My mother's wonderful. To me she's perfection.

“My mother’s wonderful. To me she’s perfection.”
Thus spoke Michael Jackson, a man whose fame reached across nations, yet whose heart remained tethered to the one who gave him life. In these few simple words lies the echo of something ancient and sacred—the timeless bond between mother and child. Long before kingdoms rose and empires fell, before music and memory themselves were written, the first voice any human heard was that of their mother. To call her wonderful, to name her perfection, is not to speak in flattery—it is to honor the divine vessel through which life itself flows.

In the old traditions, it was said that the gods shaped the world, but mothers shape the soul. For it is she who teaches the heart how to love, the eyes how to see goodness, and the hands how to create. Michael Jackson, though a star of immense renown, never forgot the gentle light of his mother, Katherine, who guided him through storms of fame and the loneliness of the stage. In her patience, he saw perfection; in her forgiveness, he saw grace. For what greater wonder can there be than the quiet strength of a mother’s love, unbroken by the failures or triumphs of the world?

Consider the ancient tale of Alexander the Great, who, though he conquered half the known earth, knelt before his mother Olympias as before a goddess. In her he saw not the power of empire, but the might of devotion—the flame that birthed him, nurtured him, and dared him to dream beyond mortal bounds. So too, when Michael spoke of his mother as “perfection,” he revealed a truth shared by heroes and poets alike: that in the eyes of the devoted son, the mother becomes a mirror of the divine—an image of pure, unending care that shapes the destiny of humankind.

There is also a deeper teaching here, one that the wise have pondered since time immemorial. The mother’s love is not flawless because it is without error, but because it is whole. It encompasses both joy and pain, laughter and sacrifice. She gives of herself until nothing remains, yet calls it joy. In her smile, we see what perfection truly means—not the absence of weakness, but the presence of unconditional giving. In this, the mother transcends mortality, becoming both teacher and temple.

To call one’s mother perfection is to confess gratitude. It is to acknowledge that all our brilliance, all our accomplishments, rest upon the unseen labor of her hands. For even the mightiest oak was once a seed nourished by gentle rain. How often do we forget this truth, racing through life as if we built ourselves? But the wise pause, and in stillness, they remember—the lullaby that first taught them peace, the hand that wiped their tears, the heart that never ceased to believe in them.

Yet the world grows hurried, and in its haste, reverence fades. Sons and daughters forget to honor the source of their beginning. Let these words, then, serve as a call: remember your mother. Speak her name with tenderness. Seek her counsel, not because she knows all things, but because she knows you. And if she has departed this world, remember that her spirit yet watches over you, proud and patient as ever, awaiting your kindness in thought and deed.

The lesson is simple yet eternal: reverence for one’s mother is reverence for life itself. To live without gratitude is to walk in shadow; to live in remembrance of her love is to walk in light. Therefore, go forth and honor her—not only with words, but through the way you live. Be gentle, for she was gentle with you. Be courageous, for she once stood strong for your sake. Let your actions become her legacy, your kindness her immortality.

For when Michael Jackson declared, “My mother’s wonderful. To me she’s perfection,” he spoke not only for himself, but for every soul who has ever looked upon the face of their mother and seen there the reflection of all that is sacred, selfless, and eternal. Let that vision be your guide—and carry it within you, as one carries a flame through the darkness, lighting the path for generations yet unborn.