The mother to us all

Mom canoeing on her honeymoon

 Mothers Day seems to have lasted for weeks. We went up to Campbell River on the 29th (returned on May 5th) to celebrate 3 birthdays (actually 4, as our grand-nephew was born on the 25th) mine, my sister-in-law's and my grand-niece's, plus 4 Mothers for Mothers Day - my mother-in-law, sister-in-law, niece, and a "chosen" family member.

Our yoga class on Fri May 9th was filled with mothers and the mother energy is fierce in many of them. They honoured the "mother" of their class (absent that day), the woman who looks out for them all and keeps everyone informed; the connector and the nurturer. Session ended with a chant of gratitude and blessing for mothers of all traditions as we added in a different name with each round: Mary Ma, Tara Ma, Saraswati Ma… We silently added our own mothers names and those of the mothers we know.

Clover Point beach clean up

For days Face Book has been spilling over with pictures and tributes of love, appreciation, gratitude, sorrow and longing for Mothers alive and dead. Mothers lovingly cradle their babes in their arms and children in their laps revealing both the soft and fierce-heartedness of mothering; snuggle under the protective wing of a grown son; proudly stand up for their brood of adult children at rites of passage or simply enjoy a moment in time when maturity allowed friendship to break through between the generations.

I honour Mother Earth, the one who sustains us all, by participating in a Surfrider beach clean-up at Clover Point today. Bag in hand, knowing that people tend to stuff debris into nooks and crannies, I'm drawn to the rocky bluffs. The mountain goat climber in me enjoys getting a work out, navigating my way amongst the obstacle course of rock, boulder and driftwood. I poke into the spaces with a stick to clear spider webs so that I can retrieve bits of plastic, cans, snack food wrappers and…an object with a dull sheen - a delicate, broken rusted chain. As I draw it out with gentle care a tiny cameo dangles from it…and a clump of copper coloured hair.

Resting at the feet of the Buddha

I know this act.

It tugs at my heart.

In 2012 I scattered clippings of my mother's hair, along with hawaiian flowers collected from an altar at the end of one of Robert's dream workshops and scattered them into the wind off an oceanside cliff. A few days prior I'd set a clipping at the feet of a Buddha statue on the grounds of Kalani. Sheddings of my own hair reside under some rocks at Kehana beach; some of our DNA will always be a part of Hawaii.

Part of a soul rests here in this very special, sacred place.

I never noticed this rock carving at Clover Point before.

Respectfully I tuck the entangled item back into place, only deeper into the crevice away from prying eyes and poking sticks. As I withdraw my hand a small business sized card tumbles out - the kind found in flower shops everywhere, on it a deep red rose cradles the handwritten message…


"We miss you Mom. Love your children."


I send a silent prayer out for the mother with the copper coloured hair and those children missing her and to all those children missing their Mothers this day as I bury the card too, deep inside the protective outcropping of rocks, stones and driftwood so they may be held close to the heart of Mother Earth and hear her heartbeat.

MARE-ZEE-DOATS

On Saturday I was reading through letters and short stories I'd written in the '70's and '80's and came across a piece called MOVING DAY in which I recounted launching into an unforeseen two and a half year venture as a house-sitter.

A synchronic event compels me to post this part of the story and here's why…

Yesterday I checked in to see what's been going on at AMAIA DREAMS' DREAM BOARDS as I'd been absent for quite a few months now. One of the members had started a new category called MAGICAL MOMENTS wherein she suggested we would, "have an ongoing thread where we could share positive things, like a moment of gratitude or delight over something or a little magical moment that made us smile."

I glanced through the comments on the first page and this one jumped out at me, "Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy." These are lyrics from the song Mairzy Doats written in 1944 and much loved by my Mom.

As I was reading my story I wondered whether it was worth posting in my blog.

And then I read the comment in MAGICAL MOMENTS so here is an excerpt.

*       *       *

THE SET UP a summary -

A friend had helped me move out of the co-op house and took me to the house-sit. The owners were  out for the evening so we just dropped my belongings, stuffed into garbage bags, by the front door and headed out for dinner. When Sheib dropped me off, the house was in darkness and I had no idea where anything was. Basically I end up stumbling around, knocking things askew and swearing under my breath.

