The Mother

 (Author note Trigger alert this story explores life, death, the grieving process and alternative beliefs.)



When did I first realise that I needed to break away from conventional religion?

That’s a hard one. I guess it didn’t come as a sudden break, but more as a slow erosion.

I’ve heard some people refer to religion as a `faith` whilst others refer to it as a `belief`. I guess for the first part of my life I fell into the former camp, my religion was my faith. I followed in my mother’s footsteps, quite literally, without any pause to reason why. I gave myself up to the unknown as I accompanied her to Sunday service, and had faith that an invisible father welcomed us into his home. That he watched over us with love, if a little judgemental at times.

In my childish innocence, I believed that as long as I did the right `Christian` thing life would be good. And when I failed do the right thing, my sins could be wiped away, with the simplicity of a good confession and five Hail Mary’s.

Looking back, life was simpler than, as I took little personal responsibility, and trusted my future over to God. And although I didn’t think about it back then, but if I had, my faith would have assured me that if the planet burnt, it did so on his watch and had nothing what so ever to do with me!

When my mother fell sick, I prayed. As she took that long agonising journey towards death, I continued to pray. Although in the years that it took for the disease to ravish her body, for her to transform before my eyes, into not a person but a living suffering shadow of a person, my prayers changed. Sometimes my prayers changed daily, in the morning I would pray for that ever hypothetical miracle, whilst in the evening after watching her suffer I would (courageously considering my age) pray for her release.

I began to question why this disease even exist? Surely if God created everything, he was the architect of this brutal assassin. And if so, why did he feel the need for such suffering? They say none of us are given a cross too heavy to bear, and my mother in her desire to appear brave often quoted that saying, as she smiled feebly and assured me that `we would get through this.`

Only she didn’t, and I was the one left alone to carry that cross! At just eighteen years old, I felt as abandoned by my Divine father, as I had been ‘even before my birth’ by my low life, biological father.

For a while, I alternated between numbness, sorrow and utter rage. Sleep evaded me, and I often forgot to eat. Eventually, an emaciated version of me returned to the church, clinging to the faith that my mother’s spirit still lingered there, and that somehow during the `Creed` I would hear her sweet voice reciting the verses with me. And sometimes I did, imagination is a powerful tool, when wielded by a tortured heart.

Years passed, and the church became my community, my salvation from the abject loneliness that was my life. I had never had contact with my father’s people, and my mother’s family tolerated me at best, saw me as the root of her downfall at worst. An unmarried mother in a devout family was never going to go down well. I guess now with her atoning for her sins, inside those pearly gates, I was the rotten fruit best forgotten.

Alone with a cross that often felt too heavy to bear, but determined not to be nailed to my sorrow, I applied for a job in a florist. We hadn’t had a garden when I was growing up, just a tiny balcony with a clothes line strung across it and a net to prevent the pigeons from entering and making nests. I hadn’t previously considered becoming a florist, as flowers had never really featured in my life, until my mothers funeral. It was the wreaths made up with different flowers that caught my eye, and with a little research I discovered each had different meanings. My mother’s family, turned up with lavish wreaths consisting of red Carnations to show how much their hearts ached at her loss, white Lillie's to demonstrate that their love for her was pure, and bright Honeysuckles to express their devoted affection. As I read those meanings during the days following her funeral, my rage threatened to choke me. Where were their hearts when she needed their love? Even in my naive youth, I knew that a pure love is unconditional and supports you even when you make a mistake. And as for devoted affection, don’t make me laugh!

I hadn’t the funds to buy my mother a wreath, and in all honesty until I saw them laid out in front of her coffin, I hadn’t even thought about flowers. During the service as I’d sat in a sea of black, their natural energy and bright colours had brought a sense of comfort, a reminder that life went on. Afterwards, with my new found knowledge, I planted yellow pansies around her grave, so that she would know I was always thinking of her.

I loved working at the florist, I was young, and soaked up information like a sponge. It wasn’t long before I was fully qualified. How I adored creating those grand and intricate arrangements, knowing each one conveyed a secret colourful message. It wasn’t long before I found myself conscripted by my church to arrange their flowers, and in my faith I happily offered up my skills for free.

