The experience was one of overwhelming joy, and when I say overwhelming that is what I mean - a week later and I'm still sorting through the experience, both consciously and subconsciously.
The lovely thing about the experience of witnessing births is that it seems to give my heart some parallel to the process of death - in my heart it's all birthing now - transformations and mystery.
My head is still confused, but I think it might be wise to let my heart have it's way for a while ...
so here are more of the poems of the suite "songs of a mother leaving"
integration
between marsh and ocean
grey moist day
cat of nine tails spread out
before us
sound of ocean behind
rocks, grey rocks
beneath our feet
seagulls and ravens flying
a breath of wind so
soft the whisper
"hi Jay"
in that instant I answer
"hi mom, hi dad"
so soft this
sweet, sweet
feeling
so strong this feeling
this lovely sensation
of family of earth of sky
of integration
of celebration
next logical step
a strange odyssey this trip into midnight
confusion fear and anger
a biting mother
a woman who seeing my socks said "oh my
what beautiful shoes" who let me sit and talk
while she pushed herself bit by bit
lifting herself along the edge of the bed with her fists
it was a monumental moment
the last day she sat up
no memory of what we spoke about
I was so amazed
the morphine gave her that last bit of
freedom
all the way down the edge of the bed
around the corner
to the centre of the foot of the bed
visibly fatigued
I said "you're getting tired"
she nodded
we got her feet up onto the bed
she lay on her side
and I pulled the blanket under her
up so she would be on the bed
another cover
sleep
blessed sleep
bed ridden after that
"seems dramatic, but just the next logical step"
my friend said
love
"don't sit on the little fellow
isn't he the cutest thing?
why do little babies have to suffer so?"
there are children everywhere
on the bed
in the room
she calls out to us - her
children
and her grandchild
she had helped to raise
we are all her children
no one but my mother can see us there
playing and sometimes needing
direction
or scolding
but mostly
just
love
walkers
on good days
we got as far as the bench
under the spruce
where sitting
we saw the bay
meeting the coast
a long view in both
directions
light house
a ways off to the right
some days
we strolled between
trees
on a path
where
she
can feel my father
there with us
they were walkers
those two
it's over
it's over
no more tending, holding, sitting
listening waiting, holding breath, conversation
touching
no more
it is over
a life has passed
your help, your grasp
your occupation has disappeared
but scars, oh
scars
the leaving was slow and painful
drink coffee, walk fast, travel, visit, sit still
you have time now
something inside doesn't know
it's over
"oh god, it's over"
recipes
scattered words
I thought
that is all I have of her writing
all her
beautiful
hand
writing
all I have are scattered words
drawn like art
in my drawing pad
coloured so soft
I had forgotten handwritten
recipe books
full of luscious
old fashion recipes
seasoned
with savoury memories
thumb cookies
war cake
molasses cookies
remembering now
rainy afternoons
movies
and ah!
surprises
we rolled from our bellies
to sit and receive treats
hot from the oven
today
I can bake
and dance
to the
music blasting
