The price of manifestation in this one-song-uni-verse is a wild, open, chaotic stew, where every thing and all things erupt.
The suffering my adult son is experiencing–all mothers carry this: “the mother gene,” with a scouring empathy for our offspring. If we allow, it burnishes us empty.
I bear suffering differently, now–as everymother, shouldering this particular flavor of stew.
It is not personal.
The only way, is through. All that is required is noticing, which by its very nature, is infinitely compassionate and eternally loving. No longer diving into the painful soup with him does not make me a bad mother. I’m a better mother for not doing so. I’m here, available, filled with love for my son-who-is my-very-own-self.
He knows my cell number.
© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2016
I took this snapshot about forty years ago.