Mamas
and a Birdwalk
While missing my sweet mom, I revisited this writing that I originally shared a year after she died. It lived on what is now my ‘non-existent’ website, and it being Mother’s Day, I felt compelled to share it again, and let it have a home here on Substack…
But before I began to work on this newsletter, I felt kind of sore in my body and thought, “I'll just do a little stretching.” I'll do it out by the chicks.
We're raising 13 chicks and we give them fresh air, bugs and exercise in a little brooder pen when it’s warm out. I said to myself, “I will go out and do the stretching next to them, then I'll come right back in and begin writing.”
So I go outside and to my surprise, I see a rat in the pen with the chicks, who are all hysterically bunched up in one corner of the pen. I turn over the pen and the rat runs out and the chicks run everywhere. I check to make sure none of them have been bitten or eaten, while they start running all over the place. They end up in the lilac hedge. The rat! Where is the rat? Nadia named him Neighbor. He lives in the culvert by the house and she likes to give him oyster crackers. She thinks of him as her pet, and he's quite a big pet rat who loves the compost pile, and I guess he loves chicks, too.
All the chicks seem OK and so I let them play under the lilac bush, and then I hear a strange piercing sound— I don't know what that sound is. It's not coming from the chicks, but close to the chicks. I look and look as I sit by the chicks, but nothing makes any more sounds except chick chirps. I can’t see anything in there. So I finally proceed with my stretching- I do downward facing dog. I do a sun salutation, and then, in cobra pose, a bird peaks out of the lilac bush, and it's a Bobwhite!!
I was just reading about Bobwhites last night in J. Drew Lanham’s “The Home Place,” telling Nadia how I heard them all the time as a child, but I never see them or hear them anymore.
This Bobwhite just looks so lost. He starts to come close to me, and wanders around and around and sings at me, almost as if he’s looking for guidance of where to go to find his hens. I don't know what to do. This goes on for about ten minutes, and I am enchanted. And then Junipurr, my cat, suddenly spots the Bobwhite and starts to chase him. Then I am off chasing Junipurr, but I need to watch the chicks cause the rat will come get the chicks, but where did the Bobwhite go, because the weed whacker is getting closer and closer and the man weed eating is near the edge of the bushes where the Bobwhite ran, and he doesn't know that there's a Bobwhite in the bushes or even chicks nearby! And I'm just trying to stretch a little so I can write my Earth Devotions Newsletter!
Ok, now I know that the cat is away from the bird - I have put her inside, the weedeater is on another path, and he is safe momentarily. I just need to lay down a minute. So I lay down on the ground in the yard and there's a dice right there where I would put my head, and it's face up on the number eight, like some crazy eight ball. It's clear- a kind of a weird looking die, and it has moss growing inside of it, and a skull, and I stretch out on the ground, with eyes still on the chicks, and exhale deeply.
And now, without any more birdwalking…
Mamas
Not one of you reading this is without one. No one can make the passage to earth without a mother. Whether she be alive or dead, you will always have a mother as she is a part of you more than any other human, having given half her genes and carried your DNA to babyhood, if nothing more.
And there’s our Big Mama, Mama Earth, who nurtures every single one of us every single day that we are alive. And when the time comes for us to say goodbye to our biological or adopted mom, turning to Earth Mama’s generosity and breadth of nourishment may be of great solace. It was for me, after losing my sweet mama.
Part of me doesn’t want to write about this at all, because it brings up too much pain. The other part of me knows that if I can tap into my grief, let the tears flow, then I will move through it, and metabolize the ripe sadness into wisdom.
So I write.
I feel.
I weep.
My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2014. She did the standard treatments and it went into remission until 2018, when she was diagnosed with Stage IV metastatic breast cancer that had moved to her lungs and bones. She began Ibrance, a pill specifically formulated to target HER2 Negative breast cancer. Mom responded well to it and lived a somewhat normal life up until the end, which came fast.
I had told her from the get go of her diagnosis that when things got hard, please call me and I would be there. I couldn’t imagine a more honorable responsibility than caring for mom in her last stages of life. Throughout her illness, I would check-in about that regularly How ya doing, mom? Do you need me to come? “No, no, I am doing quite well, honestly. I will let you know if that changes.”
I was in the Everglades, camping with Nadia’s school and without phone reception. Once I got out of the national park, I saw I had a slew of messages from my dad, brother, aunt— mom was not doing well and I should come asap. Once home, I packed up my car to head to my parent’s home and my little girl shyly asked, “Mom, is cancer contagious?”
The three hour drive to my folks was filled with all kinds of emotions. I just wasn’t ready to let her go. I arrived to find her sitting on the sofa, hooked up to oxygen, weak and uncomfortable, but still able to engage and direct us, trying to be as ‘normal’ as possible. That was Sunday afternoon. She died Wednesday.
Mom greeted me with eyes of relief, and said, “I am so glad you are here!” My dad and her sister, Sara, were there supporting her already and she was awaiting a hospital bed to arrive, as she couldn’t breathe when lying down. She had been sleeping on the reclining sofa for a few days and you could feel the tides had rapidly turned for her. She was not ready to admit she was dying, although all of us around her knew it. She had such a zest for life, always the first one up in the morning and the last one to go to sleep, fully engaging with family, friends and her church community, never missing a beat. She did not want to let go. I didn’t want to let her go. My mama!
