There will be a singing in your heart, There will be a rapture in your eyes; You will be a woman set apart, You will be so wonderful and wise. You will sleep, and when from dreams you start, As of one that wakes in Paradise, There will be a singing in your heart, There will be a rapture in your eyes.
There will be a moaning in your heart, There will be an anguish in your eyes; You will see your dearest ones depart, You will hear their quivering good-byes. Yours will be the heart-ache and the smart, Tears that scald and lonely sacrifice; There will be a moaning in your heart, There will be an anguish in your eyes.
There will come a glory in your eyes, There will come a peace within your heart; Sitting ‘neath the quiet evening skies, Time will dry the tear and dull the smart. You will know that you have played your part; Yours shall be the love that never dies: You, with Heaven’s peace within your heart, You, with God’s own glory in your eyes.
Here is another poem by Miriam Pederson. Though she refers to mothers, in my case it makes me think more of my grandmother.
One tradition I was fond of in the Presbyterian church of my childhood was tied to Mother’s Day, when every person in the congregation was noticed for having a mother, and given a rose to commemorate her. I am not certain about this, but I think it was a white rose if she had died, a red rose if she were living. It might have been the first time I as a child was made to feel equal in some way to the adults. We all had mothers, and my rose was no different from everyone else’s.
MOTHERS NEWLY GONE
Our mothers are leaving us. One by one they flutter through the door as if we had expected it, as if we had prepared for this good-bye. We can hardly follow their recipes. Their remedies for flu, for heartache, are somewhere in the cupboard; the names of relatives to be invited are mixed in with the old Green Stamps. How can we, their busy daughters, sew on patches to make things last? What are we to do with these old compacts, these letters, cards and cold creams? How will we behave without their disapproving frowns, their Listen, honey… their Oh, sweetheart! We’re standing up straight, we’re being kind, and we’ve sent off the thank-you notes, but they are minding other business beyond the blue, leaving us in middle age to sift through their precious lives for clues to who we are.
This evening I made it out for a walk, which turned into two walks, because of something new I saw on my usual route. I stopped at the bridge to look down at the seasonal creek that is getting low… and up at all the bushes and trees growing out of it. Every few years the city maintenance crew dredges out these waterways, but right now everything is growing lush and thick.
The willows are the tallest plant that grows down there, and buckeyes are numerous. What was that I saw climbing up in the tallest willow bushes? White flowers… if I only had a better camera, or even binoculars… I pointed my Seek app at the flowers and it said Lady Banks’ Rose. Even as poorly as I could make them out, that didn’t seem right.
The roses were growing in the area in the middle of the creek bed, between two creeks right where they join to become one. I thought I would try to go down closer to the water where there is a jumble of unpaved dry-season paths that some people run on with their dogs, and a few children explore. Also there is a sloping cement driveway of sorts for the maintenance vehicles, that is submerged in the winter. Two paved creekside paths also meet at the bridge. But when I got to the place where I would cross the southern stream to get to that middle area, the rocks were covered with algae, and it all seemed too muddy and messy for me to attempt while wearing my new boots.
So I came home and looked up Lady Banks Roses. They did not at all resemble what I’d seen; I guess they were too distant for Seek to make out. The bright idea occurred to me: Why not change into my old boots that I was thinking of giving away, and go back? Why not, indeed?
lemon balm
When I arrived at the crossing place again I had to squish through the mud and the algae, but with only a few steps I was over, and my old boots were mostly waterproofed and barely noticed.
watercress
My, what a lot of plants in that mid-creek jungle! Once before I walked down there, but it was in September when everything starts drying up. The roses today were growing in the middle of the willows, honeysuckle, horsetail grass, fennel and bedstraw.
Watercress, Greater Plantain, and Bermuda Grass
Many of the plants are naturalized from backyard escapees. The Bermuda grass for sure, and the lemon balm, and the roses. Wild blackberry brambles snagged my clothes and grabbed at my hair, but I managed to feel my way with my feet along the edge of the creek that was hidden by bullrushes, right up close to the flowers I wanted to see better.
When Seek could assess the image better it identified it as Rosa multiflora or Rosa polyantha, a native of eastern Asia. It also told me I’d observed it two years ago near my daughter Pippin’s place in the farther north part of the state. These roses were to me the prettiest thing in all that jungle.
It really made my day to make this little excursion and discover who they were, and to meet as well many of their companions in the creek. I think I’ll hold on to my old boots.
To be held this way in our mother’s arms, to be nestled deep in the warmth of her body, her gaze, to be adored, to overwhelm her with our sweetness. This is what we seek in chocolate, in the food and drink and drugs that stun the senses, that fill the veins with the rich cream of well being. What we take for lust—can it be, perhaps, a heavy pang of longing to be swaddled, close, close to the heartbeat of our mother? No bucket seats, Jacuzzi, or even a lover’s embrace can duplicate this luxuriance, this centered place on the roiling planet.
When the old woman, small and light, can be carried in the arms of her son, he, at first, holds her tentatively, a foreign doll, but gradually, as the pool loses its ripples, he sees his face in hers and draws her to him, rocking to the rhythm of her breathing. This is the way to enter and leave the world.
Gladsome Lights 