THE STORY from here -

"Shit!" I hop on my right foot, aiming all the while to grasp my left big toe with my left hand; the bags jostle on my back with a crinkling of plastic. The otherwise silent, still night is disturbed by the thumping of my feet and swearing. And then, giggling wafts down the hallway.

They're laughing at me. They're laying there in bed laughing at me, I am embarrassed by my clumsiness and lack of foresight to study the lay of the land before I'd headed out. No, they're not really laughing at me. They probably didn't even hear me come in. They're most likely having sex, sharing some sort of lovers' intimacy.

I'm just about to call out for some help with lighting when I trip over something at the bottom of the flight of stairs. As I try to keep from falling my hand hits a switch, turning on the light at the top of the stairway, welcoming me with its warm glow.

I trundle up the wooden stairs that creak with every footfall and make my way to "my" room.

Dropping the bags at the foot of the bed, fully clothed, I fall into its downy cushiness, falling into sleep moments later.

"Buckety coo, buckety coo…" the sounds of pigeons in the rafters above my head and the morning light streaming in wake me. I lay there, thrown back in time by the sound.

"No, they don't."

"Yes, they do. They sound exactly like that." And in a soft melodic voice my mother mimics, "Buckety coo, buckety coo. You just have to listen sometime. You'll hear it." She was telling me about her own childhood experience visiting an eccentric uncle who'd kept and trained carrier pigeons. Their chatter would waken her as she slept in a bedroom under the rafters of his home.

I thought she was pulling my leg. After all wasn't this the same woman who would sing, "Mare-zee-doats 'n doe-zee-doats 'n li'l lam-zee-die-vee. Kid-sel e-die-vee too woodn'-chew."

What the hell did that mean?

I think she sang it just to torment me until the day my ears finally deciphered, "Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy. Kids will eat ivy too. Wouldn't you?" and I smiled, delighted by the playfulness of words.

Laying here now, my ears confirm "buckety coo" as the official language of pigeon.

THE STORY CONTINUES ON FROM HERE

I had hoped to write a book (and make my fortune in the process) about my house-sitting misadventures; this was the opening chapter. Life happens while you're making other plans.

Looking for a sign

I visited Mom's nursing home on Wednesday to donate some CD's and a DVD from Moms stash for their music and entertainment programs; just one of the many tasks I've elected to do on Mom's behalf and bring closure for myself.

Running into old acquaintances who live, work and volunteer at the nursing home caused us to reminisce about Mom, her passing, the memorial/celebration of her life that the family hosted there a few weeks ago and death in general. I found quite quickly that one can't visit such a place after such a majour event without people opening up and sharing their own stories of love and loss.

It seems that, regardless of religious or spiritual orientation, surviving relatives are looking for signs from the departed that they are OK in their new realm of existence. The living also want to be reassured that those that have "passed" are now watching over, and perhaps, guiding them.

One woman, heavily grieving the loss of her father (who died in December) said she just wants to be able to move on but can't seem to do so. Despite not being ready to "go" there was nothing that could be done for him and this added to the pain and suffering he and his family experienced during the last few months of his life.  I asked what would make it possible for her to move on. She said she didn't know but felt that, "If I could only have a sign that he's OK. I think that would help." And though she said, in an off hand manner, "I did get a sign the next day" and proceeded to describe the incident, the radiance in her face indicated that this was a real, not a manufactured, experience but for some reason it just hadn't registered consciously with her yet.

She proceeded to tell me that, a few weeks later, during an especially difficult time, her father came to her in a dream and said, somewhat irritated, "Why do you keep calling on me? Don't you know that I'm dead?" This made her feel even worse until I reminded her, as she'd just told me, she'd already received the sign she was looking for. I proceeded to say that, if it were my dream, I'd try and see it from his point of view. When I took his vantage point I realized that I'd be wondering how many times and in how many ways would she need to be reassured that I'm OK? I'm dead and there are things I have to do here but trust that when you really need me I'll be there.

