Mother, a parable from Gaia

 

 

          First, the woman was a whole person. She had known very early the task she would be called to do. She had known that to parent she would have to be clear. She had heard the voice of the earth whispering in her ear. For many years she had listened, refusing to act, doing little so that she would not be distracted. When pushed she would say, “I’m not ready. I’m still listening.”

          But finally she was ready. She found the mate who was called as she was. And they had many children. Some of them she gave birth to after many hours of pain and blood. Some labors went through days and some through nights until the slick smooth bodies slipped out with the gush of the woman’s joy and relief. Some passed easily into life as though eager to be about their business. Some children were easy to parent and some were hard. But she loved them all with passion.They grew the children who were needed. And she was able to parent without losing herself. She was able to allow a child to be itself. She was able to help a child grow without forcing it into a shape of her need. She had the help of her mate, and she had the help of the Spirit, the voice she had made time to listen for in the still, small hours of the morning.

          In the chaos of those days, amidst work and diapers and meal making and children’s squabbles, she held herself clear. Her feet were on the ground, her hands were busy to a task, but her eyes looked into eternity. When a child misbehaved, she became very calm, looking at it. And the child could see in her eyes what it was intended to be. And because she had this clarity, her children became as they were intended -- whole vessels.

And one day they began to go out into the world.

          At first there was scarcely a ripple. One whole person into the world, then two, then five -- the swelling of the challenge grew. The world began to take note, unaccustomed to people who saw with clear eyes and spoke with clear voices. There were those who followed, who admired, adored, adulated. Some even learned and became clear-eyed themselves. A few. There were many more who feared, who reviled, who damned. They grew, feeding off their hatred and fear of the light.

          The mother watched, knowing what was to come, praying for her children, suffering with them through their trials. the weaker ones came to her when they faltered, and she steadied them with her eyes. She became an  old woman, who watched with calm, clear eyes as her tidal wave of clarity rushed out over the world, pouring into every crevice and dark crack. And the fearful cried out, and the darkness convulsed to spit out these bringers of light, and the haters narrowed their eyes, those eyes so trapped in time, and called for destruction.

          They persecuted her offspring in all ways they were able. They tried to drown the light, to blind the discerning eyes, to make the truthful voices mute. They attacked young, and old, the woman’s children and those dear to the woman’s children. The lucidity of the woman and her children drove them mad.

          And finally she spoke: “You cannot destroy what I have begun. You cannot stop that which must be. All life is sacred. The earth gives and receives all. And that which passes away, will be made new.”

          Her wrinkled skin glowed from the light within. Her white hair shone. She invited her children to dinner. She and her mate served their favorite foods. They urged their children to eat and drink. And when all had stuffed themselves full, she said, “Always remember to listen to the small voice in the still hours of the morning. Never let your eyes be trapped by time. Time is an illusion. The real action takes place in eternity.” And she laughed.

          The mad forces could not abide her laughter. They were terrified by her certainty, and in their terror they assaulted her. But she stood straight and laughed the louder, a rod of certitude.

          And with a mighty uprush, the forces of darkness swarmed over her, howling their hatred. They pulled at her aged limbs and tore at her white hair. Her children rushed to her aid, but she cried, “No!” And they fell back, because her authority was a mother’s.

          And so she died.

          When she was gone, her children mourned. Her mate cried, and they comforted him. They all gathered to cry together. But when they were in her house, they heard only her laughter, echoing through their childhood. “The real action is in eternity,” they told each other. “I hope eternity can handle her!” And, laughing, they took their truthfulness out into the world.