I remember my Mother commenting on how the babies we bear, whether to term or not choose their life's start, in a sense choose their family. It seemed a wonderfully easy and ethereal plane to believe in, especially as a young woman, not yet to achieve that state of pregnancy and motherhood. In the Bible, most especially the Talmud, the Hall of Souls is known as The Guf.
"The mystical significance of The Guf is that each person is important and has a unique role which they, with their unique soul, can fulfill. Even a newborn brings the Messiah closer simply by being born."
Such a perception and belief is comforting, knowing every soul born is a rock across the tumultuous river that we pivot and slip upon to reach the "Messiah." Of course this is probably only so if one believes in the concreteness of the bible and /or the Talmud. As an older child and a teenager these mystical concepts fed me like a spiritual milk. I was so desperate to believe in a reasoning for why certain children are born with needs beyond the everyday, or why someone I knew was suddenly not "themselves" after a car wreck or a medical procedure. Even as young as my mid teens I had a deep draw to those around me with special needs, or as I now call them, needs. I can not explain it and I gave up a long time ago attempting to pin down why. That is and maybe truly beyond me, that's ok too. Not everything, including intuition or perception needs scientific swordsmanship.
Having said as much, I have been struggling with something beyond my comprehension. After years of catechism, a lapse, an extended involvement with the Episcopal Church, I have finally found my peace with the belief there is no built gathering of stepping stones, straight and pointed across that river of spiritualism. It is for so many a teetering balancing act, with limbs outstretched, waving, gripping their rocks; calling every mossy slip "God's will," or "faith's challenge."
Parenting my children, the ones with "needs," I skipped across the same stones and green, glassy rocks for so long. I could only see the next stone, the whitening rage or mild circular flow of the river that day. I kept looking down, fearful, what if I fall? Will my lungs with their heaviness and the Guf would be one less original soul? When I think back to my Mother's original epiphany, she was and is by no means a religious enforcer. She is attune with the Earth and understands the water. She has, within' her own rocks and river found a quiet peace in the midst of the torrent.
At times, when it's quiet or when my childrens' needs conquer an unimaginable milestone, I question if they chose me from The Guf.
I have watched my Mother, with a cocked head and an inquisitive eye for years now. How does she live midst the same surge, yet never slip or become immersed, never washes away?
"Go gently," she atones...."go gently." I pause, eyes fixed on her, she is not looking down, scanning the slickness of the next rock like I am. She is hunkered down on her rock, balanced, mid stream, looking up. Her straight poise is palpable, her hand dipped in water that dances around her fingers like a well known friend, caressing her form. I hunker down, some stones behind her, no longer studying the next rock, or the farther shore. I allow my hand to atone and go gently with the river laughing around my fingers.
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