Mother Lode: Smelting Gold from Kryptonite

in-the-backyard-in-columbus-oh

     Sunday, October 16th, would have been my mother’s 82nd birthday. I’ve made reference elsewhere to the halo of stupefaction I have customarily experienced around the birth and death anniversaries of both my parents since they passed in 2011. This year that cloud drifted forward in time, settled over me 24 hours earlier (or so), and had passed by the morning I expected it.   Perhaps it had something to do with that powerful perigee moon, which was affecting emotional weather in many quarters.
     Though it started without emotion, Sunday was not without poignancy. I exercised my commemorative impulse that morning by emailing loving wishes to my friend Lawrence, who shares my mom’s birthday and who became an important figure in my father’s life long after my parents shared little but a last name…and this single daughterly knot in the thread between them.
     In his reply to my birthday greeting, Lawrence said that he had awoke that morning thinking of me…”and your Dad and the last time I saw you both together, with him sooo deeply smiling at you in his bed.”   Emotion gushed forth, briefly, but more real, I noted, than anything I’ve felt for months, maybe years.
     It felt like a validation, a celebration of a reality I feel removed from now, but which lives inside me somewhere. The life my parents gave me, together.
     It somehow felt like both parents were reaching to me through Lawrence’s words. And each of us was being celebrated and blessed by the others in the triad.
Here I celebrate my mother:
     How much pain she endured and yet was such a decent person.
     Her Libran Dharma to look at all sides, and if there was not a cure, at least she could find an explanation.
     Her rationality…
     …and her emotionality, deep torsive rancor buried deep in her joints
            (until it could not be contained there).
She did all she could to provide for me, to be my root chakra.
And now I am detoxing from my root, both her indignant rage and my own,
            through an anal fissure that is stubborn to heal,
                        that finds relief in bellowing chants to the many faces of Kali.
In my mind’s eye now, I can see the physical wound flanked by fang-marks of light–             
white hot Ida and red hot Pingala.
And if I see Ida and Pingala merge,
they smelt and heal the rift between them as my parents in me;
   and I become the One from the two,
       able to root as the One for the first time.

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