God our Mother, overcome thy father

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To be a Mother is to suffer;

To travail in the dark,

stretched and torn,

exposed in half-naked humiliation,

subjected to indignities

for the sake of new life.

 

To be a Mother is to say,

“This is my body, broken for you,”

And, in the next instant, in response to the created’s primal hunger,

“This is my body, take and eat.”

 

To be a Mother is to self-empty,

To neither slumber nor sleep,

so attuned You are to cries in the night—

Offering the comfort of Yourself,

and assurances of “I’m here.”

 

To be a Mother is to weep

over the fighting and exclusions and wounds

your children inflict on one another;

To long for reconciliation and brotherly love

and—when all is said and done—

To gather all parties, the offender and the offended,

into the folds of your embrace

and to whisper in their ears

that they are Beloved.

 

To be a mother is to be vulnerable—

To be misunderstood,

Railed against,

Blamed

For the heartaches of the bewildered children

who don’t know where else to cast

the angst they feel

over their own existence

in this perplexing universe

 

To be a mother is to hoist onto your hips those on whom your image is imprinted,

bearing the burden of their weight,

rejoicing in their returned affection,

delighting in their wonder,

bleeding in the presence of their pain.

 

To be a mother is to be accused of sentimentality one moment,

And injustice the next.

To be the Receiver of endless demands,

Absorber of perpetual complaints,

Reckoner of bottomless needs.

 

To be a mother is to be an artist;

A keeper of memories past,

Weaver of stories untold,

Visionary of lives looming ahead.

 

To be a mother is to be the first voice listened to,

And the first disregarded;

To be a Mender of broken creations,

And Comforter of the distraught children

whose hands wrought them.

 

To be a mother is to be a Touchstone

and the Source,

Bestower of names,

Influencer of identities;

Life giver,

Life shaper,

Empath,

Healer,

and

Original Love.

- Allison Woodard

Yet, when we think of Power, we emulate the father

When we think of Strength, we look to our dads

and envision God with a penis.

Yesterday I posted a few thoughts on boxes. Then, this morning, while walking to work, the podcast God our Mother took those simple thoughts, doused them with gasoline, and then, with the smirk of deep understanding, sent a spark flying through the barren darkness. 

When the box exploded, I had to step back, almost

run

Because the flames that licked and snapped and grew in the darkness

scared me.

 

And the box was gone.

 

To Be a Mother is perhaps unfair and probably incomplete

but no more so than the decades and decades and decades of thought

on the father.

And we've swallowed and followed those 

like wine and bread

and must-covered hymnals

all the way

to war.

 

To Be a Mother is perhaps unfair and probably incomplete

because how does one define a mother?

Simply? 

Succinctly? 

Fully?

 

Like God.

 

Who oversees the dirt and molds the clay

into the perfect and complete image

of Them. 

 

He and She

Both and They

 

Strong. Fierce. And ever more and equally God-

the Source,

Bestower of names,

Influencer of identities;

Life giver,

Life shaper,

Empath,

Healer,

and

Original Love.

 

The box slayer.

 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  Other Inspiring Podcasts

 

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