It was a parade of mothers and daughters, with all the complexity and the love that such a relationship entails. A moment in which somehow the past and the present embraced each other, in the shape of a new life.
It was a parade of mothers and daughters; there where daughters becoming mothers, and mothers becoming grandmothers. The room was filled with womanhood, an abstract mix of warmth and fierceness, loving hearts with secrets, and powerful strength.
A warm light took over everyone’s face. The air smelled of history, of a love as old as humanity, of hopes and dreams.
The mothers raised their voices to speak the truth of a lifelong profession. They confessed mistakes, preached advices and revealed the corners of their hearts.
It was a parade of love and grace. It was a celebration that exalted motherhood as a part of womanhood, and everyone knew, in their hearts and souls, just how wonderful, challenging, messy and absolutely beautiful womanhood is.
Right there, in the midst of it all, I glanced at my own mother. I come from her, and yet we are different. But even in our differences there is relationship; even in our misunderstandings there is compassion. I was created for her and she was created for me. She nurtures me and I must honor her.
And so I give her my minutes, my hours. I pay attention. With all my mind and heart, I aim to understand her, even when I can’t relate to her, and even if she doesn’t understand me.
In our home, every day is a parade of mothers and daughters. Every day is a parade of love and grace. I only have her and she only has me; she knows me, and I know her. And yet, we love each other.
She is my mother and I am her daughter.
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