Image of a white sand temple engraved with hearts, a hand-dug entry way and fallen golden leaves around it. By Susan Beamish

Image: Koningsteen Heart Stone

Kapelle-op-den-Bos, Belgium

Susan Beamish ©Copyright 2014

Mother, Beautiful Mother

The transparent skin on my mother’s hand feels as fragile as tissue paper, bruised purple from the weeklong IV. The long pauses between her breaths lengthen, each one offering her a choice to be released into a new and wondrous realm. Her mother, Rose Fletcher, oversees all that is arising. She stands at my mother’s bedside as wispy light, a patient sentinel guiding her soul’s journey. Three golden angelics in the form of energetic spheres accompany her.

 

I watch the pulse in my mother’s arched neck, each heartbeat divinely synchronized with the flickering sign outside her hospital room window. As I rest back in my chair by her bedside, I see a neon sign on the neighbouring building that reads “Manulife.” When I lean in closer to my mother only the word “life” can be seen through the window. Dusk arrives, the sky darkens, and the sign begins to flicker. The word “life” sputters off and on, yet even in the evening’s fading light it is always visible. “There is only life and the impending death which fills the room now is a mere illusion,” Rose conveys.

 

The sky opens, for just a moment, and the brilliant sinking sun is caught by a glass office

tower a block away. Three golden orbs illuminate the face of the building, replicating the

angelics who are watching over my mother. She cannot fathom just how protected and

loved she is in this moment. She has chosen not to see all that envelops her, all that holds

her as precious. I place her hand between mine and transmit the mantra I have used to

soothe my own fear: “You are safe, you are protected, you are loved.” I repeat this truth

until it transmutes into the Om Namah Shivya chant that always arises from deep within

whenever sacredness is about to reveal itself. “My mother, my beautiful mother,” words

that are finally safe to say aloud.

 

My visitation today has been divinely orchestrated ensuring this essential healing could

unfold. The hospital gown, mask and gloves I am required to wear secretly create a brief opening for us to safely connect rather than act as the sanitized barrier they are intended to be. Even my mother’s state of semi-consciousness is a requirement, a gift of silence that unfurls our protected hearts so our earthly mother-daughter contract can be peacefully brought to a close.