I feel it when I curl up close to her at night, when I can’t sleep.
Her colors, they used to be so bright and alive, but now they are fading.
Her vibration is lower than before—I can feel it in the quiet moments, in the moments I am close to her.
Before—in the wee hours when everything was quiet—I used to be able to hear her heartbeat. It was a deep and tribal rhythm, like a drum in the dark. Now the only sound is the hum of the machines.
My mum is unwell—she is dying.
My mother. My dear amma. My beautiful mum.
She is hurting. She doesn’t tell me directly, but I know it, instinctively. I know the way she weeps, when the rest of us aren’t looking. She has fleshy wounds too—from years of abuse and neglect—that we try not to look at. It hurts to see them, so we look the other way.
It hurts to know that she is hurting.
I want to help her, so badly. I want her to feel better, to come back to life and to grow back into the way that she used to be. I would give anything to make her healthy and abundant again, the way she was before. The way she is meant to be.
But that was a long time ago. A long time ago—and now, we are approaching the point of no return.
Any day now, her illness will reach the point where there is no going back. When her illness reaches this threshold, there is no longer a way we can help her heal. All we can do then, is to watch her fade away.
She needs help now.
I don’t know how to do it, and I fear that my efforts are so insignificant.
Meeting with her pain, I feel so small, so powerless. When seeing her this way, I am reminded of how fragile everything is—how easily the world can crumble before our eyes.
I’m so scared.
Without her, there will be no me—I cannot live without her.
Even in her weakened state—when all I want is to give my love to her—she is the one who gives life to me.
Sometimes I feel angry. I grit my teeth, punch the air and I curse this cruel, cruel world. I hate the meaninglessness of it all and all the people in it. But when this happens, I know it is the hopelessness speaking, not me.
Because when I return to her, I know the deeper truth.
When I sit with her, in silence, I remember once more, all the goodness in the world. I know it in my heart that blaming and cursing will not help her heal, nor will the feeling of helplessness that creeps upon me—like the fog that sometimes comes from nowhere and disappears just as fast as it came.
Instead, all I can do is to continue trying to help her, and ask others to help too. Maybe, if we all come together, we can help her recover before it is too late.
My mother is dying—my mother, earth.
She is sick from over-population, pollution, toxic waste, deforestation, over-consumption, over-exploitation of marine resources and so much more.
She is dying.
Will you help me, help her?
Author: Marthe Hagen
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina
Photo: Flickr/Brian Wright