Mandalas, Tiles and Poetry

In which I go looking for tiles in India and re-discover my mother's love of mandalas and some poetry-letters she wrote after my grandmother died. Special thanks to Zuzana Zweibel (and Ayurveda Trails) for suggesting the hotel; Kathleen Flynn for in-person support and stories; Lykke Li and Jon Batiste for songs about rivers and butterflies. And for Appi and R working through strange ways by inviting and uninviting me.

February 15, 2024, Bentonville, Arkansas

Dear Mama,

While visiting you I read Maria Hinojosa's book, Once I Was You. In it she recalls Sandra Cisneros giving her writing advice: "Write about the things you wish you could forget," Cisneros told Hinojosa. "Not the things you remember. But the things you try but can't forget about."

I wish I could forget that forlorn look in your eyes, like you were neither here nor there. And how you looked at me, but looked through me. I wish I could forget how you refused to eat even a small bite, while I sat next to you gently coaching your mouth to open for just a teeny-tiny bite. And of course, I wish I could forget the woman who yelled loudly that she was a "good Christian!" in the middle of lunchtime.

Each time I walked to visit you, I wondered if this would be the last time I saw you and if the soul is still in the body, even when the mind has wandered off. I was trying to see the beauty in each moment, to appreciate the daffodils (yes, they were there, we saw them!) and the cardinals (three of them!). Kathleen peppered me with stories of what you two ladies used to do — those I would like to remember, but this in-between phase, and the way my chest hurts and tears are just waiting beneath the surface, those feelings, I would prefer to forget.

LOVE LOVE

March 17, 2024, Tamil Nadu, India

I am rereading your writings as I sit in a beautiful hotel in Southern India. I came here to see the tiles. Each tile is like a mandala, a pattern by itself as well as a history of a place. The patterns each feel like stories, placed next to one another to make something even more beautiful. I like the tiles that don't make sense placed next to one another, and yet they are there creating patterns and shapes.

I told my therapist I was too scatter-brained to meet and she told me to "gather your scatters and make a mosaic!"

I love the way the tiles create new patterns. There are hand-made tiles and machine-made tiles, and I know you would've appreciated seeing how each tile was created. The process, as well as the product. Why are we drawn to art in times of loss? Something reassuring about the patterns, like seasons, maybe.

I had forgotten that Grandma Dorothy had received a scholarship to attend the Art Institute in Chicago. And I like this line you have in your poem about the light being past down through generations:

In the last courageous moments before the great mother goddess embraced you fully into a return to her being, she allowed you as a loving mama to pass on to your loving daughter that last flickering light of strength and courage, which you placed on the altar of my being.

I am ready when you are, but I know you don't like being rushed.

Love you,

Your Darling Youngest Angel Daughter

Mandalas and Poetry

By Josie, January 1988 through December 1988

My work is seen, and heard, and felt in both the mandalas and the poems. Joseph Campbell called the mandala a ‘sacred circle.’ He goes on to say that “it is the center from which we come and the center where we go; a totality completed; the source and the end; a discipline in pulling several aspects together into the center.”

Starhawk says “There is the circle of the self, the site of the inner journey, a personal vision quest — a process of self-healing and self-exploration, and there is the circle of community. What is enacted on the outside must then be taken within. The outer forms a cloak of inner visualizations, so that the circle becomes a living mandala, in which we are centered.”

The Essential Cycle

I am an apple tree in human form. 

I grow from a seed planted deep

Within the womb of the earth mother.

The sun beams its energy to me.

The rains soak me.

My roots grow within to nurture my heart and soul.

My branches reach outward into the surrounding space, 

And upward into the light.

In the spring my flowers are fragrant.

My blossoms are delicate and attractive.

Birds build their nests in me.

I give beauty to all those who pass by me.

In the summer my leaves are abundant.

A rope swing hangs from my largest branch.

I give shade to all those around me.

In the fall my apples are sweet and juicy.

My branches hang down with their offerings.

Children climb into them.

I give fruit to those who come near me.

My leaves are turning yellow now and I return

Them to the earth.

In the winter my branches are bare.

Small animals and insects find comforting homes there.

I have given fully of myself and now I must

Gather and receive my own care and nurturing.

My storm blown branches and withered growths 

Are pruned… cut sharply and painfully.

My roots penetrate deeply into the earth now 

Gathering renewed strength and

Revitalized energy.