My mom was as spirited as they come- her enthusiasm for life was contagious and people were magnetized to her because she made you feel Alive! She left her career as a social worker after her third child was born, to be a full-time mom, and then, like pulling rabbits out of a hat, she became a full-on grandma of 10, and managed the home affairs and larger family gatherings in such a way that you didn’t know she was doing much but now that she’s gone, you realize just How much she was doing— she tended and kept life running so smoothly that we thought it just happened naturally!
My mother was an earth angel.
Because she had cancer, and we all knew that it was terminal, I had time to prepare myself for her passing. In 2009, my partner, Frank Cook, died suddenly, and it was a traumatic event. But because of his death, I learned how to live life after you have lost someone you love deeply, after you have lost someone whom you cannot imagine your life without. His death grew me. So when my mom died, I already had a skin to deal with it. Frank gave me numerous gifts when he was alive, and through his death, he continues to bless my life.
The house my parents live in is the old farmhouse my paternal great-grandparents lived in, and where I had been coming since a babe. It is the longest continual house of my life. All other homes of my childhood have come and gone. My parents moved into the house when my great grandmother passed, in 1991. I was close with her, Josie Bell, whom we called MaMa (pronounced Mah Mah), and was present near her death. My mom chose to have the hospital bed placed in the same room that MaMa died- so returning to this room to court death again was, well, ironic, maybe?
Ironic, however, is the word for what eventually killed my mom. Her treatment. It was her heart that gave out, overtaxed by radiation and years of chemo and all kinds of other meds. But who knows if she would have lived this long after her diagnosis if she didn’t do any of that treatment. Who knows.
At some point, Mom had written a few requests for what to do should she become unconscious. We were mercifully able to meet them all.
The hospital bed arrived Monday. I have a super sensitive sense of smell, and that damn hospital bed smelled like an ashtray and it gagged me to be so close to it, hour after hour. I brought mom’s essential oil diffuser into the room and filled it with Thieves oil and tried to get that smell out, but to no avail.
Family filled the house- all of her children, their spouses, grandchildren, all of her siblings and some of their children and grandchildren. My mom always loved a full house and lots of action. But my dad was feeling so overwhelmed by all the commotion. Everybody wanted a chance to say goodbye to Nancy.
Sunday, when I arrived, she could still operate her phone and converse and help us lift her into the wheelchair to get to the toilet. And she was still drinking and eating, though very little. Monday she ate some potato soup, brushed her teeth and asked for a sponge bath and was still talking some. But by Monday afternoon, she could no longer operate her phone which is a big deal, as she always had her phone by her side and was so tuned into it. She couldn’t help us lift her, and she was drooling nonstop. She was unable to drink or eat anymore. She drooled constantly up until she died, so keeping her chin and neck dry was a nonstop part of her care. I asked hospice for some oral swabsticks to keep her mouth moist and clean, but they didn’t have any. So I used a washcloth until they finally brought her some late Tuesday.
Makyziah, my oldest daughter, arrived and was a support to me while I supported mom. Support needs support, you know? Aunt Sara was magnificent. Can’t imagine not having her there to hold this space together. She and mom were as close as sisters get. And dad was great too. It was breaking my heart to lose mom, but I was simultaneously grieving what Sara and Daddy must be feeling. Really, everyone was just so loving and attentive and caring, I cannot fully express my awe and gratitude for how we walked her home collectively.
I took a twenty-minute outdoor break each day I was there, and would admire the Magnolia X soulangeana, her Oriental Magnolia, who was in full bloom. Mom always told me about that tree- “Oh, its blooms are so pretty this year- I hope the frost doesn’t come and kill them!” or “The Magnolia buds froze before they ever opened this year.” But this year, it was blooming outrageously! And it got to bloom fully before another cold snap came, two weeks after her death. I took a photo and showed mom but I don’t know if she really could take it in at that point. You don’t really know what a dying person is absorbing, so best to just assume they hear and understand everything, and treat them with the utmost respect.
The day before she died, the hospice nurse (who btw was named Nancy Morgan Hart which blew me away as my mom’s name is Nancy, my name is Morgaine and my husband’s name is Hart) said cancer is often like that- you go along relatively fine and then suddenly you fall off a cliff. That was exactly what happened to mom.
Tending to a dying person is exhausting. It reminded me so much of labor. In fact, sometimes throughout mom’s dying process, I couldn’t remember what was what. Birth and Death hold such similar vibrations. The outcome is obvious but the process often mysterious, and I couldn’t help but wonder, “Why can’t we just forward to the end result? Why all this extreme in-between time?” But the soul will take the time it needs, both entering earth and leaving.
Mom slept from Monday evening to Tuesday evening. She was uncomfortable and groaned and moaned a lot and we tried our best to help her stay as comfortable as possible with medicine and rearranging her in her bed, and massaging her, and reading her Bible to her, and praying and putting her hands on her dogs, and other comforts, but she did not awaken. A 24-hour nap. We didn’t think she was going to ever awaken again.
