~Thought For The Day~ Rooted ©

     At nine o'clock this morning marks the last time I heard my Mom’s voice. We had a beautiful, life changing conversation. She was so on her game that morning. I think in her heart that she knew she would be leaving this world the following day. I guess a Mother’s intuition one last time.

I think she knew that she would be unable to speak again, or communicate in our normal way, so she packed our conversation full of her insight, love and most of all her strength. I sometimes wonder how in the world she had so much faith in me, I do not posses the type of strength she did, but I am seeing that three later, I am still here, still fighting the fight and I am living.

I am unsure where I am going with this Thought for the Day today so I will keep writing and see where we end up.

I miss her, but I wouldn't wish her back for anything in this world, to the pain, the struggle to the brawl that this world so often gives us. I know at last she is at peace, and that brings so much comfort to me.

I have said all along this journey that I wasn't crying for her, I was crying for me, me missing her; I was grieving for myself at such a loss.

I have been wrestling with what it is that nags at me so much, and yesterday I finally realized what it is that hurts so much. I miss every single aspect of her, but what I miss the most and what I long for is her touch.

It is as simple as that.

 I miss her touch.

For as far back as I remember, there was the simple communication of touch. She needless to say was very affectionate with me. My mind is filled with memories of hugs, kisses, holding my hand, pats on the back, brushing my hair out of my face and even the smack to the back of the head.

So this morning I am thinking of the amazing power of touch. It amazes me at what it can do. It can heal, it can guide, it can remind you that you are not alone, it can make you realize a mistake, and I could go on forever.

A few weeks ago my cousin gave me two plants that looked like they had seen better days. Poor things had dangly leaves, faded flowers that were nearing the end and the roots were knotted, pitiful and nearly dried up.

I didn't know what I could do with them but I gave it a go.

I replanted them carefully, and yes, talking to them and encouraging them to grow, grow, grow!

Carefully taking m y time with them, handling them, watching them and guiding them to rise.

I looked at them this morning and they are standing tall, regal and proud. They have grown taller, and their blooms even though slightly crooked are bursting with color and show.

I compare this to the power of the human touch. If I had just stuck those plants in a pot and called them mine, walking away, thinking I did enough but just sticking them somewhere I would now have a couple of pots of dust with a pile of roots that were once struggling to develop and stretch.

If we lack touch, we become withered, we lose the will to flourish and eventually any roots we once had will dry up and there will be no feeling left.

I was thankfully showered with affection as a child and even as an adult. Mom made sure to always touch. My forehead, my arm, whatever, she taught me to use that power that needs no words to communicate my love, care and hope through touch.

My children will be the first to attest to this, I am sure they sometimes get very tired of me constantly hugging them, kissing their now almost grown cheeks, and sometimes just simply reaching over to feel their arm beneath my fingertips. I just want them to feel, and to know what it means and to remember me as someone who always showed them a gesture of love without words. I think that memory will stay with them longer than any other.

If you live a life without human contact, you will wither, you will withdraw and just like those roots, the feelings will dry up and become numb.

Now imagine if you touch, hug, kiss, a person you love, they will grow, they will reach out to reach new heights of life, their roots will strengthen and search for a deeper level of residence in the earth.

People are just the same.

Don’t be afraid to reach out, to let someone you love know it, a hug, a kiss, hold them near to you and let them feel the surge of so many emotions. Fear of affection can make you very alone and very deprived.

The last few days I was allowed to spend with my Mother were mostly us holding hands; we didn't need to say anything. I remember her looking up at me, as I had looked to her so many times, and I simply leaned down and kissed her pretty forehead. She smiled and cried, I could feel the connection, I could feel a lifetime of love between us and even in the last of days it was still growing, and it is has taken root in my soul and it a huge part of who I am.

Yesterday my life long best friend Teresa stopped by, and before she left, she pulled me to her. That familiar hug, no words, just pure love.

What she doesn’t know is that after she left, I just stood there with tears, because it felt so good to just feel again, to feel touched, and to feel loved. I adore her for that. She just knows.

At 9am this morning I will shed a few tears as I recall the last conversation with Mom, and even as my tears flow, I will treasure every single word, and do just what she told me to do, keep fighting, keep living and make her proud and most of all I will pass along the lessons of love she taught me.

I miss you pretty girl, and don't worry, I am showering the boys with all those hugs you would be giving them.

The power of touch is amazing, try it. You will be overwhelmed at the always budding results.

Here are my thoughts.

 © 

Teresa 

~Thought For The Day~Descent ©

     It is late into the night. From inside, I hear it softly beckoning me.

As I slowly wrap my legs around the railing of the front porch, I can feel it gently, but so steadily, dancing upon my bare feet.

It is a cleansing, not just of the body, but of the heart and mind.

The wind sways, and as the wind chimes so delicately move in rhythm, I feel the light brush on my legs as the heavens are pouring down to me.

The sky is dark, but so vibrant. The world is seemingly asleep, the crickets singing all around. Did they perhaps do a united dance?

Did they feel my inner self summon to be purged?

They sound merry and filled with complete joy. I wish I could sing along, because in some strange way I feel them. I understand, and we connect.

The light from the porch serves as a beacon, and as it shines I see sweet glimpses of illumination into this darkness.

A once gray rock now glistens like a treasured jewel, the petals of the evergreen now dampened and with a majestic glow.

The choir continues to chirp, the breeze tickling my face and my hair begins to spiral in its soothing sway.

Ah, hello, Mr. Frog, this is your kind of weather, indeed. I can’t see him, but he lets me know he is near.

The pitter patter begins to drum louder, the wind serving as its faithful conductor.

My bare feet and soul are drenched, and I feel my body relax, giving into this remedy being served to me.

In the distance, I hear the faint call of the hoot owl, how does he fare?

Does he bare his ankles and resolve to find himself in a better state?

I should think so.

I feel alive, I feel at home.

I must leave my seat and parade into the feathery grass.

I want to drink it all in.

The night, the rain, everything so beautifully is becoming one.

This is the cleansing of my soul, as far back as my youth, a renewal of the girl, the calming of the woman.

Finding my position again, nestled upon the overhang, I feel in awe. It’s the perfect smell, the tingle of my skin, and the washing away of every care, every sin, at last.

In the morning when I rise, I will be new, I will be clean, and I will be me.

Good night to the choir as they huddle in to rest.

I bid you adieu hoot owl, warm wishes to you. Mr. Frog, I blow to you a tender kiss as I depart.

Throwing open my window before I casually cover my moistened skin, drifting off to a cozy slumber as the rain sings me softly to sleep.

It’s one of my favorite things in this world, the simple act of rain.

 It is a part of me. 

© 

Teresa Hardister