Mother

[Guest guest]

My mother put me on this world.

But it is my true Mother that gave me life.

Jesus

 

love, sphurna

[Guest guest]

greetings, spurna!

 

 

read this please, i found it quite interesting!!

 

"OUR daily life creates our symbol of God. No two ever cover quite

the same conception.

 

It is so with that symbolism which we know as language. The simple

daily needs of mankind, seem, the world over, to be one. We look,

therefore, for words that correspond in every land.

 

Yet we know how the tongue of each people expresses some one group of

ideas with especial clearness, and ignores others altogether. Never

do we find an identical strength and weakness repeated: and always if

we go deep enough, we can discover in the circumstances and habits of

a country, a cause for its specific difference of thought or of

expression.

 

In the North we speak of a certain hour as "twilight," implying a

space of time between the day and night. In India, the same moments

receive the name of "time of union," since there is no period of half-

light---the hours of sun and darkness seeming to touch each other in

a point.

 

The illustration can be carried further. In the word gloaming lies

for us a wealth of associations,---the throbbing of the falling dusk,

the tenderness of home-coming, the last sleepy laughter of children.

The same emotional note is struck in Indian languages by the

expression at the hour of cow-dust.

 

How graphic is the difference! Yonder, beyond the grass, the cow-girl

leads her cattle home to the village for the night. Their feet as

they go strike the dust from the sun-baked path into a cloud behind

them. The herd-girl herself looms large across the pasture---all

things grow quickly dim, as if the air were filled with rising dust.

 

The word cowdust, indeed, strikes a whole vein of expression peculiar

to this Eastern land. Everything about the cow has been observed and

loved and named. As much water as will lie in the hole once made by

its hoof is a well-known measure amongst the Aryan folk!

 

It is unnecessary to argue further that while the facts of nature

determine the main developments of speech yet every language and

group of languages differs from every other as the characters of

individuals and of nations.

 

Something of the same sort is true of religious symbols. Short of

perfect realization, we must see the Eternal Light through a mask

imposed by our own thought. To no two of us, probably, is the mask

quite in the same place, and some reach, by their own growth,

diverging points so distant from the common centre that they mark the

extreme limits hitherto achieved of those great areas known as the

Christian, or the Buddhist, or the this-that-or-the-other

consciousness.

 

To do this, or even to carry a whole race to a new rallying-place

round a standard planted on the old frontier is the peculiar mission

of religious genius. So Jesus swept down in His might on the old

Jewish entrenchments of justice---righteousness---and carried, the

banner off bodily to that outpost of love and mercy which struggling

souls had reached, indeed, before Him, but which none had yet been

strong enough to make the very heart and focus of vitality.

 

And so every one of us, simply by thinking his own thought, and

living his own life to the full, may be answering his brother's cry

for God in ways beyond the dreaming of the world. Are Catholic

possibilities not richer for the life of Manning, or Protestant for

Frances Ridley Havergal?

 

These things being true, the imagery of all men has its significance

for us. The mask is created by our own thought directly, and

indirectly through the reaction of custom upon thought. Like all

veils, it brings at once vision and the limiting of vision. Only by

realising the full sense of every symbol can we know the whole

thought of Humanity about God.

 

But down with all masks!

 

The Uncreated Flame itself we long for, without symbol or veil or

barrier. If we cannot see God and live,---let us then die ---what is

there to fear? Consume us in primal fire, dissolve us into living

ocean, but interpose nothing, no, nor the shadow of anything, between

the soul and the divine draught for which it thirsts !

 

True. Yet for each of us there is a chosen way. We ourselves may

still be seeking it, where and when still hidden from our eyes. But

deep in our hearts is rooted the assurance that the moment will yet

come, the secret signal be exchanged, the mystic name will fall upon

our ears, and somewhere, somewhen, somehow, our feet shall pass

within the gates of Peace, we shall enter on the road that ends only

with the Beatific Vision.

 

Till then, well says the old Hindu poet of the folk-song to himself :-

 

 

Tulsi, coming into this world,

Seek thou to live with all---

For who knows where or in what guise,

The Lord Himself may come to thee ?"

 

Our daily life creates our symbol of God.

 

To the Arab of the Desert, with his patriarchal customs, the 'father

of the family,---just and calm in his judgments, protector of his

kindred, loving to those who played about his knees as babes,---may

well stand as the type of all in which men feel security.

 

Naturally, then, it was the Semitic mind that flashed across the dim

communing of the soul with the Eternal, the rapturous illumination of

the great word "Father."

