I love silence. I love the peaceful quiet of my home in the early morning hours before the world is awake. I love the quiet steady hum in my vehicle with the radio off and the windows rolled up. I love the quiet of the woods and the openness of an empty farm field. I even love the quiet of an elevator when I am alone in that steel box traveling up and down to the floor where the chatter of human living will take over the silence.
Yet, there are times when I love to hear the sweet sound of human voices, not just one voice, but the cacophony of dozens of voices with the jumble of words, tones, and different pitches of sound. These are the times that my ears sing with the beautiful, blissful music of the human voice.
The first time I noticed how much this meant to me was after a weekend silent retreat. After nearly 50 hours of sitting, eating, and living in silence, the human voice was so overwhelmingly beautiful I cried. It was also overwhelming. Moving back into a group of voices was more than I could deal with for another couple of days.
I still find that true all these years later. Whenever I spend a day in silence, I need to allow myself to move slowly back into an auditory world where I can hear – and appreciate – the human voice as music of the finest order. It is then I can sit in a coffee house or restaurant or bookstore and listen, really listen to others beneath their words. It is then I can feel the passion of the others’ conservations or the heartfelt talk between people. It is then I can truly hear beyond words, and doing so enriches my life. It is then I say a prayer of gratitude, and hopefully my prayer helps enrich the lives of everyone whose voice I hear.
My mom abandoned me. She left me all along. Well, not all alone. Lily’s here. But Lily’s a cat. A cat! There’s no one here to throw the ball for me. No one to feed me. No one to pet me and hold me and tell me I’m a good girl. I’m all alone and I’m so sad.
Mom said she had to go to the grocery store. I couldn’t go with her. She promised she wouldn’t be long. But she’s been gone forever. Forever.
She did give me a treat before she left. It’s a peanut butter bone. It’s one of my favorites. It’s really good. I gnaw on it and I chew it and I lick it. I like my treat. It’s really, really good. And it lasts and lasts and lasts.
I’m really tired now. Eating my treat wore me out. I’m going to take a nap.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
What? What’s that noise?
It’s the garage door. Mom’s home. Mom’s home! She came home. Just like she promised. She didn’t leave me forever and ever. She came back. I’m so happy.
Now we can play ball and she’ll pet me and hold me and tell me I’m a good girl. Maybe she’ll even give me another treat.
This is the story of Sienna and Lacey, of that which is lost and found, of the heroine’s journey we are all asked to take. It took place several years ago with two of my rescue dogs who have long since crossed the rainbow bridge. Yet it is a story that knows nothing about time. May its reading enrich your life.
It was a brrr-cold day in February when Sienna disappeared. It wasn’t the first time she had run away, but it was the first time since she had come to live with me.
Sienna walked into my life when the local shelter called. I heard the words Sheltie, scared, and unadoptable all in the same breath. Before another breath, I agreed to adopt her, but nothing could have prepared me for the condition she was in.
She cowed at the back of the crate. Her eyes, cautious with suspicion, were two brown circles of distrust. One ear was ripped and flopped over while the other stood straight up, alert to danger. The once white yoke around her neck looked like muddy sand and she smelled like socks peeled off after a day of hiking.
Her matted fur was thinned by a recent pregnancy; her pups gone, and she abandoned. Her abused body and fearful manner spoke too much of a history no living being should ever know. Still, something beneath the fear in her eyes showed a curiosity and sense of wonder like a spot of blue sky on a cloud-dark day. Attempting to calm her with words and treats ignored, I slowly reached toward her. Her thin body shook as she swiveled her head from side-to-side, her fear pounding against her chest with every breath.
Sienna calmed a bit on our drive home, and slowly, over the months, we built trust. She gained weight and her fur softened into its natural rustic brown, like iron-rich soil. The mantle around her neck turned as white as the snow that lay over the farm fields surrounding our home in rural Ohio. She stayed close to me as we walked through the seasons. She even began to trust other humans as long as they met her at her two-foot-high-eye level. Then the unthinkable happened.
