ode to mothers like mine

My mother’s love for me is like an untamed campfire. 

Some moments, I am warmed. I am comforted by the soft glow, and smoky smells.

Other times, I am burned. I am wounded by the touch of an intensified flame. 

No one has hurt me like my mom has. And also, no one has cared for me like my mom has. It’s almost unsettling, honestly. I think, for all of my life, my mom has been unsure as to how to love me. She’s spent all twenty-one years trying to speak my language--and has fallen short over and over.  

I called her the other night, on the verge of tears, just needing to hear her voice. It was 12AM. And I had a deep desire to lay in her bed- to be near her. To have her hold me and kiss me and tell me that everything would be okay. But when she answered, I said none of this. And when she asked me why I hadn’t been eating, or why I’d been so drained, or why my body ached the way it did,

I couldn’t bring myself to explain my depression. 

Instead, I listened to her troubleshooting. She advised me to bring meat back into my diet. To drink more ginger tea. And to take medicine- had I been taking medicine? I would have been better by now, if I had been. And I need to visit the doctor’s- she knew someone. She would take me. She would ask off work. And was I hungry? She made beans. My favorite beans. And I’m welcome to come home to eat them. I’m always welcome to come home. She’s praying for me, by the way. She prays for me every night. Every night. She’s worried about me. So worried. She just wants me to be safe.

I told her I loved her. I told her I’d call her tomorrow. 

We don’t get each other, my mom and I. But in this, she has taught me that you don’t have to understand someone to support them. 

She cooked me beans, when I said I was done eating meat. She bought me almond milk, when I said I was done with dairy. She advised me with hair care products, when I said I was done combing my hair. She gave me a blanket, when I said I was done with traditional beds. She listened to me. She found ways to welcome my uncomfortable, unorthodox way of being. Even when, especially when, my reasonings made no sense to her.

She hasn’t done this perfectly. She hasn’t done this without judgement or question. But she’s done it. And in her doings, in every attempt, I feel the humanness of my mother.

And what a beautiful thing to be human. To be learning.

Because that’s what it all is, right? Learning? Learning to bear this fire of ours. This fire that can do such great damage- can take down forests and cities and voices. This fire that can do such great healing- can resurrect to life the coldest of souls. 

I believe, this is it. Right here. Learning to use our beings to connect rather than not. And a lot of times, we’ll not. A lot of times, we’ll get it really, really wrong. And we’ll make indescribable burns. Because we’ll forget how hot we are- how much power we have. In our recklessness- we’ll get it really, really wrong.

But this is not about right or wrong. This is about learning. This is about growing. This is about trial and error. This is about Grace. Deep, expansive Grace. May we become familiar with Her. May we gift Her to others and to self. And to others and to self. And to others and to self. And in each gifting, may we realize just how plentiful She is. Just how endless.

That we would remember Grace. 

This is my hope, that in each and every condition of the untamed campfires that is our Spirit, we would remember Grace. That we would write odes to mothers like mine. 

Human.