A mother is like this garden in a sense. A garden huh? Yeah, a garden.
A garden has different flowers and trees and though weather and seasons may cause periods of dormancy in the garden, it will bloom, it will survive. A mother must be like that as well for her children. A mother must have different tools in her arsenal to help her children become health adults and be able to contribute to this society with their God given gifts. They must also however be wise gardeners of their own garden lest they burn themselves out and be unable to then be of any use to anyone including their children. They must cultivate their own garden, but also be careful in cultivating their children, who can also be considered a garden full of potential, so they can learn to become wise gardens for themselves at some point. Mothers have quite the task of being many things, wearing many hats of having to love, but not to the point of creating dependency so the child never quite becomes a truly independent adult, yet still maintain a strong bond with them. They must be clear that they are the parent and not their children’s buddy, though there must be trust both ways. Mothers have quite a task nurturing their own gardens to stay healthy on all levels and at the same time the garden that is their kids. Not an easy task. If that mother has issues of their own, even trickier. Mother, the ones who bring us into this world when not warped by modern feminism for hatred of motherhood and marriage, and of men are the linchpin of society.
My tribute to mothers I give by sharing this poem by Lucretia Maria Davidson
O thou whose care sustained my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope’s brightest garland wove;
To thee my lay is due, the simple song,
Which Nature gave me at life’s opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.
O say, amid this wilderness of life,
What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me?
Who would have smiled responsive?—who in grief,
Would e’er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee?
Who would have guarded, with a falcon-eye,
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart, with love’s bright tear?
Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip,
In all the agony of love and wo?
None but a mother—none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch;
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,
Whose form has felt disease’s mildew touch.
Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom—
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o’er every grief,
That wo hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.
O then, to thee, this rude and simple song,
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.