I Am Your Mother

By Rev. Brian Crissey

I am your Mother.

You are but fetuses in my womb.

Yet so many of you believe you can destroy your surroundings without injuring yourselves.

In this you are mistaken.

The time has come
when I must get your attention and speak to you.

Mine is the song of the wind
that topples trees weakened by your clear cutting.

Mine is the cold breath of the north
that bursts your pipes
and sends a chill of recognition down your spine.

Mine is the pristine blanket of snow
that caves in your roofs
and covers your trash with silent beauty.

Mine is the thick glazing of ice
that coats your streets
and quiets the engines that foul my lungs.

Mine is the awesome potter’s hand
that throws the avalanche across the highways
that you have cut across my face.

Mine is the torrential downpour that scours my watersheds and reminds you that a flood plain is well named.

I did not flatten the valley floors to facilitate the building of parking lots, shopping malls and subdivisions.

These valley floors lie flat
under the recurrent memories of standing water.

These steep valley walls bear mute testimony to ancient torrents of rushing floods that swept mountainous boulders before them like seeds before a gale.

Like you, I must bathe myself from time to time.

I need to scrub the filth from my skin,
and I enjoy a long shower.

I have slumbered too long, but now I awake.

You will not fail to notice me as I clean myself up.

I bear you no malice,
but do not stand in my way.

I speak to you softly
in the many tongues of wind, snow, ice and rain.

I have other, stronger voices of earth and fire [and disease].

Listen to your Mother when she speaks to you.

Received from Spirit by Rev. Brian Crissey during a power outage, February 7, 1996