On that winter day when Sienna disappeared, we had gone into West Liberty, a three-stop-light town, to buy her a new harness. We were getting out of the car when a truck horn blasted. It’s echoed boomeranged and banged against us. Sienna jerked. Her collar shifted high onto her head. Then it slipped over her ears.
I grabbed for her. Frightened, she backed away, slipping toward the dangers of Main Street’s morning traffic. Life moved in slow motion. Then it stopped. Both stiff with fear, the chill in our bones rattled too loudly to hear one another. In one long breath, I watched, helpless, as Sienna vanished among pick-up trucks, cars, semis, and farm vehicles.
Night and exhaustion came together on that first day of searching, but the hunt for Sienna wasn’t over. For the next seven-plus months, I followed every lead. In howling winds, I tramped across frozen fields in knee-deep snow, drove country roads, and walked ice-covered woods.
In this time of loss, I was totally lost to myself. I put food into my mouth and chewed. I stood and sat and moved, my body’s demands guiding me. Life was written in a strange code for which my brain had not yet received instructions. There was simplicity in all this, this act of living on remote in spite of grief and guilt and pain. As the days dragged into weeks a new normal began to emerge.
My life—centered on finding Sienna—took on a sense of urgency. I slept little, kept vigil for a bark that didn’t come. I lived in a heightened state of awareness, a keen sense of the present moment, fueled by adrenaline. I posted flyers everywhere—grocery stores, gas stations, gift shops—handed them to people in restaurants, stopped delivery people on rural routes, talked to everyone who would listen. Constantly, I called the humane societies, dog wardens, and Sheltie rescues.
Sienna was answering what author Joseph Campbell describes as the “call to adventure” in The Hero with a Thousand Faces. The hero—or heroine in this case—is summoned by destiny. Accepting the call upsets the balance of life, throwing the heroine into circumstances where she faces great danger and receives great rewards. Once called, she must answer. There is work to be attended to of a nature greater than that of her current life.
There was a hole in my heart that I stopped trying to heal. My anguish pushed me into the darkness where I felt stripped of all I knew, including myself. When the darkness claims us there is little choice but to sit in its stillness. Did Sienna know that I too would take this journey without getting lost, trusting that by some alchemic means as we walked through the darkness, we’d receive the gift of healing to restore and renew us?
Along the way, I learned patience until the darkness itself began to morph into a dazzling stillness that shone brilliantly. In the haze of unknowing, wisdom emerged—the wisdom of loving the moment and releasing the next; of appreciating all that is and letting go of all else; of living the small moments with gratitude and graciousness; of believing Sienna was cared for, not by human hands, but by all that I could not see; of knowing a greater story was unfolding, and it was for me to take my journey as Sienna took hers.
Sisters Lacey and Sienna
In the meantime, a call came about another lost Sheltie. She ran away when her owner died. The relative who took her in didn’t want her. Would I help find her and give her a home? Of course. Although scared, Lacey wasn’t as frightened of people as Sienna. Once spotted in the mountain’s woods, Lacey came to me, eagerly accepting the food I offered. She would not take Sienna’s place; she would be loved on her own as who she was.
As winter gave way to spring and spring to summer, I received each day as it was given to me instead of forcing it into my predisposed mold. I came to terms with Sienna’s absence, allowing the grief to be salved with the gifts of my own growth. I put one foot in front of another until those steps began to add up to a life. Every day held pleasant surprises—a smile from a child, a note from a friend, an invitation from a stranger to go ahead at the grocery check-out, Lacey’s happiness, the love and cuddles from my three cats—the little miracles life brings.
Patience often comes not as a self-imposed virtue, but as a life-imposed requisite. Never once did I have the patience to endure Sienna’s sojourn, but she was gone, and I could accept that or not. It was time to let go, stop chasing leads, and live without her. I surrendered.
Then the call. “I know where your dog is.”
Sienna. We found her, 17 miles from home and hiding in a bramble bush. In her eyes was a new confidence born of hardship. Cautiously, I moved toward her. She lay still. Watching, letting me come almost within touching distance. Then she ran.
