Madonnas

 A couple of years ago, my essay “Madonnas” was published by The Manifest-Station. You can read it at http://themanifeststation.net/2015/01/06/madonnas/ Some of the words here come from that essay.

 

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I’m mindful of Mary today, the Jewish madonna, because January 6 is the celebration of Epiphany that commemorates when Mary welcomed the three wisdom teachers of the East. Because of their gifts for baby Jesus, she began to understand the nature of her future grief.

 

I’m also thinking of the unheralded compassion of mothers and grandmothers throughout the centuries who have taken on suffering in order to help the abused, the hungry, the poor, the disenfranchised, the widowed and the lonely. They brought healing to people from the body of the earth, and brought the spirituality and wisdom of the body and the heart into their communities of faith. 

It’s as if the light of love can only be let out in measured amounts, light that has to pierce flesh before it touches the world’s darkness.

 

Nine months after my wife Evelyn died, I was feeling restless. Wanting to do something other than mope around the house on a day off from work, I drove to Lake Merritt in Oakland, California to be in a place where Ev liked to go on her lunch breaks, thinking it was time for my new life to be born. Sitting there, I remembered the compassion she had for so many people who were grieving, dying, or struggling with troubled children.

 

Evelyn brought warmth and compassion into a world that too often is indifferent to suffering. She opened her heart to others, and physically took on their pain and despair as she helped them deal with trauma. She brought them healing and hope like the Black madonnas of Eastern Europe who root the deity’s love into the rich, fertile loam of the earth. The Orthodox madonnas of smoky icons and shrines where pilgrims light candles to honor their courage. The Amish madonnas who lift the hems of their long skirts to kneel down and play with children in the grass to my right. 

 

Walking on the path along the shore, I move through Gypsy madonnas in tie-dyed skirts, who are singing and swaying to the rhythms of the earth. Tiny bells ring on cords tied around their ankles and waists, and when they invite me to dance, I do. 

 

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After Evelyn’s death, I experienced the compassion of many women, some whom I barely knew. They knew that a widower who was not good with emotions could use a hug, words of encouragement, and the presence of another human. They showed up on my doorstep, and I let them in.

 

Think about the women who have nurtured you. Send them a note of gratitude.