When I'm most upset, I find myself often crying for my mother. Yeah. I cry for my mommy. I do. I cry, and I cry, and in the midst of it, all I want is my mom. Or I think I want her. I think I want her, the actual lady with the soft hair and the nice face. But then, again, I don' t know.
The actual lady is nice in many ways. I've never doubted her love for me. I've also never felt that I'd ever be able to make her happy. I've also spent years of my life repairing the damage that her anger did to my insides. I'm still working on it.
I'm not sure, today, that what I want is her. I'm not sure what I want, which is scary, because it means I don' t know where to go to find it. I'm fairly sure that she, my mother, the actual woman, is not a tool for my recovery. I'm pretty sure that she hurts me.
What do I want? I want love. I want the kind of love that is maybe from a mother, the kind of love that doesn't have a price. I want to give that love, and I want to receive it. Sometimes I get close to filling up that space in myself. I was close for a moment. I think it's god, it's that diamond that is at the center of my heart. It's me, my inmost me...or maybe it's not that. I think I've got that part of my spirituality...the part that is inside me, that is quiet. That is the part that I can call on when my world is in the most turmoil to find quiet and peace, at least for a second. That is where I find the eye of the storm of the rest of me...
But tonight, it seems like that quiet place is a half of something. There is an outside thing, an outside other half to the thing inside of me. There is a Mother that I'm seeking. It's the God that I'm seeking, that I can't quite see and hear. It's the thing outside myself, connected to the thing inside myself, that is protecting me, that I want to trust is there...but that I can't feel. I want to know this Mother. I want to follow her will. I want faith and confidence in her love. I want to know that all the things that are happening to me right now are part of a plan...but I don't trust it yet. I don't hear it, and I don't see it, and I don't feel it, and as much as I want to, I'm not sure of how to let go. I'm not sure of how to hear the response from the person I'm crying to when I'm asking for my mom, my Mom. It's like there's something there, guarding the portal to what I most want and need.
Photo Credit: Cathy Rositano