Some spiritual traditions believe that, not until the living have released the dead are those that have passed, free to move on in their journey; move on, they and we must. Our grief, sense of guilt, loss of direction keep them bound to us and between realms, neither here nor there (some spiritual traditions believe that there are many aspects to a human soul, that one aspect of the soul remains while other aspects are intended to move on). Our clinging to them keeps us from becoming fully present to and engaged in life, saps our energy and leads to depression.

Through past life regression and interlife experiences I have realized that when we die we reintegrate into the fullness, wisdom and love that we were before incarnating. In an instant, all suffering is over. But an aspect of our individual souls continue to reside in the hearts of the living and continue through the DNA of future generations.

Another woman said she was waiting for a sign from 2 relatives on her birthday but none was forthcoming. I wonder if, in looking for one specific sign, we might miss those magical, synchronic moments that happen almost daily reminding us of our interconnectedness.

Surprisingly, all this reminiscing found me, not sorrowful for the past, but anxious about the future. With Mom's death, (Dad having passed in 2002) the ties of my family of origin are broken. Released from the expectations that have defined us all our lives, our lives are, for the first time in our lives, truly our own. And, released from my duties towards my parents, I'm asking myself - who am I now, what do I really want and what do I do with this new chapter in my life.

Later that night a message from the pastor came through my answering machine. I had been thinking about him for days, wanting to let him know, personally, what a wonderful service he'd done for Mom and our family so I picked up the phone. He'd somehow gotten one digit wrong in my brother's phone number and was calling for the right one. He went on to say that he was sure I was missing Mom, that my family had done a good job honouring her at the memorial and that he was sure that she was pleased.

Signs are present everywhere when we embrace life.

Ho'oponopono Mom

© NANCE THACKER 1990
CLICK ON IMAGE TO ENLARGE

A NEW JOURNEY BECKONS

EDITH "EDIE" THACKER Sept 11, 1920 - June 5, 2011

In FATE AND DESTINY - the 2 agreements of the soul, Michael Meade writes of a Siberian tale of a cosmic, origin tree of life where human souls perch upon its "sky branches" waiting silently and watching like birds until something in the world below intrigues them enough to incarnate, descending and entering into "a womb where life is about to be born." (pg 122)

He then goes on to tell of an old West African story. As the soul begins to enter into earthly life it encounters a spirit (its divine companion) which accompanies the soul on its journey through the realm of incarnate beings and travels with the soul throughout its lifetime journey in the chosen body. The spirit "clarifies the image that first moved the soul and describes the terms through within which this particular life adventure will be shaped." (pg 123) This divine contract allows the soul and spirit to enter into the body and begin life on earth.

On the soul's journey towards the womb it finds itself standing before a radiant tree in the middle of a garden. The soul is instinctively compelled to touch the bark of the magnificent tree. As I understand it, this touch deeply buries the divine companion within the soul and the soul forgets what drew it to incarnate and just what it came into earthly life to accomplish for this Tree of Unity and of Life is also the Tree of Forgetfulness. This act is necessary for human life to begin.

As I dream this myth forward I imagine that as we come to the end of this incarnation our souls find themselves standing once more before the majestic Tree of Life. Once more the soul is compelled to place its hands upon the bark of the trunk but, this time, upon contact the Tree of Unity transforms into the Tree of Remembrance. The bird soul returns to perch upon the sky branches viewing its families and loved ones in the earthly realm and getting glimpses into their celestial home and of the souls who await their return. There they remain engaged in both realms until they are released from contracts with their beloved ones on earth. Upon release, the cords that bind are severed. Only then are they free to fully turn their gaze upon the Tree of Origins where their divine companion waits in full glory to accompany them on their journey home into the oneness from which they came. The body is vacated and the soul's earthly life comes to an end.

To the soul that became my mother in this earthly life I wish you courage on the next stage of your journey. And, should your bird soul once more find itself perching on the sky branches, may it be dazzled by an auspicious re-birth filled with love, compassion and joy.


Information and quotes are from FATE AND DESTINY - the two agreements of the soul by Michael Meade, Greenfire Press, 2010.