Bringing the perspective of Loving Consciousness to the Mother Wound allows us to take back our power and change out of the costume of The Victim. We understand now that we chose our Mothers and the roles they would play with us. We understand that there is great learning for us in all of the experiences given to us throughout this role. There has also been learning opportunities for our Mothers, but it is not our responsibility to to make sure that this learning takes place.
Understanding that our responsibility lies only with our own journey and learning, we are free to choose our next role. The next role we choose to play depends entirely on us, it our journey after all. Sometimes a change in role on our part will be enough to prompt a complimentary role change for our Mothers and so allow the relationship to also change and grow. Sometimes though, the role of The Wounding Mother must be retained, not for our learning, but for our Mothers’ and perhaps for other family members, and this is okay. We have only to walk our journey and be responsible for ourselves.
The Mother Wound cuts deep and long, as it is meant too. It is just one of the childhood experiences written on our hearts, but written deep and long so that we remember to go back to it again and again, until every drop of love and learning has been wrung from it’s depths.
Our mothers have toiled for years and life-times to bring these gifts of wounding to us. They have experienced pain and injury untold so that they could play so exquisitely the role of the Wounding Mother. To make sure that they cut us in places that would bring the most growth they sat with us before their conception and listened to our dreams and aspirations, then wrote these on their hearts, deep and long, so they could prepare to bring us the very best mother/child experiences.
Bringing the perspective of Loving Consciousness to an event or a challenge allows us to understand ourselves and others with greater clarity and love. Loving Consciousness reminds us to suspend all judgment of who is right or wrong, to resist the labeling of actions and emotions as positive or negative. To, for a moment, remove the identification of perpetrator and victim. When this is achieved we simply observe people. humans, engaged in playing roles that may have begun from the time they entered this life. They may be trying on new roles and adjusting to the costume. Some may have been caught naked trying to scramble into a costume that, as yet, doesn’t fit. Regardless of the position on the journey they are all Beings doing their best to play a role that each has co-created with the rest of the acting troupe. Roles that were co-created with divine Love to bring about learning for each member.
With this understanding we can bring Gratitude, Forgiveness and Love to all involved, including ourselves. We are also able to step out of the grip of Fear that floods our brain with energy so wild and intense that it prevents clarity and locks us into a pattern of defensiveness and self-protection. Whilst it is essential for us to fully experience such emotions, it is also important that, from time to time, we are reminded to take a step back and view our life through the lens of Loving Consciousness, to check that we are learning everything there is to learn and to pause and thank the lesson bringers.
Throughout my adolescence my mother’s life was punctuated by visits to specialists and trials of alternative therapies to help manage the pain and debilitating effects of the arthritis that existed in every joint of her body. She also continued to do battle with depression and was hospitalised several times following suicide attempts. I became accustomed to waking in the middle of the night to the lights of an ambulance in the backyard coming to take my mother away once again. By this time my sister Heather and I were old enough to stay home and care for our little sister so we no longer had to endure long periods of exile at relatives’ homes.
My father worked doggedly and quietly at his rehabilitation. He taught himself to write with his left hand as the right side of his body had been compromised in a way similar to that of a stroke victim. His ability to return to work part-time as an external marker is testament to his strength and determination as well as the high esteem accorded to him by his colleagues. He eventually returned to the classroom teaching one entry-level subject. By this time he had also spent many hours teaching himself to write left-handed on a chalkboard.
When I was seventeen years old my mother was diagnosed with secondary amaloidosis, a complication of the osteo and rheumatoid arthritis. The amaloidosis affected the functioning of her kidneys and at the time of the diagnosis she was told that she had five years left to live. I remember the day she told me. It was in the afternoon after I had come home from school and as usual she was in bed. Looking back I know my reaction was inappropriate and must have hurt my mother deeply. At the time though I felt so relieved and happy that she had a whole five years left to live! I thought it was wonderful because I had spent a large part of my childhood dreading coming home from school because I expected to find her dead from one of the many ailments that plagued her. This diagnosis meant that I didn’t have to worry for another five years, what a blessing.
The next three years passed with no major events. At the age of twenty I married my husband, and we have now been married for thirty-three years and have three amazing children. However at thirty-three years of age I experienced my first episode of major clinical depression. My journey with depression and anxiety had begun and it is only now, twenty years later, that I fully understand its purpose and lessons.
Earlier this year I read for a woman who had lost her child to cancer. She was wracked with ‘mother guilt’ as her son referred to it when he came through. Partly this guilt related to her sense of failure as a mother for not somehow saving her son from this disease and partly to her inability at times to save her son from the tortures of fruitless medical intervention. But the most painful sense of guilt lay in her interpretation of her behaviour not long before her son passed. At this point her son was unable to respond in anyway and was unable to eat or drink. In a state of denial, as she later believed herself to be, this distraught and loving mother insisted on trying to feed her child.
As she finished sharing this during the reading her son responded by saying that far from an act of denial it was a profound act of love that was necessary for both of them and spoke to the primal need that exists between mother and child – to nurture and be nurtured. Her son said that for him this seemingly simple act reminded him of two very important things. Firstly it symbolised the depth of his mother’s love for him. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, it reminded him that in fact He was not going to die, only his body. As such He still needed nurturing and would always respond to his mother’s love. He went on to say that his mother’s attempts to feed his body fed his soul and allowed him to fully prepare to leave his body without fear.
It would seem to me that when caring for those who are preparing to die, acting from love will always provide what is needed, even if at times both ourselves and others may view our actions as less than rational. This beautiful depiction of mother-love speaks to the profound power of such simple acts of love and demonstrates that these stay with those in our care over time and life, both during and after their embodiment.
