Sacred Circle

She was ten years old when she met her mother. It’s strange the fantasy we built in our minds. Realty can never truly live up to the heart’s longing, it can never match the colors in the mind’s eye. She was two years old when her mother migrated abroad. She grew up hearing stories about her mother’s grace, beauty and kindness. Her aunts told her of the close relationship between her parents, how their love had been the stuff of love songs and sonnets. She heard of her mother’s bravery, how she chose to travel abroad to create a better life for her family. She heard of her mother’s smile, how the sun was jealous of its brilliance. All these things formed a pedestal on which she perched the image of her mother. Her father was a loving man who raised his children with the help of family and friends. He never spoke of his wife, the pain was too great. But he held onto the hope of seeing his wife again. He held onto it with tired hands, and a heart that eventually failed from the strain of hanging on to a lost love. This tragedy led to this moment. With her holding her little sister’s hand in an overcrowded airport halfway across the world. Her father’s death, still so fresh and painful, augmented the dissonance she felt looking into this stranger’s eyes. This was not the mother of her dreams. This stern, angry, bitter looking woman could not be the same mother she was told about. That impression defined their relationship for the next few years.

She was sixteen years old when she understood her mother. Coming home from the library, she overheard a conversation between her mother and aunt. She heard of her mother’s pain, disillusion, and trauma. She listened as her mother discussed her fears. Fear of not being enough for her children. She heard her talk of the love she lost. How her mother longed to see her husband, to hold him. She realized her mother was once just a woman before she became a mother. She understood that age did not exempt anyone from loneliness. Her mother had lost her home, her family, then her hope. The hope of them being reunited, was lost when her father died. She listened as her mother expressed her regret in leaving, how it had been her father’s idea. She then understood how hard the past few years had been. How frightening it was for a single woman, an immigrant, to be the sole provider for her family. In that hallway holding on to her books, she learned what it meant to truly be courageous. She learned smiles were sometimes the price for strength (she could count on her hands the times she had seen her mother smile). In that hallway, she made herself a promise. She would never let life steal her smile. She swore to live without regret, to make decisions for herself and to always follow her heart. She would reach for more than what was given to her, and would live the life her mother couldn’t.

She was twenty seven years old when she fell in love with her mother. She was a new mother herself, holding her precious daughter in her arms. She fell in love the way small children fell asleep: quickly and without warning, She loved completely, insanely and without reserve. With love came fear, so much fear. The fragile stranger in her arms came with no instructions. Her mother became her rock. The two women spent hours together, learning from each other. Her mother became her teacher. She taught her not only how to care for the infant, but how to persevere. How to pour love out of an empty cup. How to keep moving past the point of exhaustion. Her mother taught her how to love. As the old adage goes: When you teach you learn. The two women fell in love with the small baby and each other. Mothers can sometimes lose themselves in their children, but contradictorily, that is also where they find themselves again. In their children's spirits, their smiles. Her mother smiled, a real smile, one that was never too far from her lips from that day forth. Her mother found her smile in her daughter. The small infant redeemed both of these women and returned them to each other. Brought them back to the sacred circle of women. A circle consisting of mothers and daughters, one strengthened over generations, bound by grief, and love. She saw herself in her mother’s smile and her heart forgave. It forgave the distance that had existed between them for years, it forgave the lost illusions and dreams. Standing over the infant's cradle, mother and daughter reconciled. They wrapped their arms around each other, and brought the baby into their circle.

She was thirty seven years old when she lost her mother. Dear God how can anyone live with this kind of pain, she thought. Her mother’s death was disabling. She could not fathom a day without her wise counsel, her guidance, her love. Yes love. A love that grew out of two stubborn hearts. She fell in a daze, and for days could not get out of bed. Her family’s concern could not penetrate her tears, her heart could only grieve. Darkness entered her life, and she could not find the light. Until she heard her son’s cries. Her two year old son. The last grandchild her mother would ever meet. The first boy born to a family made of women. His cries reached her broken heart. She got out of the bed like a somnambule, and followed her feet to his room. When she opened the door, there stood her oldest child, her 10yr old daughter, rocking her little brother. Comforting him, telling him of his mother’s love. Telling the little boy that his mother’s smile was brighter than the sun. She told her little brother of his mother’s strength and courage. She stood there in that hallway with tears falling from her eyes. This time they were tears of joy and peace. Because she realized her mother would never be gone, as long as she lived. The circle was very much alive, and that age did not exempt anyone from loneliness. Her daughter needed her. So standing in that hallway she remembered the promise she made herself, that she would never let life steal her smile. And so, she smiled and pulled her children in the circle of her arms.