You know, every year I worry about this wonderful day. I worry about those who are hurting— dreading the reminders, or the memories. And in worrying about all of the hurting I sometimes fail to celebrate what needs celebrating. Like when someone wanted to throw me a baby shower, and I began to list all the people who don’t get showers— and asked if we could have a party that celebrated them too— which in the end meant nothing was celebrated or special. We were just getting together to eat.
So, it’s okay to celebrate mothers. I love my mother. I’m grateful for who she is and that my life has been shaped by her. I love my mother-in-law. Her son is one of the men I most admire in the world. I also absolutely, unashamedly love being a mother. I can’t believe I have been given the privilege of steering six humans into the world. And I’m grateful that it isn’t all up to me, that while this is a heavy responsibility, it is also just a gift, and one that I get to hold with all my strength and then softly release. Which is to say, sometimes I need to say thankyou more, and sometimes I need to get over myself.
In that spirit, I offer this poem. It’s not meant to be entirely biographical. Some are sentiments I hear, or know from others. Some are things I too feel deeply. The truth is, our capacity to love and our capacity to get it wrong are both so great. Where does that leave us if not in a perpetual need of mercy. Let’s offer that to those around us this Mother’s Day.
What You Can Give
It was a hot day, dusty
And the wind so strong.
I choked on seeds and grass
rubbed my swollen eyes.
Asked for clarity, for a clean start.
The very next morning, the rain came, soft.
Heavy skies, so dark and shimmering
As if to say, “all right, well… here.”
And then they let go, washing the wind
whipped air with their strong and tender tears.
I thought, when we don’t have
what we want, we yearn.
When we have what we want, we lament.
My arms were empty once. I felt they were
Sickly, weak, untried, unformed.
Now they are full. And I fear they do much harm.
Once, I worried it all came too easy.
So many babies, so little loss.
I could place my hand upon soft heads, and count.
Not like so many others, whose fingers formed rainbows.
And still, there is another way to lose.
“There are more ways than one to miscarry.”
There are children who grow up and discard you,
There are oceans of blame that can’t be crossed,
Hurts piled like mountains of stone, immovable.
And you wonder what it is to be a mother.
What is being a mother, being mothered,
If it is not forgiveness.
Forgive me for the times I said too much, too little
Forgive me even though I don’t see, or ask for it.
And I forgive you.
Let’s stay here with each other awhile.
Thank you for giving voice to the complexity and beauty of motherhood. Forgiveness is a good place to sit. ♥️