I went to the car and asked Lacey for help. Together we followed Sienna to a nearby shed where she stood behind farm equipment. “Sienna,” I said, “Let’s go home.” She lay down. I put on her new harness; one she couldn’t slip out of. She looked at me with an innocence and trust that washed away the months of grief. Lacey walked up to her. They sniffed one another with a knowing of each other’s plight. Then they walked over to me as sisters coming home after a long-fought journey.
The search was over. Sienna was in my arms. There were no marching bands, no crowds cheering. Instead, there was a hush, a realm where earthly sounds don’t penetrate. I heard our three hearts beat as one and it was the heartbeat of the whole universe.
It’s my birthday, April 27. Mom tells me my birth date means I’m a Taurus. I don’t know what that means. I tell her I’m a doggy.
I’m 10 years old. In human years I’m still a kid. In doggy years, that’s really old. I’m going to pretend I’m a human kid for my birthday.
I’m going to get lots of special treatment and treats for my birthday. Mom already gave me one special surprise. She told me a story. I’ll share it with you.
One of the little girls in our family and Mom were talking about doggies. She’s younger than me. The little girl, not Mom. Her name is Ava. She’s only 4. Mom told Ava I’m a writer. Ava thought and thought. Then she asked, “Does Piper have fingers so she can hold a pencil?”
I like stories. That’s a special story. I like Ava. She’s special. So am I. Mom tells me I’m special. My first mommy, Mommy Kim, thinks so too. So does everyone who meets me. That’s because I am special. I’m a doggy. And doggies are special.
Because I’m special I get to do lots and lots and lots of special things for my birthday. I get to go for a car ride. We’ll go for a long walk over to the creek. And we’ll play ball in the meadow. I can run and run. Then I have to jump as high as I can to catch the ball. I’ll get lots of pets and treats too. Maybe Mom will even tell me another story. I like stories. I like all the things I get to do on my birthday.
I like my birthday. It’s really, really special. I think I’ll have a whole bunch more.
We wear a lot of different hats in our lives—living mini lives within our bigger life; lives that make up the fullness of who we are—mother or father, wife or husband, daughter or son, employee or employer, housekeeper and gardener, caretaker of children/pets/parents/friends/others. We need our appointment books and electronic calendars to remind us of where we need to be, when, what task we need to be attending to at any given time. It seems to me with so much going on the only way we can exist with any amount of sanity is to stay in the present moment—to be here NOW.
“Be here now,” the phrase coined to represent being fully present and engaged in your life by Ram Dass back in 1971 in his book with the same title— Be Here Now. It was a good book then. It’s still a good book. I’m on my second copy, the first, with its tattered edges and worn pages, long since gone to someone else’s bookshelf. I no longer remember to whom I gave the book, but I always remembered the book, so a dozen years or so ago I picked up another copy. It doesn’t have as much character. Its edges aren’t tattered nor are the pages worn. I haven’t needed the book to remind me to stay in the now the way I did when I was younger. As I’ve grown older, I’ve grown and become more adapt at reminding myself to stay present. But I remember, oh how I remember, that first copy of Ram Dass’ book and the revelation it was to me.
I was a part-time hippie then. I lived in California. And I was a seeker. By day I put on my corporate suit and wrote copy for a small publishing firm. We specialized in books on marketing and how to make money. Napolean Hill’s book Think and Grow Rich had a big influence on us. He wasn’t one of our authors. Mainly we published the owner’s books and his theories on how to market products to the masses. It was a fun job with an office full of friends. The owner, who taught part time at a couple California universities, even had me fill in for him on occasion because I had taught school for a couple years in Ohio before I became a part-time hippie and headed off to California. The owner didn’t know I was a hippie. Had he known, he never would have let me stand in front of his students—half of who were older than me and the other half who looked older—and impart to them the information I had memorized from reading his books.
