to any one, but improvising, choosing and claiming chunks of most. ~
No comments:
Post a Comment