(A Mother’s Day Meditation)
(
Last Sunday, we remembered our mothers. Though the occasion itself may be borrowed, motherhood is not. It belongs to no single culture—because it belongs to everyone. A mother is the purest flame of memory—guiding, giving, enduring. She is the one constant in every time, every life, every sorrow, and every joy. She is always worthy of reverence.
But is that the only mother we must remember? There is another one who belongs to all of us, and within whom we all belong. The one who cradles the Earth in her lap.
This poem is a thread that binds both mothers—the one who bore us, and the one we all are born from. It travels from memory to resolve—a full circle in which motherhood is not just human, but deeply elemental.
This is not merely a poem, but a quiet awakening—a bow of love, a pause of remorse, a breath of remembrance, and a vow to begin again.)
She who heard our first cry,
Braved the burning sun to offer us shade,
Whose cupped hands quenched our first thirst,
And whose lap became our very first home—
We call her Mother.
She who understood without words,
Smiled through ache and silence alike,
Whose dreams vanished into the rising steam of kitchens,
And who saw her dawns bloom in our laughter—
That, too, is Mother.
Today we offer her flowers,
And perhaps a few words of gratitude—
But is that truly what she seeks?
Or does she yearn for a deeper attention,
One that sees even her unshed tears?
And when we bow to touch her feet,
Another presence stirs within—
The mother beneath our feet,
On whose bosom we walk each day,
Whose rivers are her veins,
Who gave us grain, and wind, and water—
Our other mother: Earth.
And what have we returned?
We razed her forests,
Hollowed her hills,
Poured poison into her rivers—
All for our gain, our comfort, our greed.
And yet, we still call her Mother—without shame.
She remains silent.
Still sows spring in every season,
Still offers endless gifts,
Even as she burns quietly within.
No rage, no reproach, no demand—
Just breathes through the soil,
So that we may breathe at all.
She, mother to millions,
Now stands— Alone.
Is there a way to atone for our sins?
Then let our reverence be not hollow, but whole.
Let repentance walk beside praise.
And the next time we say “Mother,”
Let us remember her too—
Carry her sorrow within our hearts,
And tend to her wounds as we would our own.
For she, too, is Mother—
She who breathes through earth.
scribo ad LX 