I grieved the weaning of my second (and last) child. I watched her pace-quickening movement toward sip-cups and away from me, knowing innately that my days of nursing were drawing to a close. And though I was ready for the mobility and independence that hadn’t been afforded me in months, I was palpably aware of what was ending, what I would never feel again, what I would no longer offer another living soul.
Even typing these words nearly brings me to tears. How I loved loving my girls in such a palpable, all-encompassing way; having the capacity, at least in those quiet, sacred moments, to be all they needed and wanted.
Those days have long-since passed; my daughters now teenagers. Some days we barely make time for a quick hug as one or the other (and more times all three of us) are bolting out the door. My capacity is limited, to be sure, by demands, by responsibilities, even by proximity; but more, by the awareness and reality that I cannot be all they need and want.
As each day passes, they grow up and away from me. This is as it should be and as it need be. My desire to care, to nurture, to shelter, to embrace has not lessened – only their coming to me for such.
And this makes me wonder about God.
It often seems that we grow up and away from God. This is not as it should be, nor as it need be. God’s desire and capacity to care, to nurture, to shelter, to embrace has not lessened – only our coming to God for such.
There is no requirement or demand that we remain umbilically tied to God – especially with any kind of lingering guilt or to save our mortal soul. Rather, we are invited, allowed, and welcomed to stay because our thirst is never slaked, our hunger is never satisfied, our need (and want) for infinite care and compassion is never-ending.
Even typing these words nearly brings me to tears. I am thirsty. I am hungry. And I am palpably aware of how much I both need and want care and compassion. Still, I am not unlike my daughters: driven by self-sufficiency, by the felt-demand to efficiently manage every emotion, every frustration, every lack.
But deep within, if I really listen, I can hearken back to an almost in-the-womb sort-of knowing. And there, in quiet, sacred moments, I remember. Yes, this: every need and want met.
No matter your understanding of God – as Source, as Trinity, as Sacred Feminine, as universal experience of love, even as Mother Nature – milk (and honey) flows, sustenance is endlessly yours, and there is no requirement to grow up, to be self-sufficient, to manage every detail of your life. No weaning is required.
Doesn’t this nearly bring you to tears?
Can a mother forget her nursing child?
Can she feel no love for the child she has borne?
But even if that were possible,
I would not forget you!