I see her as ocean water, outpouring until she is empty and still she will wish to give more. Always getting to her own bottom… the bottom of things. That is where she wants to be: Where it is bare and honest and simple… like the desert, like the plains.
I remember my mothers hair most as shoulder length and dark. To me those thick black waves are that ocean. They are her great depth cloaking her head, a crown in the most feminine sense, a sign to symbolize her matriarchy. Four children, five grand children.
She is our chief…¨how¨.
A she has gotten older this crown has transformed into white. I see this as her acceptance –her ever more silent and calm wisdom. Her crown is now a vortex in itself opening to the white light of everything divine. I see her eyes cloe softly and open slowly under the light of the sun, in a field of flowers.
I see her knees and feet tinted with earth. Making stuff grow. I see her escaping into the mud like a shaman into the underworld and resurfacing, having planted seed for beauty. A graceful act of letting it be and letting it become.
You want to meet your maker, mother. You want to ask him what it is all about, what your purpose is; but you are the wise and knowing, your purpose is your own beauty.
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