An Unexpected Mother’s Day Post
Dear Fellow Dreamer,
The letter I’d planned to send you today is taking longer to write than I’d thought. And so instead, since here in North America we celebrate Mother’s Day this weekend, I’m sending you a brief, curated post in honour of mothers, mother figures, grandmothers, the Great Mother, memories of mothers, being a mother, and all the many ways that—regardless of our gender and whether or not we’ve birthed a child—we can be nurturers in this world. In fact, the subject of nurture is central to the piece I’m preparing to deliver to you shortly. Please look for it in the coming days.
One of my favourite writers on the subject of mothers was neither a mother nor a woman, but Vietnamese Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh (1926 – 2022).
If you haven’t read his essay, “A Rose for Your Pocket,” I recommend it—whether or not your mother is still living. But especially if she is.
Thich’s essay includes this short description of a Japanese Mother’s Day custom: “If your mother is still alive, you wear a red flower on your pocket or your lapel, proud that you still have your mother. If she is no longer alive, you wear a white flower.” He shares his despair at having to wear a white flower. Thich also shares his wisdom. Find the complete article at the Thich Nhat Hanh Foundation. I hope you enjoy it.
In addition, the following three paragraphs come from Thich’s book, No Death, No Fear: Comforting Wisdom for Life. They point to the inevitable sadness of change, but also to the healing power of dreams and sudden shifts in perception:
“The day my mother died I wrote in my journal, ‘A serious misfortune of my life has arrived.’ I suffered for more than one year after the passing away of my mother. But one night, in the highlands of Vietnam, I was sleeping in the hut in my hermitage. I dreamed of my mother. I saw myself sitting with her, and we were having a wonderful talk. She looked young and beautiful, her hair flowing down. It was so pleasant to sit there and talk to her as if she had never died. When I woke up it was about two in the morning, and I felt very strongly that I had never lost my mother. The impression that my mother was still with me was very clear. I understood then that the idea of having lost my mother was just an idea. It was obvious in that moment that my mother is always alive in me.
“I opened the door and went outside. The entire hillside was bathed in moonlight. It was a hill covered with tea plants, and my hut was set behind the temple halfway up. Walking slowly in the moonlight through the rows of tea plants, I noticed my mother was still with me. She was the moonlight caressing me as she had done so often, very tender, very sweet… wonderful! Each time my feet touched the earth I knew my mother was there with me. I knew this body was not mine but a living continuation of my mother and my father and my grandparents and great-grandparents. Of all my ancestors. Those feet that I saw as ‘my’ feet were actually ‘our’ feet. Together my mother and I were leaving footprints in the damp soil.
“From that moment on, the idea that I had lost my mother no longer existed. All I had to do was look at the palm of my hand, feel the breeze on my face or the earth under my feet to remember that my mother is always with me, available at any time.”
P. S.
I’m lucky that my flower is red. If yours is white, do you believe you’ve ever received signs from your mother? Have you met her in a dream? I’d love to know.
Happy Mother’s Day.