 

God our father,---bound even to the most erring of His children by a

kinship that misdoing cannot break (for if the human tie be

indissoluble, shall the divine be less so?) ; father, ---by a tie so

intimate that to this day the stalwart Afghan, prostrating in the

mosque, says " Thee " and " Thou " to the God of Hosts, as might an

infant on its father's knee !

 

In the Aryan home, woman stands supreme. As wife in the West,---lady

and queen of her husband ---as mother in the East,---a goddess

throned in her son's worship, ---she is the bringer of sanctity and

peace.

 

Profound depths stir within us, in presence of the intensely

Christian conception of God---a child in His mother's arms. This

ideal of the heart of a woman---pierced by its seven sorrows, on fire

with love, mother beside the cradle, worshipper beneath the cross,

and glorified in great humility,---has been one of the richest gifts

of the Catholic Church to humanity.

 

Peerless in its own way is the woman- hood of Rossetti's sonnet:-

 

This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect

God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, and she

Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee

Unto God's will she brought devout respect,---

Profound simplicity of intellect,

And supreme patience

Thus held she through her girlhood,

As it were an angel-watered lily,

That near God grows, and is quiet."

 

Jesus Himself---to those who kneel before no Madonna in the Vatican---

sounds this note of the eternal feminine. "Come unto me, all ye that

labour and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you. Take my yoke upon

you, and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly of heart, and ye shall

find rest unto your souls." Is it not a woman's cry ?

 

Nay, He is conscious of this element in His own nature. Once at least

He speaks of it. In that sublime moment when He, the young Leader of

the armies of the future, stands on the sunlit mountains, and looking

down upon the city of His race sees the dark shadow of destiny

wrapping it about, in that moment when the Patriot forgets, in a sob

of human anguish, that He is Master and Redeemer, in that moment He

becomes all motherhood. "O Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! Thou that killest

the prophets, and stonest them that are sent unto thee,---how often

would I have gathered thy children together, like as a hen gathered

her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!"

 

The soul that worships becomes always a little child: the soul that

becomes a child finds God oftener as mother. In a meditation before

the Blessed Sacrament, some pen has written the exquisite

assurance: "My child, you need not know much in order to please Me.

Only love Me dearly. Speak to me, as you would talk to your mother,

if she had taken you in her arms."

 

But it is in India that this thought of the mother has been realized

in its completeness. In that country where the image of Kali is one

of the most popular symbols of deity, it is quite customary to speak

of God, as "She," and the direct address then offered is

simply "Mother."

 

But under what strange guise! In the West, art and poetry have been

exhausted to associate all that is tender and precious with this

thought of woman-worship. The mother plays with the little One, or

caresses or nurses Him. Sometimes she even makes her arm a throne,

whereon He sits to bless the world.

 

In the East, the accepted symbol is of a woman nude, with flowing

hair, so dark a blue that she seems in colour to be black, four-

handed---two hands in the act of blessing, and two holding a knife

and bleeding head respectively,---garlanded with skulls, and dancing,

with protruding tongue, on the prostrate figure of a man all white

with ashes.

 

A terrible, an extraordinary figure Those who call it horrible may

well be forgiven. They pass only through the outer court of the

temple. They are not arrived where the Mother's voice can reach them.

This, in its own way, is well.

 

Yet, this image, so fearful to the Western mind, is perhaps dearer

than any other to the heart of India. It is not, indeed, the only

form in which the Divine Energy presents Herself to Her worshippers.

To the Sikh, She is absorbed, embodied in his sword; all women,

especially as children, are Her incarnations; glorious Sita carries

the great reality to many.

 

But Kali comes closer to us than these. Others we admire; others we

love; to Her we belong. Whether we know it or not, we are Her

children, playing round Her knees. Life is but a game of hide-and-

seek with Her, and if, in its course, we chance to touch Her feet,

who can measure the shock of the divine energy that enters into us ?

Who can utter the rapture of our cry of "Mother?"

 

 

----

 

This article is the introductory chapter of author's collection of

excellent essays on the Divine Mother of universe, titled Kali the

Mother, published by Advaita Ashrama, Mayavati, Pithoragarh,

Himalayas, India.

 

courtesy-vedanta society of new york.

[Guest guest]

namaste adi shakti!

thank you for this beautiful post..

 

 

Chop wood and i am there.

Raise the stone and you will find me there.

 

I, that is the light.

(jesus)

 

love

sphurna