Monday, December 01, 2003
The Birth of the One Who Gave Birth to You
My mother was born on a day with the same name as this one, December First, with no idea that someday her body could become the vehicle for my soul’s ascent into this world. Yet before her, there were millions of women stretching into the darkness of the past, each one born without knowing that they would be mother of the next.
Contemplating the birth of my mother reminds me of the mirrors many elevators have on each wall—as you gaze into either side, you see an infinite array of reflections stretching into the darkness. Your own head is merely one of many on a single path, whose end is murky if not invisible. My own mother, however, is like the only face staring straight back at me in those mirrors, the only one I can see completely.
My mother and I, like any individuals, each live in little worlds of our own: our thoughts and desires, our daily hellos and goodbyes, our private chuckles when something funny comes to mind. Yet we also share a portion of that world with each other. We count each other among our best friends, and we understand each other as equals, with common hopes, experiences, and even similar fears.
When our faces also disappear behind the reflections of those many generations to come after us, our lives may be lost in that darkness of time. But none of that seems to matter; the fact that we may be forgotten makes these present moments more real, not less. Our worlds are valuable precisely because they are so small, unique, and infinite beyond memory in their details.
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