a mother holds her children
in ways that are deeply felt, remembered and known
as previous generations held, safeguarded and nurtured their young
I held mine
listened to mine
from loving conception
belly holding the unborn
forming babies enveloped in embryonic fluid
birth canal pulsing
welcomed with as much love as possible
in the moments from birth onwards
babe enfolded by arms
cradled to the breast
shrouded in a shawl of my
hopes and prayers
over the years
they ran, they laughed, they fell
over and over, they fell
they cried
we picked them up
we held them with a sheltering arm
we quelled the hurt
they were soothed
we let them go
and now as I forage in the murky battlefield of my personal failures
I realise it was I who also repeatedly stumbled and fell
it was also I who oftentimes failed them
when my own weary broken arms
forgot how, when, to hold
it is I who is now held by them, in forgiveness and grace, I hope
and still I fall and fail
and who holds the heart of the mother, or the father
the grandmother, the grandfather
as we recall our negligence and our own injuries
and when our children, our grandchildren are bruised
our own heart, and our wound,
feels the anguish
invisible forces
surgically unfasten our heart
from our body
and place it now in the open
exposed, raw, vulnerable
feeling all movements
all delicate flutters
of celebration and joy
love beyond love
and once more, struggles
as the pain of their suffering breaks us open again and again
we pray
that the one who bends to listen
will embrace us
embrace them
in loving and compassionate awareness
spellbound by our children’s lives
by their loves
by their beautiful partners
we try to offer reassurance
and we declare in our own shaking hearts
that we will hold them, their partners
through the arrows and hurts
sheltering the quivering heart
the uncertain thresholds
we will be there
holding space, acknowledging
letting go
loosening the hold
close by or at a distance
as grandmothers, as grandfathers
some, ancestors now
elders
we engender the intimacy of love,
of timeless wisdom of generations before us
when we hold and witness these descendants
we are simultaneously touched and held ourselves
we can connect with them by the quality and sound of our voice
the choice of our words
our steadfast resolve
our soft gaze
received knowingly
and unknowingly
as mother, as grandmother, as bumbling amateur
I offer myself
to my kindred
to those on earth and other places
that my arms
my heart
my eyes
will listen, as best I can, beneath the stories in their bones
that they will be received and loved
so that they know in their bones what to offer to their own children
and in so doing, give them the most sacred gift -
to learn their place in the universe
that they are accepted,
acceptable, more than enough
that they are loved
that they are love
not only are they nourished
but that love ripples outwards
in the continuity of life
an oracle onwards towards future generations
when we hold our children, our grandchildren
we begin to instil an elixir of courage, dignity, trust, comfort and strength
by our stroking, our loving presence, much can be healed
we once held them with our trembling arms
we let go
we loosen the grasp
we surrendered them to their own lives, to the greater world
but we equally hold them now and forever within our own tender hearts
and we will listen, hold, let go… yet eternally embrace
for spacious holding is listening and loving beneath the bones
for holding is healing
letting go is grace
and so we celebrate the power of connection
and we celebrate the power of holding, with grace
Dedicated to Luca ~
Jenni Harris
May 31 2020
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