Recently I worked with two clients in their sixties, both women, who were still experiencing trauma from childhoods of emotional and psychological abuse from their mothers. For one woman the damaged relationship with her mother could be traced back through generations of harmful parenting, but for the other her mother’s treatment of her linked back to undisclosed sexual abuse of the mother. Regardless of the cause of the relationship trauma, in each reading the client’s mothers ,as well as grandparents from both sides of the family, came through. In both cases insights were provided as to why their mothers treated them in this way, love was given and forgiveness asked by all family members. Each mother expressed her heartache at the long-term damage caused, damage that they only fully became aware of once they had passed and completed their life reviews. Whether the client was able to express forgiveness at the time of the reading or not, each mother asked for permission to be able to mother them now from spirit and to be the mothers they had not been able to be in life. One client felt able to forgive and a great healing took place for both the client and her mother and their troubled relationship began to heal. For the other client forgiveness did not come so easily, nevertheless healing was begun by the telling of the story and the acknowledgement of hurt.
I have seen this many times before and am awed every time by both the capacity for forgiveness by the human spirit as well as the love and need to ‘make right’ from those in spirit. Being able to forgive while still in this life is immensely important to our own health and wellbeing while on this earth. It is also important to our soul’s growth and evolvement and sets us up for the next life already having experienced the lesson of forgiveness.
At the time of my father’s accident I was thirteen years old and beginning to feel better about high school and life in general. My best friend from primary school was with me, and things at home had settled into a bit of a rhythm. My younger sister and I were quite infatuated with our little sister who was pretty and out going. My mother still struggled with her health, both physical and mental, and would run the house from her bed. Despite this, or maybe because of it, Heather and I had a lot of freedom riding our bikes and our horses around our local streets and the large paddocks at the end of our road.
All of this came tumbling down on the day of the accident. I can remember it clearly. My best friend and I were on our way home from school when her mother unexpectedly pulled up along side us in her large station wagon and beckoned for us to quickly get in the car. As I got into the back seat I saw the burlap from my father’s motor bike that he had had made to protect his legs from the bitter cold as he rode across the mountains and back to teach at the TAFE college. It was explained that I would be taken home to my mother and that my sister Heather was being picked up and taken home as well.
At home my mother sat both Heather and I down and told us that our father had been in an accident and was seriously injured. Afterwards Mum pulled me aside and told me that Dad wasn’t expected to live. She asked me to explain this to my little sister Anne, who was 5 years old at the time, because my mother didn’t think she had the strength to do it herself. As asked I sat Anne down and told her that Daddy wouldn’t be coming home because he was going to live with Jesus in Heaven. We had been attending Sunday school all our lives so I hoped that she would be able to understand.
My father did survive, but remained first in hospital and then in rehabilitation for many months. When we first visited him he seemed pleased to see us, though he didn’t remember our names. I was shocked by the crew-cut misshapen being that had replaced my beautiful father. Before me was a dribbling embarrassment whose every second word was a swear word. Nevertheless, I felt certain that he would recover fully and return to us the intelligent and proud man he once was. Needless to say this didn’t happen.
When my father was eventually discharged we all arrived at the rehabilitation centre to bring him home. The trip home in the family car was a slow one. My father could not cope with the stimulus of the car travel, finding it frightening to travel at the speed limit. So my mother drove the 28km home at 30km/hour. I remember feeling embarrassed and terrified. If my father couldn’t even travel in a car, how could he ever get back to work?
By this time my family was existing on a disability pension and the food hampers that the local Catholic priest delivered. Mum’s own church community was conspicuously absent. The two horses, Lady and Billy, that Heather and I had charged around on were found new homes because we could no longer afford to feed them. It was a sad parting but my sisters and I knew that it had to happen. Our mother was very stressed and this worry over money made her illnesses worse.
My youngest sister was born when I was eight years old. She was referred to as a “change of life” baby as my mother had apparently reached menopause at the ripe old age of forty-two. Six weeks after her birth my mother was stricken with rheumatoid arthritis and osteoarthritis in every joint of her body. And so began my mother’s years of wheel chairs and confinement to bed.
When my baby sister was six months old my sisters and I were left with an aunt for the fourth and last time. Our mother had once again been hospitalised with depression. The main difference this time was my baby sister. The aunty we stayed with on this occasion was understandably less than enthusiastic to find two small girls and a baby in her care. Squeezed into the small three-bedroomed house were now six children, two parents and two grandparents (one with dementia). As the eldest of my little band of displaced children my aunt and uncle told me that the care of our baby sister fell to me. This involved all nappy changes, sterilising of bottles, feeding and comforting. Somehow we muddled through and all three of us survived this period of neglect.
By now my father was struggling to make his business pay it’s way. The story goes that he would accept payment in kind from clients which included items such as cabbages and oranges. I am told that everyone was feeling the economic crunch. My parents kept the business going as long as possible but eventually my father had to close his dream down and begin a career as an accountancy teacher at Technical and Further Education (TAFE) colleges. To supplement this income my father also worked one day a week at a local accountancy firm.
This work load was not so bad while my father taught at a local college which was only forty-five minutes drive away. However, once he was transferred to a college ninety minutes drive away over a mountain range things began to pile up on him. To save fuel my father bought a motor bike to make the commute. This was not such a hardship as a my father had had a long love affair with bikes which he found gave him peace and freedom that was lacking elsewhere in his life. Nevertheless to this day I do not know how he managed the ride over the mountains in winter when black ice covered the patches of road as he travelled home at night after teaching his classes.
But it wasn’t the mountain road that finally saw the end of his riding days. It was a piece of flat mud-covered road that he travelled on the way to his second job at the accountancy firm. We were told that he lost traction in the mud and came off his bike, hitting his head on a solid wooden guide post at the side of the road. This accident did not kill him but left his brain damaged and my beautiful intelligent father became a shadow of his former self.