The Gathering

 Not long ago, I cared for my aging Mother as she flirted with the landscape of the deep woods of dementia. She would wander in and out as if testing the waters of hide and go seek and hold on and release.

I worked part time, thinking it was safe to leave her at home for only a few short hours a day. 

  The last season of Autumn in which she was still mobile and not quite as fragile is etched in my mind.  I would frequently find her as I drove up the driveway, standing in the front yard, gathered up inside the space of her enchantment and beholding.

My Mother was utterly enthralled and joyful. There in the midst of the swirling of leaves she had gathered and unknowingly released.

Her chosen receptacle for the placement of her harvest was a laundry basket. She tenderly gathered the leaves and offered them gently off of the rake and into their place. She did not seem to notice them leave in the breeze through the deep holes that could not contain them. 

At that time and in that Autumn, I had deeper holes within me.  I had not yet done my patchwork prayers of full surrender as salve to my flaws and of meeting each moment in luminous, childlike, inspiring awe. I was a basket of fear for the things yet to come,  that I desperately sought to control and to banish. As if I could vanish the gifts there before me, mislabeling them all and trading them in for the feeding of fears that I feared would move in.

I reminded my Mother that the “rule” was that she was not to go outside until I was home. I reminded her that it was for her “safety “. But she had tried repeatedly to teach me that true safety lied in releasing such concepts of need. And that great Trees are born to give birth to the fall and the flow and the trust of their leaves.

Her eyes held only curiosity as I walked her through my  litany of how to keep the rushing tides at bay. And of how the tides spoke endlessly in language that my words all failed to say. 

She was a bit disappointed that I just couldn’t see. She gracefully folded the holes that had held me and placed them so neatly and completely at my feet. Safely tucked within the red, gold glow of leaves set free.

She was so proud. So pleased. So joyfully uplifted through her raking and gathering of the harvest of the trees . She had hoped I would see. But she realized quickly, by a kindness forged of maternal and eternal alchemy, that she would surrender her hopes of being seen, to instead, see me.

I see her now in every red, gold, spinning leaf. 

I see her as I fold warm linens that will hold me as I sleep. 

I see her in my children’s, children’s, children and the legacies they’ll keep. Through gathering and folding and beholding what is at their feet.

I see her as I unfold further into who I hope to be. While giving thanks for roots and shoots of sheltering Mother Trees.  While scooping up the harvest that swirls deep inside of me.  And weaving a soft basket from the tapestry of leaves, made to pour down upon the ground and feed the newborn Trees.

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