I might have continued that way, if it hadn't been for a particular funeral. One with a wreath that spelled out `Mother` in white lilies. Some of the flowers had been brought in the evening before, I noticed their scent as I pushed open the door. I often went to the church of an evening to make sure my arrangements still looked fresh.

The sound of sobbing stopped me in my tracks, as my eyes followed the sound to a young girl sat alone in the front pew. My heart went out to her, but still my feet refused to move. Trance-like I turned and left, triggered by that simple white floral tribute and the young woman, who reminded me of myself a decade earlier.

I returned a few days later, the funeral had been and gone. The white floral word had vanished, as if it had never existed. The only flowers that remained were my arrangements, many of which had wilted. Up until then, I had never allowed them to reach this point of decay, and somehow seeing them, smelling their rotting aroma that hung heavy in the air like incense, opened my eyes to the truth.

Seeing a vase of wilted Irises, as if for the first time, I realised that I had been so busy celebrating the beauty of flowers that I'd failed to see that the cut blooms symbolised the dying. These beautiful blooms that had so recently been alive, had been slowly dying before our eyes. Their essence had been fading, just as one day ours would. As I stood there, I recalled being told as a child, that the smoke drifting from a candle conveys your prayer heavenwards. That was a lie, founded upon a pyramid of deception. In truth it simply fades away to nothing. In that moment I realised my faith had been constructed of wisps of smoke and that flowers wilting before me were real! They had lived, they had grown from seed and blossomed just as I had, just as my mother had before me, and just like her, in time they had withered and faded. They were the real miracle of creation, just as we were.

Something changed within me in that moment, I guess the erosion finally caused the wall of faith to crumble. I walked out of the church that day, and never returned. I cancelled my membership to the `Faith` camp and joined the `Belief` camp. Focusing fully on what I could see in order to believe, and not what I was told I should have faith in. There was no father figure on a fluffy white cloud overseeing our world, instead there was Mother Nature, do her best to withstand the ravishes of time. I understood perhaps for the first time the saying `To each there is a season` My mother had grown, blossomed and expired all within her own unique season, just like the rest of us would. Death no longer felt detached, but instead became just another point on the compass of life. A season like any other, a cold winter that had to be endured in order to see the Spring arrive. Looking back the biggest change in me, was personal responsibility, when you believe in something, you also realise that you have to take action to preserve it. And the more I allowed myself to see, the more I believed that without our help, Mother Nature would run out of seasons, and it would be everyone’s funeral. I had already lost one mother, I had no intentions of losing a second!

I believed, in the flowers, the grass, the trees, the soil beneath my feet. It was easy to abandon the father, just as I felt he had abandoned me, and open my arms, heart and my mind to Mother Earth. They say every journey starts with a single step and acknowledging the truth was mine. I quit my job, and applied for funding to study Environmental Sciences at my local University, where I focused on sustainable horticulture and forestry. In my downtime, I studied Wicca alone, if I were into labels I might have described myself as Hedge Witch, but labels belonged to my past and camp faith. I wasn’t drawn to the Craft side of it, as I couldn’t really see the difference between a prayer or a spell. I didn’t want to trade one god, for a plethora of gods and goddesses, instead I wanted to fully focus on Mother Earth. I learnt to work with the seasons and tides, as well as the rhythm of the moon, planet and stars. I loved how Wiccans saw divinity in nature, and could witness first hand miracles as they uncurled in the soft velvet fibres of a new leaf, loved how I wasn’t outside of this Divinity but an intricate part of it. I took to heart the Wiccan belief that it was my responsibility to acknowledge the Divine by honouring nature.

