by Steve Spongberg

Created on: January 07, 2009

Our Mother sleeps, but She is restless.

The four Winds, the West, the East, the South, and, yes, even the North, come lightly, fitfully. They, Her breath, have been this way since the Sun, Her Father, released Her from day.

Is She dreaming?

She gathers blanketing clouds as a covering; it brings no comfort. The shroud moves as fitfully as Her breath: it shows Her twitching; it shows Her spasms.

It shows Her anguish?

Sweat, a cold sweat, for there is no warmth, begins to darken the clouds that came at light's retreat. The weight of the dampened cloud-covers causes them to lower, to cling, to smother. More chill sweat, more weight, more shuddering.

Mother's breathing is deeper now. Great draughts of East Wind are followed by ragged exhalations of West, mixed with mischievous, sometimes evil, North. Her breath rattles, choked with a saliva that further burdens her cover.

That growling we hear, is it directed at some adversary only her dream can see? Is the growling directed at us?

Can we expect more?

We have pierced Her like ravenous grubs; we have built great warts on Her shoulders; we have fouled Her breath. As our children don't, we, Her children, didn't think of the punishment to come.

Has it come?

Dali, or maybe El Greco, could have described this to us. Would we have seen? The Winds have become visible. They are stretched, yet compacted, into a twisted, gnarled, vertical shaft like an elongated finger made of double-jointed knuckles. The finger is jittering and dancing across the surface, seeking the tormentor of its source.

Is it us that it seeks?

Our Mother cries. Tears plop, staining the ground around us with circles that soon overlap, then coalesce into a bevy of rivulets. We watch the running water (perceiving that the lesser threat) until the tears crystallize into icy, biting wasps, then bludgeoning fists, beating at our feeble fortresses. The staccato raps of the ice tears demand entry to the swelling capsule of our fears. Will the wind finger find us?

Mother's one fingered hand scratches at Her surface. It's the hard, digging effort spent on a nagging itch that can't, quite, be located. She is unconcerned about the furrows and gashes that She gives to Her skin. She is unconcerned about the blemishes and constructions we so laboriously placed on Her that are in the path of Her search.

Even as She scatters our toys, there is a lessening. We let out a breath we didn't know we were holding; we look for hope.

More quickly than it began, the dream subsides. The time of greatest dread passed so swiftly that we can only realize the danger we were in by what remains. We look at the swaths cut in the forests of our making; they look familiar. The forests that Mother made look like this. Our throats are thick with loss.

Was this a warning?

Mother sighs still, even as Her Father approaches. He gently caresses Her to wakefulness, stoking Her with comforting warmth. He tries to believe Himself what He tells Her to believe, that the fears of Her dream exist only in Her dream. She will survive.

A mother will not deny her feeding child, even if he suckles with greedy teeth that mix her blood with her freely given milk. Her only hope for relief comes with the growth of her infant.

Are we Her un-weaned offspring?

Mother's dream is over, for now. Under the gentle ministrations of Her Father, She is healing from Her fear. Do we, Her children, love Her enough to help Her heal from Her disease?

Or are we Her cancer?

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