I have not birthed children however I have birthed and mothered many other things. I certainly mother my animals, step children at one time, friends when they need that sort of care and of course my businesses and creative endeavors. I’ve made mistakes with these ‘children’, enjoyed a few triumphs and certainly felt heartache earning my stripes as a mother. I’ve been overbearing, sometimes distant, negligent at times, but this week, this week I protected a child of mine, my business, like a Lioness might protect her brood. I’ve come to know this child in a very new way and I feel proud of the good work I’ve done. Work well done is always satisfying.
Yes, I am a proud parent today. I stood my ground as it is in my DNA to mother and I know I’ve done well. I shall sleep very, very well tonight indeed.
And this reminds me of a poem by a favorite writer, a majestic poet and story teller. Dylan Thomas wrote a play I love, ‘Under Milk Wood’, which I had the good fortune to perform in during my freshman year in college. I later witnessed a brilliantly staged and meticulously performed production of it in London which I will never, NEVER forget. Good work, well done!
His prose still lilt about within my head like a summer breeze in Maine. I adore the way this poet sings his words. To me he is magic….pure magic.
But today, I am reminded of his, ‘Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night’, for I know, it is in my heart and in my soul to rage until satisfied, a similar passion I felt this week mothering what is mine.
DO NOT GO GENTLY INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
BB Webb