My Mother Is a Bit Mad
Uncontrollable in her anger and emotions.
Sometimes unable to contain her despair and disappointment with my father.
It felt scary as a child.
I didn’t want to be like her.
Yet I loved her.
She was tall, beautiful, and elegant.
I was short and ugly. She often said I got my looks from my father.
My brother, on the other hand, was like her—handsome, with fine features.
The other day, she sent me a message saying that now I look like her and my brother looks like my father.
Interesting… I wonder how she sees us.
What a relationship with my mother difficult to summarise…like life!
As I have grown older, I have encountered many women of all ages.
The non-verbal space of yoga practice reveals so much. Women who are worried, angry, proud, or dissociated from their bodies.
Now, I only feel a strange love and compassion for women, and for that matter, men too.
Everyone is suffering, and yet, on the mat, there is the possibility of healing and maybe even self-realisation.
As I stand in this position, please, Lord and Goddess, flow through me. Let me speak and guide towards what is true and appropriate.
I love my mother. I love my father.
I love the madness, the anger, and the bitterness, along with the profound sweetness and tenderness.
Just different formations.
Without them, there would not be this drama.
Without the play of this samsaric drama, there would be no liberation.
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