The Thread Between Us: A Mother’s Day Reflection

Before we ever felt breath or bone, before our cells began the slow alchemy of becoming—there was a thread. A slender shimmer strung through the vastness of spirit and time, tying child to mother with a bond not made, but remembered.

In the yogic and Hindu view of life, we do not come here by accident. We do not tumble into families like dice in a game. We choose. The soul, in its boundless knowing, leans toward a particular womb—not for ease or perfection, but for the exact lessons it seeks. The mother, whether aware or not, becomes the sacred doorway. She is not only the bearer of life, but the co-conspirator in a divine agreement made long before the stars breathed our names.

In this tradition, the mother-child relationship is not random, nor merely biological. It is karma, it is dharma, it is rasa—the flavor of spiritual relationship steeped in lifetimes of connection. The mother is the child’s first guru, the first touch of the divine made manifest. Through her body, the child is held in the cave of beginning—where every sound is a muffled heartbeat, every need met before it is spoken. This is not just biology; this is communion. It is the remembering of a love that existed long before skin.

In infancy, the bond is animal and holy. Her arms become the whole circumference of the child’s known world. Milk and warmth, heartbeat and lullaby. It is a closeness that neither words nor time can replicate. In yogic philosophy, this is a form of bhakti—devotional love. The child looks up as if she were God herself, and for a while, she is.

Then, the toddler years roll in like spring storms, wild and full of newness. The child begins to test gravity, both literal and emotional. And still, the mother holds. Her eyes learn to read not just words, but whimpers, silences, and stomps. Her patience stretches across time like the Ganges—carving through rock, carrying blessings and tears in equal measure.

Adolescence arrives with fire. The cord, once invisible and unshakable, is pulled taut. The child who once clung now pushes. In yoga, this is tapas—the heat of transformation. The relationship must burn a little in order to forge new understanding. The mother must allow the fire, trusting that what is true cannot be undone. It is not easy, but in the quiet corners of her soul, she remembers: this was always part of the agreement.

Then comes adulthood, where the roles begin to tilt and shift. The child begins to carry the weight once held by the mother. She becomes a mirror—sometimes friend, sometimes teacher. There are moments of radiant connection and moments when silence stretches like a river between them. But underneath it all, the thread still hums. Sometimes, they will see it again in the curve of a smile, or the way one pours tea, or worries, or loves too hard.

And then, gently, the season of parting approaches. Her hair thins, her voice softens. Time slows down around her like a hush before sacred ritual. The child, now the caretaker, finds themselves whispering lullabies she once sang, now cradling the one who once carried them. This is seva, sacred service. This is love returning full circle.

And then, one day, the thread slips from sight. She exhales, and the body lets go. But do not be fooled—she is not gone.

The thread does not break. The yogis say we are never truly separate. The mother becomes sky, rain, and memory. She lives in the taste of warm food, in the scent of soap, in the lullaby passed down without even knowing. The relationship completes, but it does not end. In Hindu cosmology, life is a wheel—samsara—and what is true returns, again and again.

So on this Mother’s Day, let us see more than flowers and cards.  Light a candle. Say her name. Whether she walks beside you or within you now. Honor the ebb and flow, the fire and silence, the holding and letting go. Let us bow to the doorway through which we entered this life. Let us see the divine in her eyes—and ours—and remember:

The thread between us is made of something eternal.

You chose her, and she chose you. And that love—the kind woven in soul before form—is the closest thing to God we’ll ever know on this Earth.

Hari Om Tat Sat

Happy  Mothers Day!