Reluctant, Yet Blooming Nevertheless

It’s not the trim and neat little bushes standing at attention in the posture their humanoids have manifested.

No, it’s the wild, giant stands, the pulsating yellow energy that manifests in flowering madness, yellow eruptions of life force.

This spring’s forsythia, like the rest of us, had some hesitancy.  

Is it safe to come forward?  

Today is warm now—but—what might tomorrow bring?  

This sun is tenderly warm.  Wait—snow in the forecast?

Along with the banishing of assumptions and pre-conceptions we all are being asked to renounce, it appears even Ms. Forsythia took her time this year, trusting her journey, oh, so slowly.

We had a forsythia bush my childhood yard.  

At least, I think we did.  

So much for memory.

Can it be trusted?

What was real?

What is real?

What might be real, 

In this world 

That demands 

Our bravery yet unimagined?

In one thought,
In one breath,

I together

Remember

My mother and forsythia.

My mom, 

Tillie, stretched thinner than thin, 

Cared for my chronically ill/always dying/didn’t die until 84 years/dear dad, 

Worked in our grocery store, 

Managed the house, 

Attended to my sister and me………

Nevertheless,

My mom 

Tillie 

Was a 

Serious

Plant Lady.

As was her mom, 

My blessed gram, 

Sonia.

I come from 

A long line of 

Serious

Plant Ladies.

Me?

The tomboy thing

Got in the way.

We had

A forsythia bush 

In our yard.

Or at least, 

I think we did.

~~~

Tillie.

My mom.

Resilient, silent, 

Beyond-competent.

Plants 

All over the house

Exploding with beauty.

One-pointed, 

Momma Bear love,

Not a cuddly and fuzzy,

She was herself,

Quiet determination.

For these past odd months, 

I have been bothered with hand pain…

Initially, I thought it was from stretching 

My sleepy-not-participating-in-creating-the-music pinky finger, while learning classical guitar.

I stopped playing.

It got worse.

Then it got—

Worse yet.

First my baby finger taunted me.

Then my ring finger fully jumped on board,

With clicking, snapping, swollen discomfort.

Ouch.

The pandemic prevented 

Forward action

Or so

It seemed.

Finally, this week 

I landed at the hand surgeon, 

Diagnosis and treatment offered:

I 

have 

A

Trigger finger.

The treatment,

One cortisol shot,

Easily offered.

And now live on.

But it was the doctor’s message 

That fascinated me.

MOST BLESSEDLY,

He told me,

Trigger fingers are “genetic”.

Ah, yes, 

My mom

Tillie 

Had a trigger finger!

Left hand

Like mine.

Her

Surgery

I remember. 

With terror,

My frightened dad

Sitting in the waiting room

Lips moving in plaintive, silent prayer.

I FEEL BLESSED BY MY MOTHER’S LEGACY.

Mom,

I take your pain,

It brings me closer 

To you.

Mom,

I claim my finger pain

As a link,

As a breath,

As a connection

To you.

Your hand.

Your pain.

Your resilience.

Your heart.

This morning

A friend told me that she 

Is becoming 

Her German grandmother, 

Ignoring expiration dates, 

Diving in the arms of meat and potatoes and butter.

I 

Am

Becoming

My 

Mother.

I 

Chose 

Her strong heart.

I ask for her strength.

I request from her 

The ability

To get through.

This 

Even this.

~~~

I sit on the porch 

Of this house

This house 

I have known 

And lived within 

For several decades.

This house I walked away from 

Eighteen months ago.

This house that 

Welcomes me back today.

Over there,

Under the angel statue 

Now tarnished

With rust

Buzzie the Bird is buried.

Over there

The bush we planted 

When Tillie died.

That apple tree 

Where Lucy the Bossy -Big-Sister-Dog 

Chased Poor Young Zac 

Like wildfire,

Round and round

Again.

The holes, 

Each hole, 

Dug by each dog, 

Out of 

A frenzied claiming.

~~~

I claim this space as mine.

I claim this trigger finger

This manifestation 

Of limitation and pain

As my inheritance.

I choose to become 

My mother,

The best of her,

My dad,

The best of him.

The people before them

My people

I choose to draw

Energy,

Sustenance,

Light.

I choose to draw 

From the roots of my being,

From the people 

Who came before me,

From the roots of the land 

Upon which

I have walked,

Upon which,

I have lived.

I choose 

To draw 

Solace

And 

Support.

Solace and support.

Solace and support.

~~~

I receive solace and support from listening and participating in chanting.  Here is one of my favorites, The Devi prayer (from 108 sacred names Divine Mother) by Craig Pruess & Ananda.  Please do enjoy: