Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Sunday, May 04, 2014
April Moon 14; Day 14 Comfort
Comfort
What feelings does this word evoke? What sorts of memories does it recall? Which of your senses start to tingle? How would you represent what this word means to you?
Comfort: anything that makes you feel better about your immediate circumstances, be they physical, emotional, mental. Comfort is what mamas do to their children when they're crying or have an owie, even when the child is also an adult. Unless your mama was a real piece of work, we long for our mothers when we are sad, hurt, sick, alone. Even when mama really can't do much, just hearing the soft 'there, there,' has a calming effect -- and while friends and loved ones can help, nothing substitutes for your mama.
These days I have to imagine my mama's words, her arms around me, and yes, I can vividly remember the last time: it was not long before she died, and she was so fragile and tiny, sitting in her lift recliner in the nursing home. I sat on the floor in front of her and put my head in her lap and my arms reaching around her hips, and she stroked my hair and just loved on me. I don't remember what ... or even if ... I had said, but I knew I needed that. We both knew her time was coming to a close.
When I call my angels to me to help me through a rough situation, I think one of them must be my mother. They don't have faces or distinguishable features or voices, really, but there is a presence that is very real, and it is comforting and strengthening. I feel softness -- feathers, perhaps? -- near me, but calm strength mostly.
Certain foods can be comfort too -- tuna noodle casserole or biscuits and honey are completely comfort food to me. Mashed potatoes (which I almost never fix) is another, and tapioca pudding. Some days just the smell of coffee and bacon and toast in the kitchen evokes those childhood days when I would wake to those smells and find my daddy cooking breakfast in the kitchen while Mother was getting ready for the day.
Taking naps wrapped in a favorite afghan is a comforting feeling, especially on Sunday afternoons, the window shades pulled and the room darkened, and add in two sleepy cats and a loving spouse, and it doesn't get much better.
We all need something to comfort us sometimes, no matter our age. And we should not feel self-conscious about asking for what we need, doing for ourselves what will help us. This is a long journey, if we are blessed, and we do need to pay attention to what our mind and body is telling us that we need.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Motherhood 101
Today is Mother's Day.
All the ads and commercials and newspaper stories pretty much picture every mother as exemplary: one who loves her children (and grandchildren) unconditionally, bakes homemade cookies regularly, knits, sews, or crafts cute things for said children, always volunteers for school and community organizations, is fashionable and slim with perfect hair and skin, and who always, always is even-tempered, would never dream of smacking their precious child's rearend, and knows exactly what to do in pretty much any situation.
Well, guess what. I don't know any mothers like that, and if you do, you are indeed blessed, and you need read no further.
I sure am not that mother or step-mother or grandmother. My mother wasn't either, nor my grandmothers. My daughter isn't.
I made mistakes. I still make them, although because my children are grown, it's not multiple times every day any more. There was not a parenting manual given to me with either child -- the one I raised from age 14 days or the rebellious, angry teenager I got when she was 16 years (a bonus that came with her wonderful daddy who made it all worth it). (If you got one, let me borrow it, please. I want to know what comes next.)
Oprah Winfrey said "Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother."
What makes you a mother is being there: putting your child's needs ahead of your own, even when there are a thousand things you'd rather do than clean up yet another round of barf; going to all the parent-teacher conferences and the sports games and the music/dance/drama performances; fixing a hot breakfast nearly every single morning because you know that it is important for your kid to get the best possible start to the day; listening to the stories of being teased or rejected or ignored or unfriended and giving hugs and 'there, there's even when you have no clue of how to make things better.
It means loving your child, warts and all, when they choose paths you fervently wish they wouldn't go down, and setting boundaries when their own dramas and poor choices lead them into areas you taught them never to go and into which you won't follow them, but you love them even when you hate their choices.
And yes, even when you are tired of being the responsible adult and want to just get away from everyone and everything: you stay put and you suck it up and you get over those feelings, and you love, love, love your child even more. Parenthood is a choice. Always.
There are bad parents out there: ones who hurt their children either deliberately or by neglect. There are mothers who should never have been parents: emotionally incapable of loving anyone, including themselves, or caught in the dark alleys of mental illness or substance abuse, or who have been so poorly parented themselves that they continue that cycle without understanding or seeking to learn that there is another way.
