All these pictures, this is the image which holds them.
The mother-woman, always seeking, always looking,
always learning to See.
The four walls of that frame, they take this big world with all its color and noise and movement, and they dim all
but the pearlescent sphere of this moment,
and all of me moves into that lit brilliance.
The way a shadow plays, a wall arches ,sunlight filters,
a little hand touches...
the power crashes through this hole made in time,
washes over me and then it lights me too.
And in that framed stillness, I Under-stand.
I stand under the raging love that is you and the spilling sun that freely gives
and the Beauty that re-news itself over and over and over again, offering itself to me in the infinite folds of time, folds I wrap around a lukewarm heart until I feel the pulsing heat of that love gone wild again.
What is this gift of the Observer? The Witness? The Parent? Is this what St Francis meant when he so fervently asked to want to love more than be loved, to understand more than be understood?The mother, she is the Witness. She Watches and Sees and Records. She is the keeper of your stories. The captive audience
because she never tires of watching you unfold.
She will hold this sphere of light as you dance within it,
her will eye Be-Hold your beauty and when you forget it,
when you are dirty and soot covered from the ashes and fires of your journey,
In her heart she holds strings of you
and when the ones you hold become tangled,
she will hand hers back to you,
and you will begin the Great Work
of untangling you,
Re-Deeming the threads of your story.
She will weave for you the images of the little one in the trees and the flowers,
of the sun dancing in your eyes,
of you greeting this great big world with open arms
She will never let you believe you are anything less than sacredand she will never never stop learning to Be-hold you as the great Mystery your heart inhabits
and when you forget these things she will show you the images, the shining pearls of You,
and she will offer you the fragments of your innocence
until you Re-member yourselfand the sun dances in your eyes again.
The word promise, it comes from the Latin to send forward.
And so this is what a Mother's Promise is,
this is what she sends on dove's wings to the furthest reaches of this pearl-world moment,
this is what her heart sings forth.This is what she sends forward for you to catch one day,
this shining Moment of You.