The Great Mother

Driving backroads in Maine, ruby-red sunrise passes a fading full moon. Late July, 1986. I park. I board. I fly over that redness until yellow reigns in the sky; and me, I've got my face in my hands. Just like when I was a kid, playing with shards of light through fingers. I need to sleep but I can't sleep.

"Are you going home?" a woman in the middle seat asks.
"I'm going in that direction." But I don't know anything.
"I bet your mother is excited to see you," she smiles.
"My mother is dying. She may already be dead." Together we look out the window, clouds flat and grey.

Chicago O'Hare. I speed across a stretch of road where lines of black soil extend to the horizon. An hour later I arrive at Rockford Memorial, where I was born. Now I'm 19 standing over a hospital bed. Down below, gauze wraps her head to the brow; eyes are swollen shut, black and blue. I don't cry. I stopped crying about her a long time ago.

Despite the nurses discomfort, I set up my boom box and select Kitaro's India, continuous play. I unpack large pieces of amethyst crystal and place them in four corners. Two-day vigil.

We stand around her holding hands, my sisters both nine months pregnant and distraught. My father says good-bye to his wife of thirty-seven years. It's awkward - we don't know what to say really, what to do. But it's time to pull the plug.

The last time I saw her she screamed down the steps after me, "The only thing you're good for is to work at a Hallmark Store. You idiot, come back here!"

It was my first visit home from college in Vermont. In the living room together for an hour or two, I tell my parents that I want to go to India. Just like that she was at my throat again.

Since leaving her house I learned how to walk, and I walked out.

A month before she died we spoke on the phone, made amends, and I told her about numerologly - how the number 23 had been following me. Everything 23. I explained that it would be auspicious to see the number 25, an indication of soul growth. She thought I was weird. The last thing she ever said to me: "Well, I guess you'll have to keep an eye out for 25."

She fell over on July 23. Brain aneurism. She died on July 25 at 2:05pm.

I was motherless.

****


I felt motherless for most of my life. I didn't understand that feeling until I met my teacher. As a young devotee it became clear that I had found my spiritual mother.

And it became clear that somewhere in the beginning, way before this time, my mother and I agreed that she would simply get me here. That was the deal. I felt stranded for twenty years, waiting for one who would show me a true reflection of myself. And really, a split second later, she did arrive.

I was mothered.

****


In the past week, as I revolve around these two women, River has taken to calling me both names. In the mornings, first thing out of her mouth, "Prema. Prema....Pray-maa." I say, "To you I'm mama!" But she doesn't listen, just smiles and looks straight at me. "Prema. Prema. Prema."

I don't know which mother is trying to reach me....

Driving around the past few days River asks, "What do-een, Mama?"
"We're going to the park."
"No, mama, drive-een."
"Yes, you're right, sweetie, we're driving now."

Incessantly, she asks me what I am doing, moment by moment. And moment by moment she pulls me into the present. Soon, my words are present, too. As soon as my answers are accurate, she stops questioning.

Through forgiveness of the one who left me, and with a constant prayer to open to the one who raises my soul, I am becoming a mother.