Just another WordPress.com site

Posts tagged ‘Children’

Haiku and Loku Days-Planting Seeds, Planting Memories

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

 

March 8th was the second anniversary of my mother’s death.  I was with her the last days of dying before the final breath, It was a painful death. My memories of her and the parts of our journeys in our lives that over-lapped are a mix of joy and pain. March is 8th is painful.

Less time this year was spent in tears. Much more of it in joy. I spent the day at my daughter’s house with her and her two children -Asher almost 4 and Parisa who just turned 2. We were continuing with part 2 of our gingerbread train project. The goal is to have this finished by Asher’s 4th birthday. There is not much time left.

I had a wonderful day, a joyful day. And any day I think of those two little people, I cannot help but smile. I want as many happy memories as I can get and as many as I can help plant for my grandchildren. I want to be a part of making their childhood better than my own and better than I could give my own children.

Memories-part of the connection between the generations. They are an intricately knotted cord of the macrame of the DNA of our lives holding us as we, our souls, hang in, hovering in this realm. They connect us to those who have returned to the spiritual world and those yet to come.

I planted seeds of gingerbread, of hugs and kisses, of play and laughter for myself and hopefully for them. And maybe, it will be a link between my mother and my grandchildren.

 

Planting Seeds, Planting Memories

 

dahliaGardens.jpg.

 
Memories. I know   
 
I want, need to plant seeds.                  
 
New memories grow.

 

Advertisements

Haiku and Loku Days-Fledgling-Transcendence of a Mother’s Love

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2013

The SSB Drever and I chanced a walk today between sprinkles and threats of storms. We traveled along familiar paths. We saw people planting flowers and attending gardens, people sharing luncheons and coffee, a mother patiently on the sidelines while her daughter practiced, learning to ride her bicycle. People were out and about enjoying the life that the refreshing air of spring brings. New beginnings, hope, a fresh outlook.

But at one point on the walk, I just stopped; tears welled up in me. Before me on the pavers was the body of a baby bird, its eyes closed, its body still naked, bereft of the feathers that would allow it to soar. It had landed in a somewhat contorted position with one wing twisted, pointing up toward the sky, the wind morbidly causing a slight flutter, belying a false sense of the hope of the resurgence of life . I looked up into the little crab apple tree to see the mother robin just sitting there, in the nest, not moving, barely blinking, keeping vigilance over the body of her baby child. How utterly horrible to have your baby taken from you to the realm of death. I stood for awhile to mourn with her, I cried the tears she could not.

I thought of my own children. I thought of the love that mothers give and the torment that mothers could endure in the day to day vigilance in the caring and rearing of their children in normal life let alone the horror of having them destroyed before you from war or starvation or from so many other atrocities.

I thought of my mother and her death only two months ago, of her last week of life, her body pale, her bareness, bareness of animation of her soul, an occasional movement of a finger or wrist, not unlike the death flutter of the dead baby bird. But her eyes were open and in them I could see the excruciating pain of dying. I thought of all the sacrifices she had made for all of us, of all the times a little part of her died.

I feel in someways we are all fledglings at any stage of life-or death. I am still a fledgling, not quite able to soar. Every stage of life requires the fearlessness of spirit to take flight. There are days I just don’t have it. I can no longer look to a nest for support, my mother hovering by. How many times in these two months have I thought, “Oh, I’ll call Mom.” But I can’t.  My children will always be my fledging babies. I stand back and watch them heading into the winds of the different stages of life. I am happy that they seem to be stronger and can fly higher than I could ever dream.

Mother child mother child mother child-the generations become one-one continuous cycle of life and love, of giving love and yearning for love. A mother’s love, no matter what form, bird or human, is an incarnation of the life force-love.

.

Fledgling-Transcendence of a Mother’s love

 
 

Robin


Silent spring mourning,
 
Blind, bare, broken winged fledgling,                                
Dying flutter tears.                                                                                                          
                                                                    
 
 
 

Haiku and Loku Days-Blanket of Love: Let Sleeping Dogs and Babies Lie

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2012

The other morning, The SSB Drever woke up before dawn, which this time of year is not difficult. When she wakes up she stands on top of me, or pounces me, to see if I am awake, too. She was awake, her bladder was awake, after her pouncing me, my bladder was awake, so I guess I was awake, too. We commenced the morning ritual: stops at the bathroom, kitchen, and potty outside. Sometimes we mix it up (the order, not who goes where) depending whose need is more pressing and urgent.

