Hi James. Have you heard the quote by Barry Taylor, former AC/DC drummer turned priest? "God is the name of the blanket we throw over the Mystery to give it shape." I'm glad for the profound love you and your mother shared and that love that you share with us.
Since she was an infant, I’ve told my daughter, “You are my baby.” She's now 21 and I still say the same...meaning, you are my everything — my universe, my stars — a love beyond measure, a sacred connection I will always protect. The phrase holds worlds inside it. So when your mother said it to you, I know it meant everything.
This one is making me tear up this morning and feel grateful you had that week with your mother. These liminal moments are so sacred and you have stirred my thoughts and memories. Thank you for that, James.
Oh James, this was so tender and quietly beautiful. Thank you for sharing. It'll be 10 years this September since my father died, and when he was proud of me (which was often), he'd smile and say "that's my girl" with such warmth and softness, which I think is my version of "my baby". Also, my spiritual practice is very similar to yours. I'll need to sit with this prompt when I have some time.
This brings me back to my own last months with my mother, and the profound, transformative experience of sitting with her as she was dying and then long afterward as I waited for the coroner. Sacred indeed. I think I'm ready to write about it, five years on. Thank you so much for this.
Thank you for this tender reflection and poem, James, which brings to mind the way my father used to call me Grace, a way of alchemizing the awkward with love. It was not until I became an adult that I realized the twinkle in his eye existed because I was so not graceful but he loved me into an agility and poise that carries me now years later.
Thank you for sharing this incredible feeling. When my mom was dying, she was already long-gone (emotionally, verbally) from dementia. One way I got through that time was to imagine complete conversations with her in my mind. They, too, felt sacred.
I loved this poem. My father died in November. Family members took turns staying with him through his final days. He was afraid of dying, but we held him as he passed.
I had many sacred moments with my father throughout my life. We spent time together backpacking and skiing. He taught me to love wild spaces.
My family created a sacred place with our tears, stories of his life, and presence.
Thank you for your poem; it reminded me of my father's last days, filled with sacred grief.
Hi James. Have you heard the quote by Barry Taylor, former AC/DC drummer turned priest? "God is the name of the blanket we throw over the Mystery to give it shape." I'm glad for the profound love you and your mother shared and that love that you share with us.
Oh, Ann, I love that quote so much! You must have sensed something too--the first line started as "When I say the word God..."
Since she was an infant, I’ve told my daughter, “You are my baby.” She's now 21 and I still say the same...meaning, you are my everything — my universe, my stars — a love beyond measure, a sacred connection I will always protect. The phrase holds worlds inside it. So when your mother said it to you, I know it meant everything.
It did mean everything, and your daughter is so lucky, Debbie!
This one is making me tear up this morning and feel grateful you had that week with your mother. These liminal moments are so sacred and you have stirred my thoughts and memories. Thank you for that, James.
Thank you, dear Laura. That week will be imprinted on me always.
Oh James, this was so tender and quietly beautiful. Thank you for sharing. It'll be 10 years this September since my father died, and when he was proud of me (which was often), he'd smile and say "that's my girl" with such warmth and softness, which I think is my version of "my baby". Also, my spiritual practice is very similar to yours. I'll need to sit with this prompt when I have some time.
I sure hope you write about "That's my girl." It makes me tear up just to think about! Thanks for the kind words, Sarah.
Thank you, James. I think I will have to, one of these days.
This brings me back to my own last months with my mother, and the profound, transformative experience of sitting with her as she was dying and then long afterward as I waited for the coroner. Sacred indeed. I think I'm ready to write about it, five years on. Thank you so much for this.
Oh, I hope you do write about it, dear Melinda. Your poems are heart-saving, and your book is beautiful! Thank you again for creating that gift.
Thank you for this tender reflection and poem, James, which brings to mind the way my father used to call me Grace, a way of alchemizing the awkward with love. It was not until I became an adult that I realized the twinkle in his eye existed because I was so not graceful but he loved me into an agility and poise that carries me now years later.
Beautifully and poetically said, Amy. I love this story about your Dad.
Oh, I have goosebumps everywhere, James. This is indeed sacred. So incredibly beautiful. Thank you, friend.
Thank you, dear one.
Thank you for sharing this incredible feeling. When my mom was dying, she was already long-gone (emotionally, verbally) from dementia. One way I got through that time was to imagine complete conversations with her in my mind. They, too, felt sacred.
And those conversations are just as real, too, I believe. Thank you so much for sharing this, and I'm sorry to hear about this loss.
Thank you, James. Your comment means a great deal to me.
A beautiful poem ✨
Thank you for sharing this gorgeous poem, James. It touched a chord in my heart, and brought back fond memories of my own mom.
Thank you, Sam. I know that tenderness and connection are central to your work, too.
Holy, hidden not.
Secret: Sacred shines in sad,
sanctified by love.
I loved this poem. My father died in November. Family members took turns staying with him through his final days. He was afraid of dying, but we held him as he passed.
I had many sacred moments with my father throughout my life. We spent time together backpacking and skiing. He taught me to love wild spaces.
My family created a sacred place with our tears, stories of his life, and presence.
Thank you for your poem; it reminded me of my father's last days, filled with sacred grief.