Into her element, the water Being
All my senses fled except the kinesthetic.
She held me weightless in her arms,
in cool stillness, for a timeless pause.
I trusted the immersion,
the giving up of any effort.
Blissed by the gift of our communion
floating under blue sky,
I moved my arms like wings.
Back in my element now,
my skin feels shiny,
tingles as if she still
surrounds me, protects me,
feeds me from her placenta.
From the base of my spine
Kundalini surges upward like a wave.
On my birthday I have returned
to being newly alive.
My thanks will never cease.
Easy for a mother to grasp La Llorona, despite each mean version in the myth
of her motives for ‘killing’ her children.
Every mother gives her children up.
The child for whom she would give her life
can never be retrieved from the river of time.
Every mother becomes
a Woman in White, endlessly crying.
She is the mother who asks, *What is sorrow and what is not sorrow? They are dead who do not weep. The child divine become the suffering man,
and La Llorona, a living Pietá.
The flowers cry when she passes
and remembers her child
running to bring his Mama a bloom. *Do not think because she sings her heart is joyful. One also sings from pain. If you see her weeping under a tamarind tree
or if you see her singing.
the Banshee ghost, the grieving mother,
know her haunting comes from being haunted.
I too wander the riverbanks
and notice every child who reminds me
of the beautiful boy who vanished
into the magnificent man.
The door of my heart always ajar
to the baby, the toddler, the child
who will never again walk through.
My tears so vast they fill the oceans.
Every mother, La Llorona.
In Lila Downs’ interpretation of the song, she compares the legendary La Llorona’s loss with the Spanish invasion of Mexico resulting in the demise of indigenous culture. In her 2001 album, Border, Downs dedicated the song to the spirits of Mexican migrants who have died crossing the line.
How we hide it from our minds,
the site of the link
on each body ever born.
Trained to disregard
the stub of the sacred cord,
we are lost, longing
for forgotten female origins.
Time to praise the omphalos.
Time to look, and look well,
at the precious place of life’s own download.
Let us belly dance with bells.
Let us gaze upon our navals
and travel thus
to the holy hub of planet self,
to the wisdom of connection.
The button in each belly
burns back and back through time
through all ancestral mothers.
What unites us all
might yet save us from destruction
The site of the link
on each body every born
proclaims that we are one.
For the motherbond yokes one and all.