I rest in the light of my dark and quiet 

Solitude.

Mother

Oh great mother, Mother Earth, Great Mother Goddess.

You formed my mother in my grandmother’s womb.

Oh great mother, Mother Earth, Great Mother Goddess.

You formed me in my mother’s womb:

While she was gathering ripe tomatoes or planting flowers, a foot was forming and finding its toes;

While she was weaving on her loom or taking a nap, a brain was forming and finding its thoughts.

Oh great mother, Mother Earth, Great Mother Goddess.

You formed my children within my womb: 

While I was stopped at stop signs

Or driving the freeway, an eye was forming and finding its sight;

While I was selecting vegetables or playing my dulcimer, a tongue was forming and finding its taste.

In the darkness the great mother, mother earth, the great mother goddess created form;

In the light we only saw beings fully born.

Oh mama,

We were mothers and daughters together;

We were friends;

We were girls and women becoming and being,

Compassionate, growing, changing, crying, laughing, dedicated.

You were a loving Mama to be and a loving grandmother to my son. You liked

To spend the time reading, playing, visiting parks and museums, and zoos, and going on outings.

You flew on an airplane for the first time at age fifty just to see your grandson when he was a week old. You sat with me for all his feeding times day and night. To give encouragement and acknowledgment to my young, tired and innocent mothering.

I was still your child, only now with a child.

I am a loving mama to my children. I like to spend time with them reading, playing, singing, visiting parks, museums and zoos, going on outings, and visiting friends. I am not yet a grandmother.

You were brave Mama, when papa died. You had been together for twenty-seven years and suddenly you were a widow. At the same time you became a single parent with three girls ages ten, eleven and fifteen.

You were a single parent at a time in history and a place in the country that did not easily accommodate nor accept single-parenting, 1960 in a wealthy suburb north of Chicago.

I was brave too when my husband and I divorced after four years of an early marriage. I became a single parent also with one boy, age four. I was not at a time in history nor a place in the country which easily accommodate or accepted single parenting either — 1967 in a small new England town West of Boston. 

Divorce seemed to be a less acceptable reason for becoming a single parent than death was. I was brave too, against judgements and stereotypes and being very young and vulnerable.

When papa died your sister moved in with you for comfort and support. When I was divorced my sisters visited me frequently for comfort and support and eventually helped me to move from the East to the West Coast.

You were so understanding and supportive Mama, when I was a single parent and working and going to school. Your weekly long distance phone calls, cards, notes and surprises in the mail were so nurturing.

The one dollar bills and five dollar bills tucked in a letter would always help us through the end of the month, I am understanding, too, with my children of varying ages. They know they can talk to me about any feelings or concerns, and I will listen, as you did with me.

You were very artistic, Mama. 

When I was younger I remember sitting by the big floor loom watching the shuttle go back and forth as you were weaving. Even tonight we set the table with some of your beautifully woven placemats. I remember also hearing the hum of the sewing machine, especially around holidays and special occasions. There would be so many tiny colored threads and scraps of material on the floor under the table where you worked. There was a woman who came to you for your artistic skill as a dressmaker. She was very overweight and her husband frequently wanted her to attend executive dinners and parties with him. You designed beautiful gowns for her of thai silk and satin or taffeta that helped her feel attractive. She appreciated you and paid you well. On the wall above my family altar there is a tie-dyed heart hanging. Auntie told me it was done by you when you were given a scholarship to attend the Art Institute in Chicago.

I am artistic, too. My favorite mediums are photographic collage, and mandalas with colored pens. I use your sewing machine. My daughters often hear its hum, especially around the holidays and special occasions. There are often many colored threads and tiny scraps of material around the floor where I work. Your granddaughter is already a weaver at seven. Her school has a weaving room where she spends a great deal of time, for her afternoon choice. She delights in finishing the threading of a warp on a large loom or creating a particular design with certain colors.

You were very creative, Mama, in celebrating holidays, birthdays and special occasions. You sewed costumes for Halloween, doll clothes for everyday wear, and beautiful dresses for parties or dances at school. In high school I remember you sewing the last few stitches of a hem or a ruffle as the doorbell rang for our ride. You hid brightly-colored foil-wrapped chocolate eggs for Easter. There were three in each hiding place. Whoever found them first would only take one and save the rest for the others. There was always a sense of cooperation and fairness. 

