Mage, Madrigal, Mama

 For the last couple of months, In between writing bits and pieces of stories, when I've been playing around on Facebook, I've been getting/doing a lot of "off the grid" and "survivalist" items. Some of these have been links to quizzes and such. 

So far the longest I'll survive on my own is about ten days, because I have very few hunter/gathering skills. 

I admit it.

I don't.

And I should. 

I have the knowledge stored somewhere in my being. All my life I have looked at weeds and herbs and known that they can be used for healing and helping, but I can rarely put a name to the plants or have any conscious knowledge of how to use them.

But I  know I know this stuff. Why can't I bring it forth?

In fact, on rare occasion, I have needed, seen something, and used it appropriately in "emergency" situations. Once for fever, once for bleeding. Those were interesting experiences, and I don't remember what I used, for sure. I think it was plantain leaves for the bleeding and some kind of flower (rose? lavender?) for a wash for the fever. Thought about a tea, but the thinking brain said no. Too risky without knowledge to have someone ingest it. 

BUT -- the (non)survivalist in me has a better chance as a member of a tribe, clan, or other grouping. 

The quizzes and skill tests through the computer rank me very high. 

As a wise-woman, as a  story teller, and as a keeper of the flame, able to both hold the old traditions and reach out and embrace the new ideas and ways.

I am mage, madrigal, and Mother. 

I am of great value to my tribe as a GrandMother. 

The funny thing is, this suits me very well. 

I'll keep the kids entertained while others do the hunting/ gathering. 

I'll keep the perpetual pot of perpetual stew over the embers. 

I'll make the coffee!

What really strikes me about these designations, under these situations and circumstances is the acknowledgement that this is a role with importance. In a survival situation, which I will only survive -- for only ten days or so -- because I can build a shelter with a fire near running water, my value is as a bringer of words. 

Somehow, one would think the others would leave me there to dwindle and starve. But according to these different groups, I still have value. Practical value, as I can cook. Maybe not well, but survival level at least. 

But the other values?

There is something somehow reassuring that the ones who create these tests and trials think to put any value on the Mystic and Traditional, and to find worth in song and story.

Or am I reading it all wrong, and this is a polite way of saying "You are worthless. Just stay out of Our Way!"?

What Am I?

I wonder.

When I lost my Rex, it seems that I lost a large part of my identity.

This wouldn't be so bad, if it wasn't for the huge chunk of me that I lost when I lost my job and couldn't get another one.

Since then, life itself seems to be chipping away at the essential "me."

I got a job and couldn't do it.
I write but have no way to share.
Shared writing has become more difficult and less frequent.
When I do write by hand, my fingers and thumb go numb, and I have muscle spasms all the way up my arm.

I am no longer a wife.
I'm still a mother, but my children are grown. (One is something of a big baby, but she's becoming an adult at a greatly decelerated rate.)
I'm a grandmother, but I can rarely see or take care of the babies, due to economics  (I'm usually literally out of gas.)When I do have them, they frazzle me, and it's not so easy to just take them home. I don't really want to, anyway.

I'm a writer, but losing the physical ability to write.

I'm a friend, but I have little to offer or share with my friends, when I can even keep in touch with them.

So, I am wondering, what am I?

Mamma, May I?

Sunday was mother's day. It was also my grandmother's birthday. Were she still alive, she'd have been celebrating 107 years.
When I was a kid, there always seemed a special magic to the day when Mamma's birthday fell on Mother's Day. I can't explain what made it so special, but I felt it.
I can say this, now, as a mother and grandmother: If any woman, ever, deserved to be born on Mother's Day, it was this woman. She epitomized Motherhood.
We'd have been lost without her, and a lot more neglected and abused than we were.  She fed us, she clothed us, she treated us, and she gave us a quiet place to go. She saw that we were awake and got to school on time. She had and kept a telephone.

I wonder, now, how she felt about the inadequacies of her daughter as a mother.Did she worry? Without a doubt. I don't know what her specific worries were, but she worked awfully hard to prevent our feeling too much of a lack.

Did she feel like she had failed as a mother? I don't know, but I think now she must have, at times. Wonderful woman that she was, I never saw it. But, dealing with my own faulty child(ren), I know she had to have had those moments, hours, and long-dark-night-of-the-soul nights over her faulty daughter.

But, whether in spite of this or because of it, she was there. Remarkably, outstandingly, always there. Even when she began losing her mind, even when she wasn't sure who she was with, she was there for us. It was startling to be informed that RuthE was going somewhere or doing something for her, when I was right in front of her, but -- BUT -- it meant I was in her heart and in her mixed-up memories.

That's love.

That's Motherhood.

Happy Mother's birthday, Mamma. We all still miss you and want you around, somewhere.

Some of us know that you are.