A Gourd

     I first wrote after a lot of thinking about The Mother Letter Project, introduced to me from Heather of the E.O. I never wrote an actual letter but this is what came from my heart. I’m currently in that place where I both need to be the haven and wish I had the haven and that’s why I’m sharing it again. I’m sorry, I just haven’t had the heart recently to write myself at the moment. I’ll get back to it soon.

All my best,
L.T.

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Backward, turn backward, O time in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;

Oft times, I am weighted by a daily care. As are many parents. We bear in our arms the young fates for young lives and endeavor to make choices that will sustain them. We make judgments on our children’s behalf; some well calculated and some that are on-the-fly. There are days that this sacred duty is feather-light and other days where I am scrabbling in the dirt beneath a load that seems impossible. There are moments when I question my sanity, my loyalty, my endurance…and moments when I believe that I will be buried by the awesome responsibility; that I will finally fail them---my beloved children.

Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears--
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain--
Take them, and give me my childhood again!

There are moments where I stand alone, in the dark, and shelter a pale light in my cupped hands. It is dimmer than it was yesterday. Silent tears bathe my cheeks as I confront myself and know…this is my doing. Their little light is in my hands and today I have bruised it. Today I have not been the haven. Today I have been the storm. It was done without intention. I only succumbed to the ceaseless battering of a hectic life but it was long enough to harm when I ought to have been the shield.

I have grown weary of dust and decay--
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;--
Rock me to sleep, Mother—rock me to sleep!

So often, I am ashamed of these feelings, this threadbare offering of self. I feel too thin to be useful, too raw to be soft. How can this siphoned husk pour even one drop more upon ground that seems so thirsty? I see the fledgling flower buds and their future as vibrant gardens, petals unfurled to take in a blazing sun. But what have I to give when I am struggling to break ground myself? It has been a harsh winter. Am I strong enough to greet a new spring?

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures--
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:

I have slipped but the day is not yet done. I have time still. Such tender sweetness, such loving forgiveness. A proffered chance at redemption that I grasp with greedy hands, weeping while I cling. This upturned face, this gentle gaze. God is in their eyes. I think of this yearning for comfort and know that I must become it. I must be the strength that I need so desperately so that one day, when tending to their own gardens, they too will have a hidden well. The dancing sheen reflected in their luminescent gaze is all the moisture I need. I will pour myself; pour and pour and pour.

None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;--
Rock me to sleep, Mother—rock me to sleep!

I have wounded. I have wronged. I will repair. I will heal. I will smooth brows and gently wipe tears while I smother my own with a trembling smile. “Together,” I say, “together we can do anything.” A tiny hand in each of mine, a single heart in three bodies. The burden is no less heavy but there is the determination to shoulder it so it cannot fall on any but mine.

My head is bowed--no longer in despair, but rather, humility. My knees are bent, in supplication instead of defeat. And the burden that has been both shameful failure and desperate exhaustion is lifted from me—given to one who has never failed. Not me. Not me. Never failed me.

And the comfort of childhood, of sheltered carelessness, is renewed. It descends and enfolds. I am replenished. All I have ever given up is given back. The well of self overflows and runneth over…runneth over.

Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;--
Rock me to sleep, Mother—rock me to sleep!

[italicized stanzas from Elizabeth Akers Allen, Rock Me To Sleep.]