My Broken White Woman Way

What if from now on all my writing is an Ode to my Mother? Perhaps to make amends for all the slights and wrongs over the years from an arrogant, short sighted daughter? What if I quit making excuses for myself and look in the mirror and see my mother, and find love for both of us there?

What if the caverns of my heart are explored and found to have many yet undiscovered chambers, because my heart is the same heart of all mothers and their children everywhere. One of my favorite Mayan sayings is “The bird in my heart is the same bird in the heart of the sun and a thousand other central suns.” The second degree Reiki symbol resembles a bird to me, a fat woodpecker facing her hole. I draw this second symbol which holds the key to emotional healing in my heart, and then into the heart of the sun.

This heart of mine, also beats in the breast of my mother and a thousand spiraling galaxies of grandmothers. It is the living beating heartbeat of the earth and the generations of life which emanate from her.

This is what I want to do in my life. I want to begin to confuse my own mother, all my mothers, for really there have been and are many — I want to confuse the women on this planet with the planet itself. In a good way. Not like the dark shadowed, unacknowledged way of centuries perpetuated by the dominating people on this earth.

For too long we have lived outside of the cycles of nature, Beginning as we emerged from the ice ages and gained culture, some humans began over-farming, creating mono crops, and losing a direct link to the natural world .

Beginning with the eviction from Eden, we lost our way and in our lostness we pretended dominion. Since those times, we treated the earth and women with disdain. For the last 2,000 years there has been systemic attempts to break our sense of time, to outlaw earth based religions in favor of a punitive God. Conquering cultures began no longer measuring time by the sun or the moon, or other natural and predictable occurring patterns, but by a taxation calendar of the Romans.

I am searching in my own broken White Woman way to relearn the cycles of the cosmos by observing natural patterns and cycles. The predominant world culture with great genocidal glee has extinguished populations of indigenous people living in direct contact and balance with their natural surroundings. Thus a deep wisdom which was once known has been smothered.

I want to learn to respect my mother. My real mother, the one who gave birth to me, helped to shelter me and my children, remaining interwoven in the fabric of our lives through the thick and thin — I want to learn to get over my resentments and sense of entitlement that I carry. My mama and I are not only biologically entwined as family, but we are products of the society we were born in. Our mistakes are archetypical.

We make the mistakes of our people. Our ancestors. We are like a long living snake of DNA winding around, becoming solid in space with each new generation, the face of the serpent. We are a living being stretched through time and space moving with this planet in great spasms of life. I think of this and then I think, we have no free will, really. We go where the snake goes. We do what the snake wants us to do. The rest is just thoughts, stories and excuses. Culture is just the things we believe while we do the work of Creation.

I want to change my story — and yours, if truth be told. I want my story and yours to revere mothers. Not only on Mother’s Day, but every day. For us to look at each other with the compassion we would feel for small helpless babies. I want us to look upon the world and all her beings as if we could take care of her and them. As if we liked her. As if we didn’t blame her because we are wildly inadequate in dealing with a life full of unexplainable chaos.

I want to love my mother, find her in these unexplored chambers of my heart, discover her love anew and look beyond all the damage we all have done to each other, our families and our environment. I want to heal this mess. I want my mama to know I love her beyond measure and appreciate the infinite love she has for me.

Art — Carole Dixon

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