Tuesday, June 7, 2016

The Silent Mother by Tiffany Sanderson

Art by Lucy Pierce

Washing, cleaning, hugging, working, loving.
Scraped knee, her kisses sooth the burning flesh
Wounded heart, her tears cleanse the running blood.
Soft drumming rhythm of children and life,
never ever faltering in her mother-devotion
to the silent dance that is
nurturing connection.

Days, weeks, years, decades, millenia.
Generations pass into generations
No one hears Mother.
No one. Sees. Mother.
No. One. Thanks. Mother.
Still, Mother is Mother.
Love is Love.

Seasons, flowers, flowing waters, flowing menses, flowing time.
humankind has no painting that
wasn't first painted by Her.
Before she was dancing the dance of
Mothers Or Wives
she moved to her own wild and beating heart.
she danced through all, ascended all, transcended all.

Resting, sleeping, sighing, dreaming, seeing.
At night, while we sleep soundly, safely, silently
She dances to it, still.
Flying across wild terrain, she is one
with herself. She is the sun, the moon, and the stars.
She is: I Am.
When morning comes, she shuffles tiredly to the kitchen
to make the morning meal. To be Mother.

Acknowledgement is not the same as gratitude.
"This is a wonderful meal." Is not
"Thank you for preparing this, my meal."
We feast, but see not the hands that feed
Thank not the hands that work.
The Mother of All Living waits.

Glimmer, Hope, Insight, Understanding, Connection.
Waking from slumber,
we hear the gentle shuffling of her slippered feet in the kitchen
She prepares the morning meal. She is heard. She is needed.
"We are hungry. Feed us?"

Breakfast, lunch, snack, dinner, often dessert.
Clean floors, clean bodies, full bellies.
Served by my Mother, who always dances at my side.
Given freely by our Mother who
because she is Mother
would never leave her children to fight
over bones at hungry time.

Man, Man, Man, Man, Circle.
She is not a part of the circle. We say
"There she is! A Mother. Our Mother. We do have a Mother."
She is seen, but we never say
"There she is! A wife. A priestess! A Goddess."
She is not invited into the circle.

Waking, hearing, seeing, knowing, loving.
Will we say, "Here she is! Goddess. Being."?
Can we call her in from the kitchen, and set her
on Her rightful throne: a soft and well-loved seat?
Caress her tired feet,
and say to her
"Mother-Goddess. You are the circle. You are the dance.
Thank you for this, my wonderful meal."

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