Christmas was especially celebrated and rich in tradition: ornaments and decorating the tree; hanging our stockings and anticipating the surprises that would fill them; walking up to the bakery in the ice and snow and buying a gingerbread house; baking and decorating cookies for ourselves and our neighbors. Every spring we helped you plant a flower and vegetable garden. Every summer we shared our abundance with friends and neighbors.

I am creative, too, in celebrating holidays, birthdays, and seasonal cycles. I sew Halloween costumes, doll clothes and dresses for special occasions. My most creative shopping is done at thrift stores, for there is an abundance and variety of well taken care of things to find there. I still delight in hiding Easter eggs in the same fair way, decorating the Christmas tree and baking cookies. We hang some of the same ornaments we did then and have collected many new ones. I have found my own favorite cookie recipes and we make our own gingerbread houses. 

As we do not have our own space for a garden, we share in the preparation and planting of friend’s gardens and we grow as much as we can in pots and boxes. I continue to create new celebrations and meaningful rituals in our day to day life. 

My daughters and I each have a prayer place, where special stones and shells and other favorite things of nature can be found, where candles burn to remind us of a spirit and power that is ever-guiding and ever-present in our lives. 

I create new ways of being there for my children as a working single parent and ways of being there for myself as a growing, changing woman. 

You were so strong, Mama, when your two daughters died within nine months of each other. The youngest was twenty-four and had suffered Leukemia for five years. The other daughter was twenty-five and drown in a rafting accident.

I am strong, too. Your daughters were my sisters, and your own grief was mine. 

For hours, days and weeks I sat by your bedside. I was strong Mama, when you died soon after my sisters. My grief and loneliness deepened. 

But I have not experienced the death of a child as you did, Mama. My own son who was ten at this time encouraged me to go on being a loving mother and strong woman.

You were very courageous, Mama, when you came out to California when you came out to join us for your youngest daughter’s funeral — a celebration of her life and a scattering of her ashes at Big Sur. 

You yourself were recovering from having a breast removed for cancer. 

In the months following the cancer spread to your bones. You were so courageous, mama, to endure your own physical pain and continued emotional grief concerning the death of your daughter. 

You were so courageous, Mama, when you took a taxi from the hospital to the airport and flew to California to join your other two daughters and grandson and friends for Christmas. It was such a happy Christmas being together in our joy and our sorrow. When you returned to the hospital after new year’s your suitcase was filled with oranges, avocados and grapefruits and your heart was filled with love. 

You were so strong, Mama, when a couple of months later your second daughter died suddenly. Your grief deepened and your physical pain deepened also. Though you may not have been aware of the light that remained with you, it shone through your strength and courage.  

In the last courageous moments before the great mother goddess embraced you fully into a return to her being, she allowed you as a loving mama to pass on to your loving daughter that last flickering light of strength and courage, which you placed on the altar of my being. That light of strength. That flame of courage has never gone out. Though it remained hidden for years behind walls of grief and pain and seeming unworthiness.

I am courageous, too. In facing what I recognize as my own emotional disease. The great mother goddess has kept the flame of strength and courage burning within me. Though I was not always aware of it, I am courageous in seeking help to face this dis-ease within me and to begin the healing process.

Oh great mother, earth mother, great mother goddess, you have been caring for me and nurturing me and guiding me since my mama died. 

You have never abandoned me nor left me alone, though I have wandered from you many times. 

As the walls of grief and pain and unworthiness are broken away, the flame of strength grows stronger and steadier and brighter.

In the growing light of healing, the great mother, the earth mother, the great mother goddess teaches me her ways of nurturing me; she teaches me her ways of caring for me; she teaches me her ways of loving me.

In the noise and busyness of my days, 

I am aware of her presence;

In the quiet and stillness of my nights,

I am aware of her presence,

Ever guiding me on the journey into my self.

This post is part of a series of essays called Josie's House. Previous essays can be found here:

1. New Beginning: In which I try to figure out how to tell people that the doctor at my mother's assisted living facility referred her to hospice care — meaning that based on her weight loss and decline, she is expected to be gone within six months.
2. Mom Rocks: In which I attempt to introduce my mother and this project.
3. 'Are You My Sister?': In which my Josie-mama thinks I am her sister and I find a letter my mother wrote to her sister after she died in my mother's arms.