Phylonoe

These are pictures of a very old marble grave stone. It's about 2,000 years old actually. From the 4th century BC, it was found in Psychiko Greece. It's one in a collection of grave steles at the National Archaelogical Museum in Athens, which Dodd and I visited in December.

"A woman who died in childbirth looks sorrowfully at her baby, held by another woman as it reaches for its dead mother."

"The name of the dead woman, Phylonoe, is recorded in the epigram carved on the epistyle."

Seeing this as we wandered through the museum stopped me in my tracks. I was stunned realizing what it depicted. The moment of separation between mother and child. The very moment of loss. 

The ancient story this grave stone told felt personal. The mother's expression.The shared sorrow between the three characters. I took photos through my tears. That baby's outstretched arm. It broke the dam.

After it's initial personal impact, the grave stele validated something that seems to need validation. Most of the statuary in the museum paid homage to great warriors, great athletes, great gods, great leaders. This one honored a woman who died in childbirth. An unfortunate reality in the 4th century BC, and an all too common reality still in the 21st century. Phylonoe was given more importance than many of the women who die in childbirth today receive. Seeing another woman play a role worthy of immortalizing on a grave stone also hit home. And perhaps most validating, seeing a child's loss acknowledged.

I found myself taking comfort in this massive piece of marble. A strange consolation that comes from seeing a loss recognized and in knowing a specific sorrow is shared through thousands of years.

Too beautiful not to share.