Mother's Day

she will give birth to the pearl

to the beautiful feather

 in the house of the goddess who sits on a tortoise

she will give birth to the necklace of pearls

to the beautiful feathers we are

 there she sits on the tortoise

swelling to give us birth

on your way on your way

child be on your way to me here

you whom I made new

come here child come be pearl

come be feather.

—Aztec prayer

in Jerome Rothenberg’s Shaking the Pumpkin: Traditional Poetry of the Indian North Americas

(English version by Anselm Hollo)

 Mother’s Day

As I write on this day, I am feeling somewhat distant from the people who will visit our house later today. I couldn’t bear the thought of going to church. Some stranger standing at the entrance passing out red carnations to the women. Later, the usual recognition of the youngest and the oldest mothers in attendance. Would they have a flower and a special acknowledgment for the saddest mother?

No thanks. I learned my lesson the hard way the first Mother’s Day. The reminders of the upcoming event were everywhere: at the grocery store, on television commercials. At the drugstore, large cardboard banners, colored pink and white, bordered with photographs of flower bouquets, announced: Mother’s Day Cards. Yes, there they were: “To Mother—With Love from Your Son.”

The first Mother’s Day, I sidestepped it all. No going to church for me, or even seeing my own mother on that day. The sabotage happened at a coffee shop. Innocently enough, t

I just want to be alone with my thoughts and music, to capture these words on paper as they pass over my heart. Thoughts of motherhood and a pregnancy, prior to my being pregnant with Kelly, haunted me in the days preceding today. I was as joyous about the first pregnancy as I was with Kelly. Maternal instinct told me that perhaps this first baby would be a girl. I so longed for a little daughter.

But, early in the pregnancy, I was exposed to the German measles. Doctors advised me there was an 80 percent chance the baby would be born blind, deaf, or brain damaged. I simply could not endure the thought of bringing a child into the world with those difficulties, not for my sake but for the baby’s. It just did not seem fair to the child-to-be.

he cashier smiled at me from behind the cash register and wished me a happy Mother’s Day. She never felt the pain in my heart caused by her greeting, nor did she see me crying on the way to my car.

 This is the second Mother’s Day. Friends and family who visit today are well intentioned. They hug me and wish me a happy Mother’s Day. One brings me a pot of orange Mums and a card, and whispers in my ear, “You’re still a mother.” But inside my aching heart it doesn’t feel that way; it just feels lonely and sad. How can I still be a mother when my child is dead?

It was 1965, and abortions were not an everyday occurrence. My husband was in the navy, and the base hospital did not perform abortions. I was forced to see two civilian doctors who signed documentation that confirmed I did have the German measles. This was the first step to allow for a therapeutic abortion to be performed. Once again, I was given the grim prognosis of this baby being born with severe defects.

The choice was mine, and, with the consent of my husband, I elected to terminate this birth. I struggled with the decision, but, ultimately, it was with the greatest of love that I released this child back to the heavens. I always felt this baby was a little girl—I had a knowingness that cannot be explained. Even after Kelly’s birth, I longed for this little girl.

 In 1987, I attended a weekend workshop that altered my life. Held at a friend’s home, the group was intimate: a total of twelve men and women. We followed guided meditations, listened to music, and shared our experiences from the meditations. Throughout most of the weekend, I found myself crying, thinking about the abortion. I never shared the reason for my tears with any of those at the workshop, and no one asked. Everyone in attendance was experiencing and clearing very emotional life issues, and tears just seemed to be a part of that process.

At one point in the workshop, we were all focused on opening our hearts to allow for unconditional love to both fill us up and flow outward to others. During the heart-opening exercise, each participant sat on the carpeted floor with eyes closed. As the facilitator passed through the group, he stopped behind each participant and placed an amethyst crystal at his or her back, behind the heart; he also placed a clear crystal over the heart.

I recall feeling that something profound had occurred when the facilitator stopped behind me, and because of thisfeeling, I requested a private meeting with him the following week. We met on a Monday morning. I told him about the sense of something significant happening when he paused behind me during the heart meditation and asked if he recalled anything about that moment.

He replied, “Have you ever had an abortion?”

In total shock, because I had not shared this with anyone in the group, including him, I burst into tears. I explained the circumstances surrounding the abortion so many years before. I also told him I had always hoped I’d done the right thing for this baby.

With great calm, he said, “I don’t know why, but I thought you’d had an abortion. As I stopped behind you, I saw a little golden-haired girl. She was speaking to you, although you could not hear her words. She said, ‘I cannot hold your hand, but I will forever embrace your heart.’ She merely wanted to tell you that she loved you and that, yes, you did do the right thing.”

In the weeks that followed, I knew I finally had my little golden-haired daughter. I named her Sarah. (I have since learned that in Hebrew this name means “noble” or “princess.”) If only in spirit, Sarah was my child, and she had been with me always. So now I have two children of spirit: Kelly and Sarah.

Come, little girl of my heart—my pearl, my feather—and place your tiny hand in mine.

About Jennifer