The mother is the
eternal role,
the eternal carer.
She arrives,
because she never left.
She sits before you,
glowing, green like a sun kissed
meadow,
warm like the refuge of
a bonfire in a winter night,
a guiding light in the dark,
like the bright full moon.
Before you, she sits,
and you know that you have
found refuge from everything,
from the pain of being alive,
your tired muscles can stop running.
You have arrived to destination.
Life doesn’t need to be lived in exhaust.
You do not need to do anything,
or be anything,
to prove worthy of her love.
You simply are here,
and she is too,
and that is enough.
You are safe.
She is the air all around you.
You breathe the mother in,
she knows your airways,
she knows what to fill with forgiveness,
where to whisper, “It’s okay,
My darling,” she will say,
again and again.
She braids your hair
because she loves the feeling
of your silk against her fingertips,
and not because you asked so.
Nothing is taken or given
or exchanged.
Love just exists.
The way you just exist.
The way she just exists.
All is a naturally arising occurrence.
Surrender.
Whimsical Thread 