We are the motion of life. Incomplete imperfections on our way to work, to do work, to do good work, to be important. Our movement starts with careful caring. First breath right side up in our mother’s arms. Warm and safe. Sincere and clumsy she sees her child in the light and recognizes herself from within. The journey began with a moan and closed eyes, on a worn out mattress under a bright half moon. This is the love you know and feel. Held tight under your heart watching your stomach rise and fall. The movement is reassurance that life is there. Floating in a dark universe counting down until the light finds him. She knew his name before her arms knew his weight. She knew his limbs before his eyes. She knew he was alive and well. He was welcome and nurtured. The breast met the lips and the bond was built. A bridge of stone that could never crumble. The path could be empty and footsteps few but the stone was strong and had faith the weight would be back. Walking towards life and love to rejoin where he was built. She was kind and patient. She had seen and known death. Her beginning left too soon. Before the old wise words could run around her mind and her burdens could be eased even for just a moment. She was on her own with a man that would hold her but not be the last traveler she walked with. Within her arms the son she built would find endless love. Endless to the last breath of the last body that saw the last light. She was a god in the ruins of eden being thankful for the beauty that still existed in the broken glass and weeds. She saw the good when the good didn’t want to be seen. She held the bad when the bad had no where else to turn. Her name will be among the saints a proud few knew. Her son will build his own wings and carry her name on the wind. Telling every ear that will listen of the woman she was and the warmth the world lost.
We move toward life when death pushes us into the cold night. We stand by headstones and hold memories tight in our clenched palms. We mourn the chaos when the quiet truth settles in.
We lose our makers. Our makers lose us. We are fragile and immortal. We are the seams of love. We are the movement of life. Incomplete imperfections on our way to work, to do work, to do good work, to be important. Our movement stops with careful caring. Our movement stops. Last breath right side down in our own arms. Cold and ready. Death comes to every heart to make it still. Life comes to every heart to make it move. Mother makes son. Son makes mother proud. MOVE TOWARD LIFE