Your mother has died and you feel her
tenderness everywhere you turn. You reach
for her and come up empty. You long to pick
up the phone and call. You look for things
of hers to hold. But the dearest thing she
held was you. Perhaps her greatest gift
in going is that to feel her now,
you have to hold yourself.
You ask how I can go on? Why don’t
I have regrets? I guess I’ve been worn
to where I no longer reach. This is
neither better or worse. This is just
how it’s happened to me. I am not
removed. I just feel like a pebble
scoured in the bottom of the stream.
The losses hurt and I struggle too,
to stay in the light, to get up and
try again. But the shore crumbling
into its beauty gives me strength.
Like the sun which changes everything,
those we love vanish, but their light
returns as another day,
like it or not.
So open your hand that has held
so much. What it has knownnow lives in you, in a place
you can’t always reach.
I will hold you every chance I get
but this won’t compare to holding
yourself. Perhaps grief is how we exhaust
our reach for things that have gone,
and acceptance is how we slowly
learn to hold ourselves in
the middle of the storm.
A Question to Walk With: Describe a time when you were led or forced by experience to hold yourself. What was the reward for being kind and accepting of yourself?
This excerpt is from my book, The Way Under The Way: The Place of True Meeting (Sounds True, 2016).
*photo credit: Pixabay