Mama Says Om - Life

It's a slow, passionate and mindful journey from childhood into maturity and motherhood, thence into eldering (and grandmotherhood), a round trip from cradle to grave, from birth to rebirth, from here to there, into the great beyond and future lifetimes. The journey passes through old trees, mountains, hedgerows, across frosty moonlit fields and sometimes (although rarely these days) leaf strewn urban streets. I am trying to walk lightly on the path, and if I get it right, there will be no trace of my passing when I have travelled beyond the fields we know.

This later part of the journey is a good time for replenishing one's inner directives and for nurturing qualities of patience, curiosity, wonder and passion - it's a good time for putting things no longer needed back in the cupboard and for pruning away that which is no longer relevant or useful in life. It's a wonderful time for looking at moons, stars, puddles and leaves with one's grandchildren. It's a wonderful time for stirring one's cauldron (or crockpot) and tending the mystic cook fire on which it bubbles, for drawing upon the intuition, courage, and humour acquired on the journey thus far. It is the best of times for conversing with ravens, drifting along with the owls, and singing cantrips with the wolves at nightfall.

I can't imagine myself ever being wise, but there is joy and an autumnal correctness to this part of the journey, a clear sense of of the rightness of it all. The path I am following winds uphill through the north woods now; the air is fresh and clear and holds the promise of snow. Underfoot, the trail is deep in fallen oak leaves, and I move along it in a cloud of sunlight, leaf dust and birdsong. From time to time, I wander among the trees for an hour or two: sometimes I encounter soulmates, sisters and kin along the way and we walk together for a while. In some ways I am already beginning to resemble the archetype of the old woman who lives in the woods, stirring her cauldron, singing over the bones, and conversing with the birds and beasts of the countryside.

Who knows where this journey will take me and where it all ends? It is the journey, and not the destination which matters, and it is good to be on this road. Having said all that, I wouldn't mind having a few years given back to me - I would certainly know what to do with those gifted years if I had them. Much joy on your own journey through life. . . .