I got fully into teaching, the same way I got into writing. Both activities required me to be completely present in the now, but at the time I didn’t realize this being fully present in the moment was what Ram Dass was talking about. I was still trying to figure all that out, so it was the weekends I lived for—the long days when we jumped on the motorcycles and flew along the California freeways, stopping at friends or the homes of people we met on the road. We didn’t need much sleep. We were young. We’d spend the night passing joints while words poured forth and our minds—if somewhat stoned—were filled with new expressions and concepts we were certain no one else had ever thought of. I’m sure some of our ideas were slightly delusional in our marijuana-filled psyche, but some of our thoughts were . . . well . . . deep and full of exploration of human potential. That’s where Ram Dass and Be Here Now come in.
It was a new concept, and we latched on. We dug in, lit another joint, and analyzed every word. How can you plan for a future and be here now? What about yesterday’s memories? If I’m sitting here now and only thinking about my big toe, does that mean I’m here now? Am I here now if I’m thinking? Is being here now beyond thinking? Is it just experiencing? “Hey man, let it go, let it all go. That’s being here now.”
It’s only now—so many years later I don’t want to think about it—that I realize how much time we did spend in the now, in the present moment. In the moments of our analyzing and arguing, we were alive in the moment. In our gliding down the freeway on two wheels, we were living in the now. In the time we spent touching the minds and hearts and bodies of each other, we were fully present in the now. In the time I spent writing and teaching, I was fully engaged in each moment. It was only when we stopped living and tried to be in the now that we failed. It was only when we stopped engaging the fullness of who we were in that moment of time that we stopped being in the now.
I didn’t realize that then, didn’t realize that being in the now is being fully engaged with your life in the moment, regardless of what that moment brings. We spend much of our lives in the now. Life forces us to. It forces us when we are blowing kisses on a child’s tears, when we are answering the questions of a student, when a car is coming at us on the wrong side of the road, when we twist an ankle on steps and need to right ourselves, when we are awed by a sunset, when. . . when . . . in a thousand ways life forces us to be present in the moment, to be here now. And when life is not forcing us to be in the now it allows us to be in the now if we accept the gift of the present moment—each and every moment.
I was a bad girl. I ate Lily’s food. That’s what bad girls do. Eat their sister’s food.
I could tell Mom was really disappointed in me. I could tell by the way she looked at me. She put her hands on her hips. Then she sighed. But it was that look in her eyes. That was the worst.
Mom trusted me with Lily. She trusted that I wouldn’t eat Lily’s food. I couldn’t help myself. After all, it was Mom who didn’t latch the gate. That’s the gate that’s supposed to keep me out of the kitchen. That’s where Lily eats. In the kitchen. I eat in the dining room.
So, it was Mom’s fault for not latching the gate. Well, that’s what I told Mom anyway. It wasn’t my fault. It was hers. I couldn’t help myself. After all, I was hungry, and Lily didn’t eat all her breakfast. She never does. That’s a cat thing. Having food out all the time to nibble whenever they want.
I’m a dog. We eat all our breakfast. And mine was a long, long time ago. And dinner was a long, long time away. Why can’t I have food out all the time to nibble on? If I always had food out all the time I wouldn’t have broken into the kitchen and stolen Lily’s food.
Mom just kept looking at me. That made me feel really, really bad. I don’t like it when Mom looks at me like that. Like she’s really, really disappointed in me. I guess she has a right to be. I shouldn’t take Lily’s food. It doesn’t belong to me. It’ll probably make me sick too. It’s not good for me.
Mom started to walk away, back into the kitchen on the other side of the fence.
“I’m sorry, Mom. Really, I am, I cried. “I promise to never eat Lily’s food again. I promise, promise.” I look up at Mom. She leaned down and petted my head. Then she lifted my chin and looked right into my eyes. “I promise to leave Lily’s food alone forever and ever,” I said. She smiled and pulled me close. Really, really close.
The name of the shooter and those who were murdered in a mass shooting have changed in the 22 years since “Bullies, Bullets, and Blame”was originally published January 2011. Mass shootings have not. There are even more today.
ABC News reports that as of April 11, 1023, there have been “146 mass shootings in 2023 so far, which is defined by the Gun Violence Archive as an incident in which four or more victims are shot or killed. These mass shootings have led to 209 deaths and 563 injuries.”
