Like Ash On Water: Holding On, Letting Go

Under the canopy of leaves I breathe.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.

Under the tapestry of trees I believe.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.

Mother carry me.
To your deep blue sea.
Mother keep me safe from harm.

Excerpt of lyrics from “Held By The Mother” by Celia Farran

Of my four children, I was destined to lose one, my eldest, who passed at age thirty-nine from the stress of a difficult life and the complications of alcoholism. As I sat alone and mourned, as only a mother can, I realized that my heart was not breaking into pieces, but rather breaking open, letting light flood in to gently, slowly, lead me to do that which only a mother can do.

It is a true story of Grace bestowed by The Mother. I tell it to you just as it happened one warm summer night, along the banks of the Mississippi River off the shores of Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin.

A Mother’s Story

Early July. The Mississippi River, so gentle here in her northern realm, laps summer-warm water lazily against the shore. Its flow of love caresses my bare feet.

For quite sometime now I have mourned the death of my son. But slowly I came to know what it was that I was called to do. I must let him go.

So it is that I finally gathered courage, and have come to stand here in the waters and do a sacred task that only a mother can do.

A soft gloaming and a sultry night enfold me. Soaring above me a giant cottonwood arches a cathedral of green. Beyond that shines the blue-black of the summer night; and beyond that, ten thousand times ten thousand stars pinpoint light into the velvet darkness.

Out on the wide waters, towboats ply north and south, the spears of their lights charting the way through the night. Around me, the blue-black night, the lull of crickets and the comfort of this river flowing onward to the sea.

In my arms I tenderly cradle a sturdy plastic bag. Within it rest the ashes of my firstborn son. Yes. My son. Mere ashes. So heavy. So grey.

By choice I have come here alone to spread his life on the water’s rolling flow. And, though I didn’t know it at the time, I am about to learn what motherhood is ultimately about.

Affectionately called Banjo Marty, he was well known as the Street Musician of Waukesha, WI. Music was his life. Other musicians said of him “He was one of the best Scruggs style banjo players on the planet.” He said of himself, “I play the streets because I can’t do regular gigs. I never know if I’ll be sober when the gig date comes around.” RIP.

Rendering Ashes Holy

One deep long breath. I open the bag.

This is the moment. Moving slowly, deliberately, like a child first touching finger paint, I am tentative. My fingers caress the soft ash. Another slow breath. I take a small pinch, hold it between my thumb and forefinger, raise it aloft against the twilight. Study its gray grit.

My once child, now ash. Only ash, yet much more, for spirit and memory live on, rendering ashes holy. Tears well up. It is a sacred moment.

A mere pinch, raised in honor. I whisper a command to myself, “There is no going back. Let go.” I am afraid to let go, but there is no other choice for that is what I have come here to do.

I have traveled west an hour to get here, the sun moving on ahead beckoning me to keep on course. A box with a bag of ash inside rests softly on a pillow strapped in the passenger’s seat next to me, along with sage and tobacco. A precious CD, his banjo music and song, fills the car with those fast picking fingers and the strong voice that once was his. With gusto I sing along stopping to talk with him now and then. My heart rises, warming in a crescendo of love. Today is July 8, the anniversary of his birth, the anniversary of my motherhood.

Now I tell myself, “Cecilia, you did not come here to merely hesitate and go home. You must go forward.” But I ask, “This is my son. Can I really let him go?”
I hesitate. In the weight of the decision my fingers quiver.

I hold.

And let go.

Ashes on Water

Do you know what happens to ashes on water? They sparkle for one brief moment and then they are gone.

Gone. My son gone.

Tears begin. I push myself forward. Another deep breath, and, like that child in the finger paint, I try another pinch.

And then another. And like that child, I grow more bold until I scoop out a great handful. Powder sifting through my fingers, I toss it to the water, to the breeze.

I hadn’t expected this, but the breeze blows ash back against me. Against my skin. My lips. My tongue. I feel grit against my teeth. Tears flush again as my child and I are one, once more. The two of us alone together as once we were before his birth.

One.

Communion.

My eyes, my heart spilling over now in tears. My face tear-stained with ash as I plunge in. Taken now with the power of the moment, I begin to toss great fistfuls into this holy river. I am glad no one is with me. This moment is sacred, not to be shared.

I begin to speak to whatever in the Ethers might hear, softly at first, and then louder. Amidst the flow of tears, boldly a mantra forms. The voice does not seem my own. I cry out. I laugh amid tears. And I call out:

My son, you came forth through me, and now through me as Mother, I release you from form. I give you back. To Her. To The One Mother:

To this river, to Her Waters which will flow out to the sea, and to the sun and air which will take you up from that sea, and to the great clouds which will send rain to fall and bring new green to blossom life upon Earth.

To the Great One Mother, I release you now.

An echo rings clear between the hills: “ Mother carry him to your deep blue sea.” His sister Celia’s voice entwining with my own.

When All Ash Is Gone

I lose track of time. I am sobbing, elevated to a state beyond myself. Finally there comes an end when all ash is gone. I collapse upon my knees in the shallow.

My tears have run dry. I am spent. My task is done.

I have returned my son to The Mother. Unexpectedly now, she gifts me a blessing, her voice a soft whisper across the waters ancient flow:

As ash sparkles upon water and is gone, I gift you life that is not anchored in time or space, but in an ebb and flow. If you must hold on to anything, I call you down to the water to grasp the River of Life.

Later

Held by the power of what has been done here this night I reluctantly turn to go. My heart is singing. I have given my son back to the One, that he and I might be held in Her arms.

Returning from ritual to the world of the mundane, I walk back to my car. In the sigh of my breath, I hear again an echo across the hills. It is Celia’s voice. It floods my open heart:

We are all rocked by the Mother. We are held.

Aho.

Held By the Mother

Under the canopy of leaves I breathe.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.
Under the tapestry of trees I believe.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.

I am rocked by the mother.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.
I am safe and warm.
I am embraced in her arms.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.

Under the clear blue sky I sigh.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.
Under the stars at night I cry.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.

I am rocked by the mother.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.
I am safe and warm.
I am embraced in her arms.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.

Mother carry me.
To your deep blue sea.
Mother keep me safe from harm.

I am rocked by the mother.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.
I am safe and warm.
I am embraced in her arms.
I am rocked by the mother.
I am held.

Excerpt of lyrics from “Held By The Mother” by Celia Farran, from “Goddess Songs Compilation (Volume Two)” © 2018 Red Granite Goddess Publishing