Thursday 20 March 2014

hidden mother

The first day of spring is about celebrating balance, between light and dark, between action and rest, between here and the underworld.  It feels like I have been underground, living, breathing, and hiding for months now.  My inner landscape seems to have taken precedence over my outer one, but not today.  This is the day when I begin to surface, bringing into physical shape what the dark winter months have grown.

The seeds I found in my mother's house after she died last May are just the shape I long to see.  She collected seeds in old envelopes, marked them, and hoped for a new spring.  

Part of me doesn't want to plant these seeds because I want to keep everything as it is. Cracking open the envelope forces me to let go of old shapes, ones I don't want to let go of--my mother's hands, her looping cursive, her dream of once saving these for another garden, another spring--but I know I need to plant these seeds because they hold her shape too.  









She may be hidden from me physically, but not today. Slowly, I begin to find a balance between her and me.


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