We all play a part in this horrific gun violence. We play a part by our votes, by our actions, and by our thoughts. Yes, even our thoughts fuel the anger causing these vile murderous rampages that cause such pain. “Bullies, Bullets, and Blame” stands today for the same thing it said before. We must take responsibility and do our part in ending the violence…in our selves and in our community.
Bullies, Bullets, and Blame
I yelled at my cat today. It was a sharp piercing wail that surprised both of us. Seconds later one of my favorite tea mugs fell off the counter and crashed against the hardwood, smattering and scattering pieces of hardened clay across the floor.
Both Lily and I were so stunned at my outbreak we stopped and stared at the shattered mug and in that eerie and charged moment of silence it struck me how my angry outbreak had nothing to do with my cat. It had everything to do with my own frustration inappropriately taken out on her. The cat doesn’t have the power to make me angry. No one does—whether feline or human. It is my anger, and I must own it, and I also must own how my personal anger contributes to the greater atmosphere that brings energy to a Jared Lee Loughner, a young man in Tucson, Arizona who fired 31 shots from a semiautomatic pistol into a crowd. My angry outburst scared my cat; Loughner’s killed six people, including a 9-year-old child and wounded 13 others, including Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. Our anger certainly is different in the degrees, but my nonsensical anger does help to form the energy pattern of a Loguhner’s murderous rage.
Politicians and political pundits have been quick to point fingers of blame against each other for the Tucson tragedy, but they have neglected to see that three fingers are pointing back. Certainly, some politicians and pundits, opportunists, and talk-show hosts are bullies who have waged a war of angry words, and certainly some of the rhetoric is filled with such hateful fury it makes me cringe. And, yes, I do believe these bullies have contributed to an atmosphere of divisiveness that spawns wrath and a sense of entitlement that if you do not believe as I do then I have the right to spew anger at you and take out my rage on your person. But also, I believe that I too must shoulder some of the responsibility for the Tucson tragedy—as we all must.
We are not responsible for pulling the trigger, but we are responsible for feeding the insanity of murderous rage. Every time we lose our temper, we fuel the insanity of murderous rage. Every time we refuse to take responsibility for our own pent-up stresses and frustrations and blame the other for our emotions and actions, we fuel the insanity of murderous rage. Every time we make—or listen to—hate-filled speeches, we fuel the insanity of rage. Every time we watch a television show or movie that honors violence, we fuel the insanity of murderous rage. Every time we engage in a thought, deed, or action of anger, we fuel the insanity of murderous rage.
There is a lot of anger in our country. It is not the first time this country has been filled with anger and divisiveness. We knew anger during the Revolution War, the Civil War, the Civil Rights Movement, the Anti-War movement against the Vietnam War, the Women’s Rights Movement and the fight for abortion rights to name just a few.
Perhaps as a nation we will not grow pass the anger that erupts whenever we have difficult times, but perhaps, just perhaps we will come to understand our personal contribution to the murderous rage that brought forth a Jared Lee Loughner, and in the understanding of this we will be better able to see our responsibility to be watchful of our actions that may be perceived by the other as bullying, be aware of the words that may feel like bullets to the other’s heart, and lay the blame of our anger where it belongs—at our own doorstep.
I would like to tell you I will never again yell at my cat, never again bully her, but that would be untruthful. There will come another day when I live in unawareness of the build-up of my own stresses and frustrations and hear myself scream when Lily gets my negative attention.
What I will tell you is that in the awareness of knowing I am capable of losing my temper, I grow in mindfulness of my own anger, anger that contributes to the atmosphere where a murderous rage can take hold. It is in the accepting of my personal contribution to the greater whole that I feel the depth of my responsibility to do my best to keep my own heart peaceful and my actions pure.
January 12, 2011
Update April 11, 2023: Lily is still with us. She’s as beautiful as ever. And I’ve managed all these years to not yell at her ever again. Not to say I haven’t lost my temper but to say I’ve managed to bite my tongue before throwing anger at this precious little 4-legged child.
