When I learn to love, again, 
I learn to expect,
I learn to hope,
I learn to be vulnerable,
Something I have told myself a million times
Never to do again.

I learn to be disappointed,
And let my heart sink down, again,
To the deepest depth of my being,
With the greatest generosity I have come to know. 
I can not make others to be here with me,
No matter how hard I try
And how much, in fact, they may want to be with me. 

I learn to let others be disappointed,
And hold my worst fear
Of becoming a disappointment, again,
In my intensely tender chest.
I can not make others feel loved,
No matter how much they want to be loved
And how much, in fact, I love them.

I learn that my heart’s desire for love 
Is the tragic source of my deep suffering
And my mere existence is
A living wonder as old as time,
And it does not make me feel better. 

I learn to trust what I feel and 
The swing of my heart
Like the pendulum of a clock
Whose name is “Our Universe”
That will stop ticking one distant day,
The end of eternity. 

I learn it is impossible to live 
Such hell of conscious awareness,
Even just for one second, 
Without the presence of
Compassion - companionship and passion,
In another word, love. 

I learn that I am a child 
Born out of the inconceivably long and painful 
Labor of time, and I am here to 
Marvel at the creations of my mother,
And I being one of the most 
Mysterious and bewildered. 

I learn that time is a present,
And a present is only a present 
When it is not guaranteed. 
And I fight this goddamned,
Unhappy and uncertain ending 
With all my wits and resentment, only to be
Defeated with ultra humility. 

I learn that when I am made to surrender and 
Let the swirling, blinding storm of my life 
Slow down to a kaleidoscope of ever changing 
Beauty and sorrow that was born 
Out of perfect nothingness, 
Time indeed becomes a present,
An essential ingredient 
For sourdough bread and children alike
To be raised.

I learn to wait again,
With an anxious heart 
And wild imaginations racing in my head, 
And smile with tears in my eyes, again, 
When my mother does return.

I learn to come home and be that child, again, 
After traveling a million miles,
My mother’s little girl. 

Listen!
Listen to the singing of the birds 
My mother sent to me
In my excruciating loneliness
Out in the woods.

My Mother,
My Mother,
My Mother is mine! 


When I learn to love, again, 
I learn that love can not be demanded,
Earned, redeemed, traded,
Nor to be used to save others. 
No one can be or need to be saved
From our own personal hell,
For each of us is the only one
Who can reclaim our heavenly existence 
Gifted by Our Mother.

I learn that love is simply staying true to what is here,
And that is the hardest thing. 
I can only learn to trust the urgency 
Of my anxiety and my anger 
And use it to fuel my practice of love, 
A repeated cycle of 
Coming home (sometimes landed, sometimes not),
Waiting (sometimes managed to, sometimes not), 
Receiving (quite often nothing), 
And letting go (the hardest of all),
And again,
And again, 
The way life on earth is loved by My Mother,
Generation after generation.

When I learn to grow up,
I learn it’s my job to rebel and be angry with her
That I did not remember giving consent to be here,
Nor was I part of the decision process regarding my exit,
And My Mother’s job to be My Mother,
Listening patiently to my moans and groans,
And never turns her back on me 
Even when I turn mine. 

When I learn to love my children, 
I learn that they are not mine,
But gifts from My Mother, loaned 
To me temporarily to keep safe and treasure.
It is their job to walk further and further 
Away from me to find themselves,
And my job to be here watching their backs
And welcome them with my open arms 
Whenever they want to be home. 

Because separation creates wonders,
Only in the warm and spacious womb
Of My Mother. 

How else would I have learned 
To turn around and throw myself into 
The open arms of My Mother,
And let her heal my broken heart, in silence and
In music made by my wild siblings?

How else would I have learned 
That love is the Pause button we press 
For ourselves and each other 
That lets us breathe with a little more ease,  
Trusting our deep intention of care
And the healing power of space and time? 

How else would I have learned,
Despite all the sufferings of the world, 
Our mere existences are living miracles
As old as Our Mother,
Whose real name is “compassion”,
As she accompanies each of us, 
As we begin to die the moment we are born?

How else would I have learned 
The barren land of disappointment 
Is the fertile ground for our deep seeds
Of compassion to be sprouted
Out of our brokenness and lacking
If we allow it time, also known as love,
And it is the salt in our tears 
That gives flavour to our life?

How else would I have learned 
The most loving thing I could ever do is
To lose all my words and 
Let you, My Mother, take my breath and
Bring me wherever you want me to be, with 
A little more air, and a little more kindness, 
Simply because
You are mine and 
I’m yours? 

Acknowledgement

My Mother is Mine is a children’s picture book that I read to my children when they were much younger. Little did I know that the little girl inside me was listening intently as well.

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