Dawn Magic
by Liza Johnson, Huntington

Mom takes frequent naps since the stroke. Today I am tucking her in, to make sure she is comfortable. As I sit here with her while she falls to sleep, innocence emanates from her being. My heart fills with tenderness as I watch the blankets rise and fall protecting the fragile form underneath.

When I was eleven years old, she took my younger sister and me to visit her parent’s ranch outside Calgary, Canada. This was special because we were taken out of school for a week and it was the first time I experienced Mom away from my father for any length of time. As the days passed, I became aware that a happier side of her came out. The three of us slept together in a big feather bed and woke up every morning at 4:30 while it was still dark, eager for the day to begin. We drank big mugs of coffee with fresh cream from the milk cows. We did things that we had never done before. I remember how happy Mom was and that every day held some new adventure. In the afternoons, we would lie around and listen to her old cowboy records on the antique victrola. We would laugh hysterically at some and cry with others. She showed us how to milk a cow and squirt the milk into the mouth of the patient stray cat that lived in the barn. As a young child and only girl with three brothers, she befriended many animals and spent hours alone playing with her feline friends that gathered around her. She would dress them up and pretend they were her children. Often she was seen walking in the fields with a trail of cats following behind. She earned the nickname, “Puss” which lasted until she left home.

One morning, early, while it was still dark, she drove us to pick up a big pinto horse which our neighbor had said we could ride while we were there. They lived a mile down the dirt road. Bursting with excitement, I begged Mom to let me ride the horse back to the ranch. Without hesitation, she consented. With my sister behind me on bare back, the ride was tinged with early dawn magic; the bulging muscles of the pinto rippling beneath our legs; my hands gripping the long, tangled, coarse mane and my sister’s warm arms around me as we galloped along. Anything my sister and I wanted was granted here and the feeling of friendship that grew among the three of us is still with me after all of these years. It was a blessed time where my sister and I enjoyed the divine meaning of Mother: a being who opens her heart to her children, offering them slices of life that nourish and serve the life of the spirit and the longings of the soul.

Liza Johnson, L.M.F.T, a licensed Psychotherapist in Huntington, leads groups on dreams, embodied imagination, ritual & psychological growth. Graduate of the Gestalt Institute of L.I. & The International Society of Embodied Imagination, Liza’s article is excerpted from her book in progress, Take Me Home. Contact Liza at 631-427-7728 or LJohnson@aol.com.