Ah yes, Mother's Day. Criticized by some as being simply commercial, cherished by others as a chance to celebrate revered mothers, aunts, grandmothers and other important women in their lives. I am not going to lie - as the mom of three beautiful boys, I relish the sweet homemade cards, gorgeous flowers and special morning breakfasts proudly presented to me each year. But as I get older, I find myself thinking of my friends (growing in number, sadly) who no longer have their mothers on this earth to celebrate, or who have complicated and painful relationships with their moms, or those who are not in the biological sense mothers themselves (by choice or by chance), but who love their friends and fur babies with the fiercest and most tender of hearts.
So today, I choose to celebrate love. Love that weaves its way around the rocky places and takes root. Love that co-exists with hurt, love which thrives in the shadow of doubt, love that blooms in spite of withering scrutiny. Love that carries on, love that bears the burden of grief and doesn't break. Love that peeks shyly around the corner, love that trumpets from the rooftops. Love that squeezes through the narrowest of veins and gushes from the most open of hearts. I celebrate love that is messy and complicated and exhausting but always and forever true.
Mothers give life and with life comes love. We all experience and show and share it in different ways, but there it is, at its most flawed and in its greatest glory. And that is always worth celebrating.
