Margarete Petersen Study -Mother of Cups

Translation:

• 
  I can rise in any form from the Flowing One. As Rain, the mother of fertility. As River, I send connections, and am everywhere. As Ocean, I am Mother, she who brought forth all Life. As Spring, Mother of origins. As Dewdrops, tears of Night. As tears, Mother of sadness. As sweat and urine, I rinse away toxins.
  
  I am the Purifier, the Flowing in the body.
  As Mixer of Lovers, I mix the consistency of secretions.
  I nourish, I fill, I am soft and flowing.
  As Dreamer, I bring deeply hidden things ashore.
  As Mirroring, I show moods and feelings.
  As Compassion, I show the beauty of melting illusions.
  I am the iridescent one, she who seduces, beguiles, clouds and clears.
  
  Those who wish to stop me, I will flow around.
  Those who mirror themselves in my surface, will see what they can recognize.
  Those who stir me, will become feeling.
  To those who fall into me, I will bestow deep insight.
  
  My husband, the Flowing One, told me that the moon on my surface is a reflection.

Link to image: Mutter der Kelche


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Mother of Cups

Today I drew the Mother of Cups and the wispy steam like vapour surrounding the figure of the woman in this image brought back immediate memories of a particular incident with my own Mother.

I was quite young and was in the Children of Mary. On a special occasion at Church one day I was playing with my lighted candle before the procession and accidentally set fire to a special lace cover on the statue of Mary. The priest was a fairly severe Australian Irishman who was tough with little kids and Mum saved me from his fury. This priest was the sort of character who refused to bury a baby in consecrated ground because she wasn't baptised so you can imagine what he was like.

Anyway, I began to think more of dear Mum and wrote another poem - a happy one this time. I figure it won't matter because no-one else seems to read the Margarete Petersen threads so here goes! As I've gotten older and wiser, I have lunderstood and appreciated my own mother more. She was a Pisces mother of six and a genuine Mother of Cups.

Mother of Cups

Ah , did you see my mother ever,
And did she stop and speak with you?
Did you mistake her for another?
Her beauty could be matched by few.

My father called her Pocket Venus
Small of stature, honey haired
She was really like the Empress -
Earthy love was always shared.

We were a tribe, and times were hard,
She made the most of what we had.
What others thought she never cared
But good was good and bad was bad.

Mother of Cups? She’d laugh at that!
One family day was not so merry:
A horrendous heated tribal spat,
With Mum and aunts high on sherry.

She was a real maternal warrior
Rescuing us from misadventure
Our enemies would be the sorrier
And we’d only get a gentle censure.

By mistake one day at Holy Mass
I started quite a nasty fire.
My candles caught on Mary’s lace
And flames shot up into the spire.

It was the end of Father’s sermon
When the fire engines came.
He tried to ban me from communion.
Mum saved me also from that shame.

Mum was Mother of Cups and more.
Though sometimes it must have seemed
That fate was far from fortune’s shore,
Her life by laughter was redeemed.