we have forgotten so much of the matriarchal language
the songs of mothers rocking children to sleep
babies nursing at the breast
cotton cloth close to the skin
rhubarb pie and a dollop of ice-cream.
dinnertime conversations of remembrances
and grandma and papa
that history of gone but not forgotten.
someone said a few years ago,
“It had to end one day.”
and I murmured, why,
under my breath
and folded another kitchen towel and slid it into the third drawer down.
I have hummed for years
and even the woman with Alzheimer’s
I cared for turned to smile at me with her eyes
and the tune went on for a while longer
I have watched birds in the bath
and the rain from the skies
held animals that were dying
told lies to small children
so I could lead them astray into fairy tales
and to the god with the smile and the moon.
I stepped further into a narrow realm
of goodness and miracles,
Of fading traditions and groups of grandmothers who gather to bless the space between – the space of here and now and not quite yet
The conversations that seem out of step and far from the core of health and home.
Why do the glaciers melt?
Who is playing ?
Who is creating?
What is time?
What happened in the 70s?
“where have all the flowers gone?”
The mamas march on.
And the white haired crones with the tribe of thousands
Carry the torch
Who drinks the water and cares for the wood?
Who kneels in reverence when Spirit calls?
I stepped further into the space of reminder
As these years go quickly
And pride is a sin – chapters are being written
Pages are being torn out.
The sun rises and the sun sets.
You really do get to choose the color of each day and the tone or the mood.
Leave the light turned on. Breathe love into the atmosphere everyday.
The matriarch is still holding the line with strength and compassion.
With wisdom and bold vision.
A beat of the drum and old eyes see the narrow path ,
worn and still visible, the ancestors gather, my mother appears
Those souls just beyond the boundary of visible/invisible
And within the veil of divine feminine
The sheer breeze of breath inhales the perfume of remembrance
I swept the patio with the fading blooms
and the breeze kept moving the branches of the trees
The land spoke of fireflies and whispers of wildflowers yet to grow near the fields to the west with the rising corn.
The candles were lit and a bow to the moon.
Donna Knutson is a Spiritual Director and Interfaith Minister living her home, her gardening designs, her ministry on two acres of land in Nebraska, called Sanctuary. She is the author of two books, Finding God on Mayberry Street and Finding God on Mayberry Street: A Reflective Journal. Both are available on Amazon. Donna has taught classes for years on grief, beauty, hope, and finding your true spirit inside your heart of love. She leads workshops and retreats on her land and encourages the deep dives of discovery and transformation. She can be found on Facebook at Donna Knutson-author.