Bath Time
Lyric Essay
Mindfulness is mother’s loving arms cradling my screaming, crying toddler mind.
She dips me in present waters to wash off the muck of stories and judgments I cast to sway every argument in favor of great mighty ME.
I kick my little legs but she rinses them easy, giving my toes a tickle. I try not to laugh and drop my scowl mask. So, I ball my tiny fists and scream in defense of what I know to be me, or at least what I hope is me.
I fight back because the thought of losing identity has to hurt worse than the usual aches I get from stepping on the thorns of my rose-less vine mind… right?
She wraps my twitching anger in her gentle palms, kisses my forehead and tells me everything will be just fine.
Mother Mindfulness scrubs until I’m all the way washed. So much so I dissolve, a bath bomb of soul, no pain at all. She stays, bathing, basking in what I’ve become—something truer, more real. Now I see I was always this very moment, experiencing itself.
I am the mother soaking in the water of me, fluid, of no form, therefore, no worry. I am clean.