Yet children are resilient. They can overcome horrible childhoods to achieve great things and become loving, giving individuals. They survive the mistakes made by even conscientious, caring parents. Some don't, however: they are stuck in the cycle of blame and rejection and anger, and take it out on others, including their own children, with those resulting miserable emotions and actions spinning out in yet another generation.
I did the best I could where I was with what I had, and I knew enough to seek help when I needed answers. And I knew that loving and being there for my children was the best thing I could do, even at the cost of many tears and heartaches on both sides.
Sometimes it isn't enough, and you just have to live with that when it's all you can give and you've done all you can. And once your child is grown, you must let them go and find their own paths, even when it is difficult to watch and you are oh-so-sure that if they'd just follow your advice, they'd be fine. Uh huh. That's when you must shut up and wave lovingly as they travel along roads that scare you: it's not your journey any longer.
My greatest joys have involved my girls, but so have my greatest sorrows. I think that's true of any mother who understands that parenting is the hardest thing you will ever do in your life, if you do it with all your heart and mind and spirit. And if you can't enter into motherhood accepting that you must do exactly that, that your child's life depends on your doing just that, you shouldn't be one.
All the ads and commercials and newspaper stories pretty much picture every mother as exemplary: one who loves her children (and grandchildren) unconditionally, bakes homemade cookies regularly, knits, sews, or crafts cute things for said children, always volunteers for school and community organizations, is fashionable and slim with perfect hair and skin, and who always, always is even-tempered, would never dream of smacking their precious child's rearend, and knows exactly what to do in pretty much any situation.
Well, guess what. I don't know any mothers like that, and if you do, you are indeed blessed, and you need read no further.
I sure am not that mother or step-mother or grandmother. My mother wasn't either, nor my grandmothers. My daughter isn't.
I made mistakes. I still make them, although because my children are grown, it's not multiple times every day any more. There was not a parenting manual given to me with either child -- the one I raised from age 14 days or the rebellious, angry teenager I got when she was 16 years (a bonus that came with her wonderful daddy who made it all worth it). (If you got one, let me borrow it, please. I want to know what comes next.)
Oprah Winfrey said "Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother."
What makes you a mother is being there: putting your child's needs ahead of your own, even when there are a thousand things you'd rather do than clean up yet another round of barf; going to all the parent-teacher conferences and the sports games and the music/dance/drama performances; fixing a hot breakfast nearly every single morning because you know that it is important for your kid to get the best possible start to the day; listening to the stories of being teased or rejected or ignored or unfriended and giving hugs and 'there, there's even when you have no clue of how to make things better.
It means loving your child, warts and all, when they choose paths you fervently wish they wouldn't go down, and setting boundaries when their own dramas and poor choices lead them into areas you taught them never to go and into which you won't follow them, but you love them even when you hate their choices.
And yes, even when you are tired of being the responsible adult and want to just get away from everyone and everything: you stay put and you suck it up and you get over those feelings, and you love, love, love your child even more. Parenthood is a choice. Always.
There are bad parents out there: ones who hurt their children either deliberately or by neglect. There are mothers who should never have been parents: emotionally incapable of loving anyone, including themselves, or caught in the dark alleys of mental illness or substance abuse, or who have been so poorly parented themselves that they continue that cycle without understanding or seeking to learn that there is another way.
Yet children are resilient. They can overcome horrible childhoods to achieve great things and become loving, giving individuals. They survive the mistakes made by even conscientious, caring parents. Some don't, however: they are stuck in the cycle of blame and rejection and anger, and take it out on others, including their own children, with those resulting miserable emotions and actions spinning out in yet another generation.
I did the best I could where I was with what I had, and I knew enough to seek help when I needed answers. And I knew that loving and being there for my children was the best thing I could do, even at the cost of many tears and heartaches on both sides.
Sometimes it isn't enough, and you just have to live with that when it's all you can give and you've done all you can. And once your child is grown, you must let them go and find their own paths, even when it is difficult to watch and you are oh-so-sure that if they'd just follow your advice, they'd be fine. Uh huh. That's when you must shut up and wave lovingly as they travel along roads that scare you: it's not your journey any longer.