I took my mom to the dog realm. It was when she was sleeping. The dreamtime she calls it. I waited until she was sound asleep. Then I used my doggy powers to unite with her. That means we connected. It’s like when she looks at me and I know what she wants me to do. Or when I look at her and she knows what I want.
We were united so I could lead her to the doggy realm. That’s in Spirit World. That’s the whole universe where everyone is. That includes doggies like me. I know that’s hard to understand. How can we be here and there at the same time? Doggies understand. Humans don’t understand. Well, some do. Like Mom.
I took Mom to the doggy realm so she could see all the doggies she knows. She saw Princess. That was her very first dog. Mom was a girl then. Princess is a collie who looks just like a big me. Mom also saw Cloudy. Mom was a little older then. And she saw Paco and Lady and Freddie and the Sheltie girls Lacey and Sienna. They look just like me too. Paco and Freddie and Lady are bigger kids.
I see Paco all the time. He’s our big protector here on the Earth land. He watches over the land and Mom and Lily and Andy and me. He watches over the deer and raccoon and birds and chipmunks and everything here where we live. He can be really scary. German shepherds can be like that. He doesn’t scare me. He’s my friend.
And we saw Daisy. We see Daisy all the time too. She’s my angel. She keeps me safe on journeys like this. She also helps me on Earth. She helps me to understand how to be a good girl and how to help our mom. I love Daisy.
Mom got to play with all the doggies. She petted them lots and lots. I didn’t even get jealous. I knew Mom would give me lots of pets when we came back from our visit.
While Mom played, I stayed over on a hill. It was near. I couldn’t join them this time. That’s because I live in Earth World for now. I can visit Spirit World. I can’t play with the other doggies though. Because I might stay too long. If I stay too long, I might forget to come back here. That would make Mom really sad. I don’t want to make Mom sad. I want to make her happy.
That’s what I did. I made Mom really, really happy. I could tell. When we got up in the morning she looked at me and looked at me and looked at me. Then she smiled.
Sometimes I get really angry at my mom. Like when I want a treat, but Mom won’t give me one. Or when I want my breakfast or dinner Now! and she says I have to wait. Or, when I want to play ball and she won’t play with me. Or, when my leash jumps out of her hand and she won’t take it back. Or, when she won’t let go of my leash and I want to carry it. Or when she pets Lily Cat more than me.
Mom knows when I get angry. I bark and bark and bark. I bark when I’m happy too. Or excited. Mom says it’s a different bark when I’m angry. She’s right.
When I give her my angry bark, Mom puts her finger to her mouth and tries to shush me. I tell her I’m mad at her. She asks why. I tell her why.
Like when I want a treat and she won’t give me one. She says treats are for special times. I tell her I’m a good girl. I deserve a treat. She shakes her head and looks at me “You’re not being a good girl right now,” she says. I stop barking my angry bark. She pats me on the head. “Now you’re being a good girl,” she says. Then she walks away. Without giving me a treat. And now I can’t be angry again. It makes me too tired.
Anger does that. Makes me tired. Guess I should think about that. If getting angry makes me tired, why would I ever want to get angry? Especially since getting angry doesn’t get me what I want anyway. Like a treat. Or to hear I’m a good girl.
Several years ago, when I was in my early forties, I remembered being born into this world. I remembered my mother holding me with loving arms. I remembered her voice telling me she loved me. I remembered her telling me she wanted me and was glad I was here. It was the first time I knew I was wanted and loved unconditionally.
It took me all those years to remember I was loved, wanted, that someone was glad I had been born. I had spent too many years forgetting. Life gets in our way of remembering that we are loved, that we are wanted, that someone is glad we are here.
When we forget we are loved, we forget to love ourselves and we go in search of love. We usually look in the wrong places. I did.
I believed that if I were good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, enough . . . I believed that if I found the right man and married him that I would feel loved forever and live happily ever after. That didn’t happen. Instead, I went from relationship to relationship, marriage to marriage, always getting my heart broken until my heart was broken so many times and so fiercely that it finally broke open to myself, and in doing so I finally remembered that I was loved and wanted and that someone was glad I had been born.
