I don’t have pictures from Mother’s Day last week. We didn’t have any special celebration.
We are fragile. We are feeling fragile. We are not up to noise, or cheer, or talking. We are over talking.
For the moment.
So we went to the mountain that is not really a mountain. And we held hands while we walked silently.
Hand in hand with the two who define my motherhood. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.
When I got distracted by my thoughts, I just went back to left foot, right foot. I realized I still mix up my right and my left. I laughed.
When our hands got sweaty we released and walked on our own. Left foot, right foot. Someone behind me was talking about cats. I got annoyed. The only directions we received: no talking. I needed to get back to walking. I had to let my annoyance float away. It was hard.
One step, two steps, breathe.
I missed the soft skin of their hands in my hands, I reached for one again. I felt love, and family, and peace. I remembered a book, Peace is Every Step. How long ago had I read it? Why wasn’t I reading it now? I let it go and went back to my walking.
One, two steps, breathe in.
My husband’s knee couldn’t make it up the hill so we were three, not four. There were over a hundred of us, but for me it was only us three. Warming up as the sun melted the mist, and breathing harder as we headed up a steeper hill. I got tired, but still I walked and counted and breathed. The road was rough and pocked with holes and ruts. The hand I held steadied me. A subtle role reversal, but I noticed.
One, two, three steps, breathe out.
I thought about the Dharma talk we had just heard. Imagined finding the baby Buddha inside me, waiting for me. Like honey inside a swarm of bees, he said. Isn’t that nice? Or the seed hidden in the very depths of the flower. Much nicer I thought.
We are all mothers of the baby Buddha inside us, he said. We just need to have a clear mind and access, and… And something else he said. I couldn’t remember. The talk was peppered with words in a different language, in an accent I couldn’t quite penetrate. Like looking through a dusty window and trying to comprehend the beauty of the meadow on the other side. I could make out the shape and color of the flower that was his talk, but couldn’t quite see its delicate structure or catch its scent.
Come back, breathe, walk.
A few people stopped walking and began staring at the bushes, pointing out something they had seen to others. I thought of the sign posted on the way in, “Be mindful of toxic snakes and insects” it said.
I love that sign. Every time I pass it I want to take a picture. But I never do.
Right foot, left foot. Be mindful of rattlesnakes.
Then we continued down, down, to harmony grove.
A small stand of trees beside a dry creek bed. Flowers were everywhere. A small statue waited to be washed with flowers and water. Everyone had the opportunity to pour the sweet water on the statue. The symbolic bathing of a child, the nurturing of the peace within us.
When we met back up with my husband, their father, we were indeed home. We had arrived. And, in that step, there was peace. And maybe we were a little less fragile.