My dear mother,
As I sit quietly in the office slowly passing by
another Valentine's day, I ponder of the countless moments
of love that you have shared with me in the past 25
years of life. Even those moments of physical separation
I know of the deep longing and care you passed along to
me emotionally by the wind and your prayers.
Thank you for the many drops of tears you generously
poured out, squeezed from the fruits of joy yet harvested
from the fields of pain and thorns, day by day. Those
drops have nourished and watered a sickly, wilting plant
into a now generously blossoming bloom. Understand that
this bloom's burden is no longer yours to carry nor to care
for. But it is rather for the heavens to water, for the forest
to shelter, and for the bumblebees to dance upon. You need
only to relax in the grass and peacefully enjoy.
Thank you for the wise words and
lessons you've passed on to me, since now I may
pass them on to others. Even though your tecachings
were hard they are cherished and held deeply within
my heart. Many mothers love only to the point of
sparing their children pain. Yet you have loved
deeply, above and beyond the limits of your own pain
to equip me with the tools to surpass my own.
Thank you for the warm and memorable
household, the precious family life you bult with your
own two hands, tirelessly sacrificing yourself for us.
It's a level of excellence and dedication that I will
expect no less of in myself in fostering my own future
Thank you for the calm pemperance and soft reassurances
when I most needed it, particularly in my lowest seasons.
It was those moments of gentle attention that has helped me
grow and become a man.
Always know that whenever I fail and
displease you or bring you grief and sorrow
I hurt more within, out of a desparate need to
please and seek your approval. I am blind but
try so hard to see the colors you paint for me,
deaf but listen with all my strength for the song
you sing for me, lame but so eager to move
to the rhythm of the dance you perform for me.
Someday I will feel the dried paint, see the sheet music,
and hear the sound of some footsteps. And I will try again...