I had to go into work that day, but this was way too early. So after the mandatory stops and breakfast for the Dreve and water for me, we went back to bed. I set to play a recording of a soft rainstorm and we snuggled back in bed, me under the blankets, SSB on top of the blankets, me curling around her. I listened to and fell in step to her breathing rhythm while I petted her and gave her soft “scritchies” around her ears.

I know it is not for everyone, but I like having Sadie Stella Bella sleeping next to me. I love her warmth, the rhythm of her breathing, even when it is a snort or a snore. At one time, my younger daughter and her two dogs lived with me. I relished the few times all three dogs would pile in to nap with me.

It is not just with dogs. I have heard that cat owners experience the same thing. And years ago, I loved when my children- babies, toddlers, preschoolers-would snuggle next to me to sleep.

It is not just the warmth of their bodies or the rhythm of their breathing; it is the warmth of the energy of their souls and the rhythm of life. Dogs, because that is how they are, and children, free from so much of the stress and worries of this world, are in another space in slumber, their soul energy freely reaches out, and softly blankets all around with a pure, other worldly, energy of love.

Blanket of Love

 
Children’s, animals’,
in soft slumber, love, set free,
soothing, blankets me.
 
20-0007 breakfast in bed
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Breakfast in Bed by Mary Cassatt

Tales from The Teal Mango: A Love Story

I know someone…

Who knows someone who knows someone.  She  told me a story.

Once upon a time, as all stories about life are and begin, there was girl who had a brother who had a friend.  The brother and his friend had been in the service together remaining friends throughout their adult lives. But this story isn’t about them.

It is about maybe, a moment, years ago when the brother came home one weekend to visit his family on leave from the military, bringing his friend with him.  They started from the base early one Saturday morning to make the 17 hour drive, arriving late that night.  They left the following morning. But in that short amount of time, something eternal happened.  A boy met a girl and a girl met a boy.  No words were spoken but in the realm without words all had been said.

She told her brother that she was interested in his friend and to please let him know it would be okay to write to her. His friend told him that he was interested in his sister and to please let her know that he would like to write to her and  ask if it would be okay.  But like so many times in life, the moment comes and it goes and words that probably should be spoken are not.

Life goes on and even though some things change others do not.  High school is a time of social ritual,  and feelings, and that first date, of rides and roses and then rape.   Her father confronted her: How could she do this to him, her father. He was in the public eye. She would have to marry  her attacker and in his bed lie.  The abuse continued. One child became two, then three, then four. The abuse continued, then one child more.

At some point he abandoned her to poverty, left her on her own to feed, clothe and rear those children. And, at this point it doesn’t sound much like a love story.  But it is. It is now a story about her love for her children- the jobs she took that destroyed her health, the humiliation, and even derogatory comments from her own parents. Her pain and silent cry, re-occurring thoughts of suicide, all buried in the sleep of exhaustion in an unending darkness.

Finally the fifth child was through school and had been accepted at a college in another state hours away. She took her daughter there. Now it just so happened that  in that state lived another of her siblings, a sister, who invited her to visit, to spend the night.  After all it had been a long drive on a very long road.

This sister had also known the brother’s friend. He too had gone through life as many people do- matrimony and acrimony, bitterness  and blame,  marriage and divorce, so much the same. Interestingly, he had been invited for dinner the same weekend, driving another long road from another state to attend.

After that, she returned home.  But she made another trip- to visit him. And then she returned home again, one more time, to pack up the past to return home to her future.  He had told that if he had known she was  with child all those years ago, he would have married her and raised the child as his own. He loved her, and continued to love her. And she loved him. They lived a simple life with love for each other and for the children and for all the cats and dogs and living creatures around them that needed love.

She was with him this spring and this summer by his side with her love as he battled cancer.

He returned his love for her over and again trying to win. Love can save you from so many things, but not  from the end.

And those children returned that love over and over and again this year to be with her as she scattered his ashes over the bay.

Tag Cloud