When You Just Keep Offering Love

My mother died in 1987. For weeks before, as she lay in her bed, we had been talking on the phone in the early mornings. Both of us lived on the water: she on Long Island Sound in CT and I, on Sagg Pond over looking the Atlantic Ocean in Bridgehampton, NY.

“Cecily, did you see the sun rise this morning? It was so beautiful!”

“I did, Mom, It was gorgeous. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I am fine.”

That was always her answer even though we both knew she was not fine. Not at all.

“I’ve been reading Emanuel’s Book,” she said, “the one you sent me by Pat Rodegast and it’s wonderful. Maybe not great literature, but it makes me feel good. And I like Pat’s tapes, Sometime you’ll have to explain channeling to me. I have no idea what that is, but I like what she says and how she sounds.”

 I, the family "New Age weirdo," had taken a chance at the end of my mother's life and, trusting her ever-curious mind, had sent her books that I thought might comfort her  It thrilled me that they had done so, but the thought of explaining channeling to my mother? Yikes!

“Maybe next time I come. Don’t worry about it, Mom. It’s enough that what she says makes you feel good,”

 I visited in Southport the week before she died, and sitting on her bed with some of my favorite Buddhist books, my bible and, of course, Emanuel’s Book, we planned every bit of her memorial service together. She had asked me to lead the service and I was honored and touched to be able to do this with her and for her. We laughed; we created and we collaborated. Such a blessing for me!

Then, suddenly, she was dead. 

Doesn't death always feel sudden, even when you know that it's coming?

I wrote this poem about her in 1989.

INTEGRATION

           This morning I passed a mirror in the hall

           And caught a fleeting glimpse, that is all

               of my mother looking back at me.

           The glint of glasses, a part of her since childhood

               and now a part of me.

           Her graying hair, the curve of cheek,

           A set of lines so matching as to be

               a perfect trace of her familiar face.

           I was shocked.

           My mother is dead. Before that she was old.

           At least I always thought so.

           

           How did I, when did I take on her age?

           Was I not watching as time imprinted me

               with the pages of her life?

            She was hard to love.

            So fearful to the touch that I, yearning for a soft lap,

                 found her to be

            An armless wooden chair on which I perched uneasily.

          

            I loved her mind, her gift for words,

                  her humor and her dance.

            And still, unguarded, I had no chance

                   against her criticism.

            Her piercing points left me stung for days.

            At forty I could fix her with my gaze

                   and say, “Do you mean to hurt?”

            She never did.

             When I was finally brave enough

             I gave her softness, the stuff of love,

            Which she returned.

            An awkward ball we tossed, like children,

                    toward each other’s heart.

              Now I see her peering through my own blue eyes.

              I am startled, like a deer,

              Spooked, but I will not run.

              Instead, I welcome her within me.

               

              Be at home, my mother, you are safe with me.

              Whatever treasure you have left behind

                     I will spill over into life.