subject: Spirituality and Mothering [print this page] Author: Suzanne Wells Author: Suzanne Wells
Copyright (c) 2010 Suzanne WellsI've been a mother of three for nine years. You'd think I would have the hang of it by now. It's 9PM, two in bed, one to go. Curled into a stiff ball, tears spilling from my clamped eyes, I lied next down on the bed next to my young son of six, as I did every night. I told him not to be afraid."Of what?" he seemed genuinely surprised, but unusually quiet."A mother who cries a lot."." I murmured as I stifled little catches in my throat. Like an old outboard with a broken choke, sputtering across a lake embarrassed to be seen amongst the more worthy craft.We lay still for a few minutes,witnessing each other through the silence. His lovely body seemed so vulnerable. I tried to do motherly things. Kiss his head. Fluff his pillow. Pull the covers up over his shoulders.He was still - reaching for me; the mom he used to know. The women who read books at bedtime, shared secret signs with him, knew his favorite movies and sang the songs he loved. The one who could make him laugh.I laid my hand on his waist. I knew mothers should do this; offer comfort somehow. My hand settled into the shape of his hip. The bone was distinct and delicate; beautifully curved and filled with space. Warm, living breathing space,it seemed to me. Space filled with a living breathing life force, which I was somehow partially responsible for bringing into this world. He sighed slightly at my touch. I could sense the crest of his inhale and the depth of his exhale as his ribcage rode his breath. Simultaneously, I felt myself rising in exaltation of having the esteemed honor and complete privilege of being chosen to be the sole female on the planet to have birthed him and then assigned watch over this magnificent collection of breath, bones and undeniable life. At exactly the same time, plunging straight into the depths of my heart and landing in despair so great, I recognized instantly and with certainty that I could never, ever, have enough grace in my gaze to reflect back the rays of illumination that shined so brilliantly out of his little soul.I pushed the tears down my face with the palm of my hand as I padded across the bedroom rug, wondering if warriors ever grew wings or if angels learned to fight. About the Author:
Suzanne Wells is is an author, poet, music aficionado, dancer and mother of 3. She has practiced yoga since 1991 and teaching in the movement arts for 25 years. She holds several certifications in dance, yoga,and Ayurveda. She believes in wandering the world for the view.
