Trails of the Heart: Celebrating Mama’s Walk

Some trails are not ones we walk through scented woods, deep valleys, and seaside landscapes. Deeper than soil and higher than sky, they are the paths that wind through the heart. Sometimes the weaving backward to reach them is not easy—memories blur over time, and the edges of the internal wilderness are frequently obscured with the shaded branches of forgetfulness or overgrown with the vines of hidden pain. However, as best we can, we should allow ourselves to retravel those intricate trails left within us by those who have long since departed our lives.

Today I set out to walk the trail of memory blazed by my mother. It is her 80th birthday. Since she is the one responsible for bringing me to the earth to walk it, the trails within me are more than simply emotional ones; they are also biological lines and routes, semblances and expressions. For example, more and more each day, when I look in the mirror, I see Mama, and that gift in my face makes me smile. From her I inherit round cheeks, a tendency to blush and flush, dark hair peppered with gray, and a propensity to speak my mind—with power but with kindness. I also have that same bounce in my step when I walk.

As I grow older and see her face and mine intertwined, I also find myself attempting to imagine what Mama would be like in her old age. Try as I might, I cannot conjure an impression of her as an elderly woman. She is locked into a forever-young image in my mind. After a brief fight with breast cancer, she left the earth at barely 61 years old. Most likely, she would be vibrant and youthful today—her skin still glowing pink and wrinkle-free. Most likely, one would look at her and not guess her true age. Much of this would continue to derive, as it did when she was alive, from the beautiful energy that she poured into everything that she did. Her name was “Joyce,” which resonated her ability to “rejoice” and embrace the day with joy—every day. She leapt forward with her steps when she walked, she spoke buoyantly and profusely, and she recognized with full attention every living creature that crossed her path, human or animal or plant. She was kind and pure at heart, revealing the fruits of the spirit alive in her essence. Most importantly, she loved unconditionally. When I leave this earth, I hope that someone might even remember me this way—that I have lived with full force with the time I’ve been allotted. I must live up to such an  inheritance. 

This afternoon, as the mountains around me showed the first signs of the vibrant transition of fall, I walked the hill to Mama’s grave to lay flowers of remembrance. However, to add beauty to the path of memory and honor, I also am sharing below a poem about her that appears in my forthcoming poetry collection, Trailing the Azimuth, soon to be released by Wipf and Stock Publishers. It appears in a section called “Wayfarer’s Psalms,” which gathers some poems I’ve written about the deeper meditations of the spirit. I hope that this poem captures a bit of my mother’s beautiful being.

Mother of Mountains of Joy

Divine face of the past summons jeweled

images floating, maternal clouds drifting,

soft, billowy and receptive, bringing balm

to my vision and my heart, even in these

videoclips of life that visit my mind like

falling rain as I meander a weary land.

Your presence lingers, Mama, transcending

the oval frame of pink light upon a paneled

wall, the silence of that form so profound.

I know that you want to leap forth with all

your familiar bliss and give comforting love.

I remember, mother of mountains of joy,

how you effusively manifested yourself in

each and every moment, a visible miracle,

moveable in a magical manner of making

each person you encountered a gem revealed

anew, unrelenting in your kindness.

You trod the ground with two firm soles,

swiftly off to somewhere with purpose,

arms always laden with fruits of the earth,

a cornucopia in motion, spilling love

in an expansive path full of fire

and whirlwind—a vitality alight.

When you left, silence flowed

into the road where your feet had been,

but it has become my friend,

whispering the beauty of Missing,

the presence of love abiding in absence.