The memory of my birth gave me hope that if someone loved me enough to carry me inside her own body for nine months and endure the pains of childbirth that I too could love myself—that I was worth that much to someone else than I must be worth at least that much to myself. So, I began a journey of self-discovery to learn how very lovable I am.
I learned about the gifts I bring to the world and the pleasure it gives me to do so. I learned the great capacity I have for loving others is also the depth I have for loving myself. I learned that I can soar on the wings of love and if only I alone know I am soaring, that is enough. I learned that I am part of an eternal something—call it God, Goddess, Universe, Spirit, Energy—and that eternal something is pure Love, and I am this love—this eternal, miraculous Love that just is. I don’t have to do anything to earn it. It’s who I am. It’s who, it’s what we all are.
I learned all this because I remembered my birth into this world and in remembering, I remembered I am Love.
Not everyone has a beautiful, loving birth memory, but imagination allows us to rewrite the circumstances of our birth and create a loving experience of being wanted and chosen. I am fortunate to have the memory, and I was fortunate enough to share it with my mother before she passed into Spirit World.
We were walking along the edge of the golf course in Florida behind her winter home. Her husband and my then husband walked ahead of us. It was as though my husband intuitively knew something important was taking place and he made sure Mother and I had time alone. I told her I remembered bright light as I emerged from her womb, and I had to close my eyes. I don’t know how much time passed until she held me, but I remembered her eyes and I remembered her voice. Her eyes were soft, blue, and I recognized her. “Your eyes were loving, and I knew the love was for me,” I told my mother.
I heard her wanting to tell me babies don’t focus at that age, that we don’t remember our births. Instead, she stopped walking, looked over the green of the golf course, and stayed silent. I wanted to tell her this was hard for me, but instead, I told her that on the day she gave birth to me, I heard her voice, and it was familiar. To my mother I said, “I heard you say, ‘I love you.’ Your voice was quiet, but clear. You said, “I wanted a daughter.’ I heard you say that you loved me, that you wanted me, that you were glad I was here.”
As I told my mother about this memory that morning on the edge of the golf course behind her winter home in Florida, she turned toward me. There were tears in her eyes and one tear fell down her cheek just as it had in my memory when she held me for the first time after my birth.
“I remember too,” she said. “But how do you? How do you remember being born?” She paused for a moment, and then said, “It’s just like you remember. I did want you. I had the son I wanted first, and I wanted a daughter too, a little girl. I told you so the first time I held you and I told you I loved you.” My mother’s eyes questioned me again. “But how do you remember that? How could you remember?”
I had no answer. “I just do,” I said. “It was important to me to remember.” She didn’t need to ask why. Intuitively she knew, she knew that in spite of her best efforts I never felt loved by her. I didn’t realize even then that it wasn’t her love that I was seeking, but the eternal love of the Great Mother—that miraculous, all-enfolding love that is who we are.
I couldn’t tell her then that it wasn’t her love I was seeking but it was my own self’s love. I couldn’t tell her any of this at the time because I didn’t understand it myself. It was only later that I could tell her, only after I learned to love myself. It was then I could tell her loving myself began with her, with the birth memory of her love.
We hugged that day in Florida, my mother and me. But not one to stay in emotion, Mother pulled back from the hug, wiped away the single tear that fell onto her cheek in the same way as the single tear that fell the first time she held me, and then she began walking toward the house. “Come along,” she said. “The men will be waiting.”
I lagged for a few moments, and then hurried to catch up. The moment between us was gone, but like the memory of my birth, this memory too reminds me I am love, and like the memory of my birth, it is a memory I cherish the way I have come to cherish all the memories of my mother.
That was our last winter visit together, the last time I would see Mother walk across the edge of that golf course at her winter house in Florida. At the end of that summer, before autumn, and before they returned to their winter home in Florida, Mother and her husband left on a day trip with another couple. Only her husband returned. I remember that too.
The mother who had given me life no longer had hers, but it was more than life that she gave me. She gave me love, and for that I will be eternally grateful.
