Of mothers and the Great Mother

Images are tricky things. They can be useful, but also limiting. Listen to the poet:

My mind dreams up this image
I could make with clay.
But is Mother clay?
It's a waste of labor.
She has a sword, a necklace of skulls.
Is Mother then an image of clay?
Can an image of clay
Cool the mind's fever?
I've heard the hue of her skin is a dark
That lights the world.
Can an image of clay be made
That marvelous dark with a coat of paint?
And Mother's eyes
Are the sun, the moon, the fire.
What craftsman can render such eyes?
Kali cuts down evil.
Is this the work of straw and clay?

She will scour his mind
And show Herself to Ramprasad.

Grace & Mercy, poem 53, page 61.

There's a certain, dare I say bitter, irony that Navaratri this year started on what would have been the 94th anniversary of my mother's birth and ended during the 20th anniversary of her death. It was what is called a "wrongful" death since the paramedic didn't bother to check her vital signs before attempting to chemically kick start her heart. It had already restarted and the action was just too much for her.

The paramedic left town the next day. The attitude of others was basically, she was old and fat, she'd have died anyway, get over it. Sorry, no, but to quote one of my brothers, the one who first got "the call", "Gone, but not forgotten."

For me, the pain has faded and the hole in my heart has scabbed over mostly, but I still have zero tolerance for loud-mouthed braggarts who claim their work is "error-free" so they never check their calculations or run a spell check--and leave the clean up to others. I've worked with some of them--you know who you are.

Finally, since the Hallowed Evening is two weeks away, I'm posting this in honor of Opal Mary and CJ, our father, who joined her 19 months later. For those who believe Samhain/Halloween isn't complete without a spooky story, here's mine:

For years after I moved away from home, I'd receive quiet messages from the Beyond when I was drifting off to sleep. Usually it was a Voice whispering my first name, which I refused to use at that time. However, when I'd hear the Voice, I usually snapped awake. "Huh, what? What do you want?" And the connection vanished.

The evening of Mother's death, I was pretty much poleaxed and couldn't sleep for all the crying. The Voice called my by the name I preferred and said, "It's all right." That was just enough to let me drift into sleep.

Thanks to Whoever and help guide me from even inadvertently harming others.