A mother to all

I said I was not going to spend much time editing what I write.  I am not an editor nor versed in the rules of writing.  Doing that interrupts the flow, forcing a contrived, manipulated and, yes, frustrating stream of those things that come from within.

I have now spent a week spiritually intertwined with Boston.  The bombings at the marathon have riveted the nation, the world, with a compulsive need  to understand the how and why.  The emotions of disbelief, horror, sadness, morbid curiosity  and fear have played out and changed moment by moment.  Five days later, the suspects caught (one dead, one in serious condition), the nation is relieved and celebrating.  In the next several weeks and months, the questions will  hopefully be answered through the judicial system and a breath of normalcy should return

My blog is about being a mother.  I believe once a mother (and I do not mean the title of mother bestowed by the action of giving birth, but the imbuing agape love that consumes) Once seized by this love, you become a mother to all.  All actions and thoughts are viewed through the prism of motherhood. My greatest asset is also my greatest cause of despair:  my capacity to love all.  I have  claimed that my death will result from a broken heart mourning the hurts of the world.  My heart rules me in all cases, and not through some intangible emotional space within, but by a tangible muscle that beats, giving me life or death.  I see the faces of those who died, especially the innocent eight year old boy who looked remarkably like my middle son:  beloved, innocent, big huge eyes that highlight a heart of love.  Once the suspects caught, I felt and witnessed the understandable persecution of the two young brothers.  But as a mother, when I look in the eyes of the younger brother, I see a boy that somehow, in someway, became lost to us all.  I listened to his mother speak and my heart ached as a mother:  a son dead and a son in custody: total disbelief that her sons could be capable of such a horrific act.  The denial that the heart must  cling to like receiving oxygen in a time of need. The connection of a mother to her child begins when she first perceives, before medically actuated, that she is part of something, someone who is now a part of her.  It becomes physical, visceral, their life existing through and in each other .  Once a child leaves her body through the beauty of  birth , the physical attachment becomes existential, vital, unbroken.  Our child hurts, we hurt.  Our child is at peace, we settle into that place with them, no matter how many miles of separation.

The pain is there for all the victims, the families' of the victims, and yes, the perpetrators parents.  Heavy is their load.  Love can stop the heart just as quickly as it can resuscitate it.  Your child does a horrible thing.  Once it all sinks in, once the unfathomable becomes reality, her heart will die and lead to her failing this life.  Some feel no compassion for her.  I believe that these people cannot separate their own hurt and anger from the all encompassing feeling of revenge.  It is all about emotions:  life and death.