A very special council

Mum passed away in May. She was ready to leave and join her loved ones across the great river. Her mother, father, brother, grandparents and aunties waiting on the other shore. Her husband and son too, our dear father and brother.

She left with the same grace as she had lived her life. Delicately, with a gentle gaze and a smile from the heart.

I struggle to write these lines in English, as though Mum’s passing could only be expressed in the language of her childhood, with its rolled sounds and harmonious liaisons. “Aujourd’hui, maman est morte”. The French language was part of the umbilical cord that kept us tied. In contrast, my English words appear too clumsy and inadequate to honour the greatness of my mother, the greatness of all mothers.

For this year has also taken the mothers of my dear friends in its wake, charming elder women in their 90s and 100s, women who walked lightly on this Earth, courageously enduring wars and dictatorship, never losing that spark of life in their eyes. Women with a mission, an unshakable commitment to love and the hope that we, the younger generation, would have a better life.

I like to imagine that these wise matriarchs are now all sitting around the fire, a council of grandmothers, sharing the stories of their grandchildren with amazement in their voices. “It was worth it”, I hear them saying.

Our mothers died to make space for us. The dead make space for the living. They become our ancestors. Their mission now is to pass the torch on, making sure that we remember where we come from. They walked through heartbreaking times with their strength and love. We are made of their bravery. Let us not forget that this very sweet council of grandmothers is cheekily watching over us. An infinite source of wisdom and guidance, accessible in our hearts and always at hand.

As Thich Nhat Hanh wrote a year after he lost his mum: “Each time my feet touched the earth I knew my mother was there with me. I knew this body was not mine but a living continuation of my mother and my father and my grandparents and great-grandparents. Of all my ancestors. Those feet that I saw as "my" feet were actually "our" feet. Together, my mother and I were leaving footprints in the damp soil.

From that moment on, the idea that I had lost my mother no longer existed. All I had to do was look at the palm of my hand, feel the breeze on my face or the earth under my feet to remember that my mother is always with me, available at any time.”