Remembering Her

by Gretchen Sleicher


When people remember her
The word that they say most is kindness
There was never a child
That she could not see in their wholeness
       A weaver of baskets
       A stringer of beads
       A teacher of children
       But what did it mean to be
       The one whose own kindness
       She could not receive?
When I remember her
The word that comes most is acceptance
As her child there was nothing
In me that was not met with welcome
       A sewer of costumes
       A planter of seeds
       She nurtured in others
       But what did it mean to be
       The one whose acceptance
       She could not receive?
How many generations back? Where did it start?
Must her children and their children bear it, too?
Can we break the ancient pattern that keeps us apart
From generosity to our own imperfect hearts?
When the earth remembers her
In wordless embrace of her loving
And the threads of her life
Join the fabric of one great belonging
      A lover of wildflowers
      Of driftwood and trees
      These she’s become now
      At last she is free to be
      The one whose own loving she finally receives


In memory of my mom, who passed along to me many wonderous ways I treasure, and some ancient patterns I’m still working to break.

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Remembering Her

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