My greatest joys have involved my girls, but so have my greatest sorrows. I think that's true of any mother who understands that parenting is the hardest thing you will ever do in your life, if you do it with all your heart and mind and spirit. And if you can't enter into motherhood accepting that you must do exactly that, that your child's life depends on your doing just that, you shouldn't be one.
Friday, March 23, 2012
The Scintilla Project - Day 7
The prompts:
1. List the tribes you belong to: cultural, personal, literary, you get the drift. Talk about the experience of being in your element with your tribes.
2. Talk about a time when you saw your mother or father as a person independent of his or her identity as your parent.
Number 2, you're up.
*************************
Before she married my father, my mother taught school in rural Wisconsin and Minnesota communities, sometimes living with a host family, teaching all grades. She didn't have a bachelor's degree, she had the number of college credit hours it took back in the 1940s to get a teaching certificate, and during the summers, continued to work on her degree.
After my folks married, she taught just one year in the tiny district where my father was superintendent. And she got pregnant with me, partly, I think, to avoid another year of trying to be a teacher AND the superintendent's wife (my dad was in charge of consolidating several rural school districts: not a popular move in many of those little Minnesota towns).
Nearly three years later, my brother was born, and Mother stayed home with us until my brother was in first grade (about 1956, I think), when she accepted a teaching job teaching fourth grade at a district slightly outside of the Springfield (Mo.) city limits. The city schools required a bachelor's degree; Pleasant View did not.
So she also went back to school in the summers, to what was then Southwest Missouri State Teacher's College.
After that first year, we moved to a house that was actually within walking distance -- a long walk, to be sure, but walkable -- of the college, although she still taught at the same school. I remember her studying diligently, sometimes sending us off to the summer programs at a nearby city park, or to the swimming pool at another park, also nearby, so she could have some uninterrupted study time. She'd sit under the pear tree with pencil and paper, taking notes and reading thick textbooks, sipping iced tea.
This student was my mother, but she was a beloved teacher to many students as well, and I got to see that side of her on the rare occasions when we'd be allowed to come to open houses or school events, and to meet some of her students there.
She did not drive at that time. She rode to teach school with other teachers; she either walked or took the city bus (which stopped across the street from our house) anywhere she needed to go, and so did we, when she finally allowed us to go unaccompanied.
And when I was about to graduate from eighth grade in 1961, she graduated from college, cum laude. I remember sitting in the gymnasium bleachers, watching as black-gowned and capped student after student walked across the dais to receive a diploma and handshake from the college's regent.
And then it was my mother's turn. "Marjorie Mae Dahl Kershaw," the announcer intoned. "Bachelor of Science in Education." There she was, my mother, smiling as she accepted the sheepskin and shook hands. We clapped loudly, although we didn't dare cheer at such a solemn event, unlike the graduation ceremonies of today.
That year, she began teaching at a school in town, still some distance from our house, precious degree in hand. But she didn't stop there: she began taking classes at Drury College towards her masters degree. And two years later, as I was about to turn 16 and get a driver's license, SHE took a summer class in driver's education and got her license just months before I did, in a little 1950-something Nash Rambler automatic shift car that my dad had purchased for her because she so hated the stick shift car that he always drove. Bonus for me: I got to take my test in that car too.
I don't remember the year she got her masters; I don't remember if I was at the graduation ceremony. I do remember seeing her in her academic hood, and I am pretty sure that she graduated with honors again.
My mother continued to teach fourth, fifth, or sixth grades in the Springfield district until she retired in 1981 with my dad because they wanted to travel and do things together rather than wait another five years. She was 60 years old.
She received yearly letters and cards until she died from not only the student teachers she'd mentored over the years, but also from so many of the students she taught, even back as far as Pleasant View. At least three of them came to her memorial service in 2005.
Her influence and skill as a classroom teacher garnered her district-wide recognition and praise, and her principals loved her. I was proud of her, my mother, the teacher Mrs. Kershaw.
1. List the tribes you belong to: cultural, personal, literary, you get the drift. Talk about the experience of being in your element with your tribes.
2. Talk about a time when you saw your mother or father as a person independent of his or her identity as your parent.
Number 2, you're up.