I cherished the seasons as they arrived and hardly noticed another decade departing. My mother was no longer confined to the earth beneath her cold headstone, as I now felt her each time I walked through a woods, and glimpsed the magnificence of a yellow winter Pansy. Unaligned, I connected with Wiccan Covets and later Druid gatherings. I stood in stone circles on the dawns of Summer Solstices, and raised a cup of mead in Mother Earth’s honour. And some where along that path, I met Sean, my soulmate, an eco-warrior with a vision that far outstripped my own. I danced willingly to the beat of his drum and followed him without doubt across the breadth of Britain from the South to the North. I ended up in the depths of Lake distract, where he’d established a small community, not built upon faith, but instead a belief that they could do better. As a community they believed it was their duty to honour mother earth, and work consciously upon preserving a way of life that would ensure a future for everyone. As a community they opened their hearts to me, and became my new family.

I no longer worshipped an invisible god in a church made of brick, but instead sat in harmony with the Mother. I no longer sang along to hymns, that spoke of sorrow and restriction, but instead listened to the birdsong that sounded from the canopy high above, and thrilled at the occasionally pecking of a woodpecker, or hoot of an owl.

Its only when you arrive at your destination, that you can look back and fully appreciate your journey. My journey, had been a slow erosion of those walls built by faith that had hemmed me in. With each step I took- from realising that my prayers to save my mother were futile, to understanding that I, like everyone else on this planet, has an active role to play, was part of the process of letting go of dogmas and creeds and accepting personal responsibility.

For the first time in my life, I had a real sense of connection. Our abode was a simple yurt, we shared a shower block (that used rain water) with a community of like minded individuals. My horticultural qualifications were being put to good use, in our community’s organic sustainable farm. We grew enough to be both self efficient and have a surplus to bring in an income. Sean, my eco warrior, might be a dreamer but he is no fool. He invested our returns wisely, in a second field of yurts, just a short distance from our own. Our very own sustainable glamping site, where visitors came to relax, and if they wanted, learn from us. As a community, we were a collection of individuals from different walks of life, from foraging to stonewalling, from weaving to preserving, we had the skills and most importantly, we shared a desire to educate the world, on how best to save our Mother.

We are each part of the circle of life, with compass points along the way. In some ways I consider myself a late bloomer. Looking back, I believe my growth was stunted, by rejection, the shame inflicted upon me by others, and losing my mother before I was fully fledged and ready to do so. A jagged hole remained within me. Sean warmed my Sacral Chakra, and filled me with the fire of passion. He held most of my heart, but a little part remained untouched, like an empty room in a house that needs a purpose. My mother still visited there from time to time, but it needed a new more permanent occupant.

The occupant arrived, on a cold mid February morning and immediately took residency within my heart. She couldn’t have been more perfect, ten tiny fingers and toes, tufts of dark fluffy hair that already revealed a rebellious nature, and little rose bud shaped mouth, that I couldn’t wait to see smile. Her eyes appeared a midnight shade of blue, but I had a feeling they would turn to the same deep dark brown of her father’s, and no doubt have the same twinkles, as if the night sky shimmered within them.

As I gazed down, I felt a rush of loyalty towards this tiny creature, this newest member of our community. Looking up into Sean’s eyes, I witnessed both the amazement and devotion of a father’s love. In that moment, I knew without doubt, that I would be forever faithful to this little girl. `Violet` I whispered, and the name felt right. It had been my mother’s middle name, but until my daughter’s birth not one I had considered. My mother’s first name was Angelica, Sean liked it, but to me it came with too many connotations of conventional religion, and I had feared it would be shortened to Angel. Now as I gazed upon my daughter, and felt a familiar love that I had not felt since my mother’s passing, I knew that she was a Violet. That she would evoke loyalty, faithfulness and devotion from all who met her, but most importantly of all, from the parents who had created her, and community who would support and cherish her.

As I watched my own tiny miracle sleep, I knew more than ever, that I needed to preserve Mother Earth for Violet’s sake. That prayers alone would not save our planet and guarantee her the future she deserved. I had a responsibility now as a mother, to guide our community, as together we strived to right the wrongs that had been inflicted upon our mother. The bond between mother and child is as old as time. I only fully understood this in those first moments with my child, when I knew that her well-being was far more important to me than my own. And in that moment I had no faith in things being okay if we continued on in the same way, and a real belief that her future, the same as every child born on our planet, is entwined with the continued well being of our Mother, Earth!