AT THE FEET OF THE MOTHER 1/B

Her ways

One Sunday morning the Irish nuns took us kids to attend at Mass. My place happened to be close to a statue of Mother Mary all dressed in black.   She had teardrops running over her cheeks and seven swords piercing her heart. 

 

 She looked so sad... I could not move my eyes from that pale and sad face...I well knew the tragedy of her sorrow and how deep it could be...  me too was shedding sorrowful tears for the same reason... she had lost her son, I had lost my mother... we were summoned in that almost unbearable sadness... she was as distressed as I was...

Then, a silent voice aroused from that child heart of mine telling her: Oh little Mother... how I wish to take those swords out of your heart!..

 A single golden, transparent ray came forth from her heart touching mine and at once my wounded heart was literally cauterized,  all my sadness had gone and at its place there was a scarf on my heart. 

 A five years old child cannot understand Mother's ways,  I trusted I could talk to her much as to an earthly mother and could receive an answer, I trusted  I could establish a personal relation with her, so it was but natural to me  when five years later, now ten years old I run to kneel at a picture of her asking for immediate help. 

There were blood running down my legs, they were simply piles but I was horrorized and insistently called her for help. Seeing that no answer came I run to the kitchen took some chickpeas and back, I knelt on them, in that way I meant her that "my call was -really- an emergency" and I was expecting her to answer me...While so knelt and never ceasing to say: Oh Mother please, please help me! I heard a strange sound at my back as little trumpets and then an incredibly sweet and caring feminine voice spoke to me, calling me by my name and motherly saying to stand up now. I was petrified in earing the sudden voice and I actually couldn't move at all... I was overwhelmed by panic in thinking that if I turned my head  I could see her, but I had to do something... I could not remain any longer on that painful position so after a while I turned my head a bit and in seeing that nobody was there anymore I took back the chickpeas to the kitchen. You can see how ungrateful I was because in both cases I never said a word of thanks!.. Whenever your difficulties are too heavy to bear do pray her, be immediate and insistent as a child would be, She can't resist that call.

When the divinity itself intervenes into your life compelled by a call, you will never be the same again, a mark has been posed on your soul, you have become one of "her own".

 That happened to me, mean time I had the least monastic aspiration growing up instead as a rebel - an anarcho spiritualist of a kind-, an artist and a poet till my twenties when I happened to read the "Autobiography of a yogi" by Paramahansa Yogananda. Yogananda described how himself and other indian yogis had had experiences with the divine Mother, me too had some in my youth but I had completely forgot them... The author awoke in me a renewed need to be in touch with her. Without me noticing it, the  divine sound of her voice was carved in my soul where I could still hear it...  She had been patient, waiting for me to remember her again...