Then dad started singing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” and his voice kept increasing and increasing and mom shot up and said, “Ralph, lower your voice!” Aunt Sara said he could have raised the dead with that singing and that is kind of like what he did! I never knew dad had a singing voice like that—It was beautiful!
A few minutes later she spoke again and asked, “Am I dying?”
I answered, “Yes, mom, you are dying.”
She said, “Oh I didn’t know I was dying! I didn’t think it would be so soon. Has the word gotten out?”
We told her, yes, everyone was here to say their goodbyes and she said “Well, I have 24 hours.” Then fell back unconscious.
She lived for one more day.
I will never forget the look on my nephew’s face when he came into the room right after that, and how surprised he seemed to see my mom. Here was the rock of our family, completely helpless and with very little life left.
Wednesday morning, I had the opportunity to sing her favorite hymnals to her. (I made certain to sing in a low voice;-)) Then Dad got alone time with her. Tears were all over the place. The house felt solemn and grave.
Dad and I were sitting together with her and she said, “Mama? Mama?”
It felt like she was seeing her mother. Those were the last words she ever spoke.
I thought about how our mamas are the first ones there when we come into the world, and how they may very well be the first ones there for us when we leave it, too. I can’t even write this without tearing up and getting chills and knowing the beloved sacredness of motherhood that no-one will ever rightly be able to put into words.
For some reason, my mom smelled like flowers to me, the whole way through this dying process. Fresh. Mysterious. Pure.
Mom’s feet began to mottle. Her breathing slowed. Her color kept turning more deathly. Her two dogs still wanted to be as close to her as we would let them. My two brothers and I sat next to her, and then it happened. She left. Her last breath on this earth. And the dogs knew it immediately. They were spooked and didn’t want to come near her anymore. What is it they saw?
I fell upon her and wept and wept. The tenderness is still there inside me as I write. I brought in the bath tea that I had made earlier that day, from lavender and rose from my garden, and bathed her from head to toe. I marveled that it was not until her death that I ever saw mom naked. I had never seen her breasts. I never breastfed. Now she only had one breast. Her soft and supple body looked so much like my own. My daughters have seen me naked a thousand times. I felt so sad that it wasn’t until now that I saw my mom nude. Somehow, this seemed very unnatural.
Then I went outside and fell on my Earth Mother and wept. I gave my grief over to Earth. It was a warm, sunny, beautiful day. She held me strongly, compassionately.
Dad called hospice and they called the undertaker. Two large men in suits arrived, and watching them take her body away was something I will never forget. They did it seamlessly and you know handling a dead body cannot be easy. Dead weight. Who knows how many times they have done this.
And then she was gone forever. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
My parent’s zip code is 29848. For over twenty years, every time I wrote to them, which was often, when I would write the last two digits of their zip code, 48, a voice would warn me that would be my age when my mom died. And it came to pass.
Nancy Ann Ray Scurry, I will love you forever. March 16, 1947- March 2, 2022, born and died under a Pisces Sun. Died on a Pisces New Moon. She had a Capricorn Moon, as do I.
Mom, I promise you, as long as I am alive, You will live on through me.
There’s still some space open at my next Earth Devotions Gathering! I just made a flyer for it, but have yet to hang them many places, lol. Let’s fill this class, please spread the word!
Weaving Community~
-The marvelous Chestnut School of Herbal Medicine has generously offered 17 free ways to learn about herbalism, and included in that mix are some plant articles written by Yours Truly.
-I am often asked if I could give an herbal consultation for a health issue, and although I don’t offer these personally, I have people I highly recommend, if that is what you are looking for. Lindsay Kolasa is one of these folk~ she’s a mama living close to the earth, dedicated to the plant healing path.
-The Global Earth Repair Foundation’s annual convergence has been delayed from its original May date—Now it will be held this September so get on board if you are interested! This group is committed to spreading the knowledge of ecosystem restoration to manage the climate and heal the planet.
The Eat Something Wild Everyday 2025 Challenge!!
My earth-loving readers, it’s almost mid-May as I write this, and I have eaten something new and different every day of 2025 so far. That’s 129 days! How’s it going for you? Are you challenging yourself with this too? Remember***Please please don’t eat things you are not 100% sure of who they are!
Beginners on the Green Path:
These graphics I share in Earth Devotions are hopefully inspiring you with ideas of what to look for and taste. If you are a beginner at this and don’t feel confident in ID’ing these plants on your own, learn at least one or two weeds that you know are safe to eat and get them into your body everyday. I promise you, you will begin to know many more edibles from this action alone. The plants themselves will start to reawaken your cellular memories, which are in all of our ancestral lines no matter where we originated on the planet. If you live locally (I am near Asheville, NC) come join me at an Earth Devotion Gathering and we will eat wild together!
So many meaningful moments in her passing, from the name of her hospice nurse to the declaration of when she would pass. She was blessed to have you as her daughter, and I can feel your love and tenderness for her in this story, in your devotion to her. I'm glad you moved this passage to its new home, to live on with those of us on this side.
A beautiful post. Thank you so much for sharing it.