Mother's Day

Mother's Day is my favorite holiday, free from the subtle compulsions that other holy days suffer. Fewer children are forced to church against their will. No one sets off fireworks to scare animals. Men don't march around with flags and guns, re-enacting the rites of war. No one has to fast. The only ritual is breakfast in bed. You can spend all day planting flowers. The back porch is a holy alter with a lady on it. At this Sabbath, you don't have to believe in anything but a mom. And everybody has one of those.

At dawn when it's barely light, before she awakens, I go out to the garden at the edge of the wetlands. I confess to an earthworm as raindrops mutter amen. Then I sprawl in the chilly weeds, gazing through green cathedrals of the ladybug.

So many creatures dwell here, smaller than dewdrops. When their voices rise out of the earth, like mist on the day of creation, we should listen. Here is what they say when my ear is pressed to the planet.

"God is exhausted by your penitence.
He doesn't need an apology.
Humans won't wash away their sins
by wailing, "Forgive me."
Wash away the "me" instead
in a pool of stillness.
Here on the ground, there's nowhere to fall.
That's why the one's who survive
are always bowing.
Just breathe and listen
to seeds sinking in the loam.
The stuff you exhale, we use.
Meditation is the deepest confession
because silence
makes everything pure."