*************************
Before she married my father, my mother taught school in rural Wisconsin and Minnesota communities, sometimes living with a host family, teaching all grades. She didn't have a bachelor's degree, she had the number of college credit hours it took back in the 1940s to get a teaching certificate, and during the summers, continued to work on her degree.
After my folks married, she taught just one year in the tiny district where my father was superintendent. And she got pregnant with me, partly, I think, to avoid another year of trying to be a teacher AND the superintendent's wife (my dad was in charge of consolidating several rural school districts: not a popular move in many of those little Minnesota towns).
Nearly three years later, my brother was born, and Mother stayed home with us until my brother was in first grade (about 1956, I think), when she accepted a teaching job teaching fourth grade at a district slightly outside of the Springfield (Mo.) city limits. The city schools required a bachelor's degree; Pleasant View did not.
So she also went back to school in the summers, to what was then Southwest Missouri State Teacher's College.
After that first year, we moved to a house that was actually within walking distance -- a long walk, to be sure, but walkable -- of the college, although she still taught at the same school. I remember her studying diligently, sometimes sending us off to the summer programs at a nearby city park, or to the swimming pool at another park, also nearby, so she could have some uninterrupted study time. She'd sit under the pear tree with pencil and paper, taking notes and reading thick textbooks, sipping iced tea.
This student was my mother, but she was a beloved teacher to many students as well, and I got to see that side of her on the rare occasions when we'd be allowed to come to open houses or school events, and to meet some of her students there.
She did not drive at that time. She rode to teach school with other teachers; she either walked or took the city bus (which stopped across the street from our house) anywhere she needed to go, and so did we, when she finally allowed us to go unaccompanied.
And when I was about to graduate from eighth grade in 1961, she graduated from college, cum laude. I remember sitting in the gymnasium bleachers, watching as black-gowned and capped student after student walked across the dais to receive a diploma and handshake from the college's regent.
And then it was my mother's turn. "Marjorie Mae Dahl Kershaw," the announcer intoned. "Bachelor of Science in Education." There she was, my mother, smiling as she accepted the sheepskin and shook hands. We clapped loudly, although we didn't dare cheer at such a solemn event, unlike the graduation ceremonies of today.
That year, she began teaching at a school in town, still some distance from our house, precious degree in hand. But she didn't stop there: she began taking classes at Drury College towards her masters degree. And two years later, as I was about to turn 16 and get a driver's license, SHE took a summer class in driver's education and got her license just months before I did, in a little 1950-something Nash Rambler automatic shift car that my dad had purchased for her because she so hated the stick shift car that he always drove. Bonus for me: I got to take my test in that car too.
I don't remember the year she got her masters; I don't remember if I was at the graduation ceremony. I do remember seeing her in her academic hood, and I am pretty sure that she graduated with honors again.
My mother continued to teach fourth, fifth, or sixth grades in the Springfield district until she retired in 1981 with my dad because they wanted to travel and do things together rather than wait another five years. She was 60 years old.
She received yearly letters and cards until she died from not only the student teachers she'd mentored over the years, but also from so many of the students she taught, even back as far as Pleasant View. At least three of them came to her memorial service in 2005.
Her influence and skill as a classroom teacher garnered her district-wide recognition and praise, and her principals loved her. I was proud of her, my mother, the teacher Mrs. Kershaw.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Reverb11 - Day 25 - Who I love and the best gift ever
#1 Prompt: Love: Who do you love + why do you love them? What does it feel like to be around these people?
#1 -- The person I most love is my husband Tony, who has always on Christmas Day given me either a beautifully sentimental card or written me a letter. He opted for the latter this year and although I love the cards, the letters are the most special, and yes, they get kept.
In it, he writes of the Christmases we've spent together (this is the 15th), how he feels about that and about me and about the myriad of things that I do to make the day special for us, and, well -- a lot of wonderfully loving language that you don't need to hear because it's meant just for me.
How could I not love that? But I knew I loved him and that we were right together almost from the very first day I met him. Every day, every hug, every kiss reaffirms that for me, over and over. And my gratitude for him simply overflows my heart. After all these years, I love his touch, I love it when I see him coming towards me in a group, I love watching his face when he doesn't know I'm watching him. He is my rock, my calm center, my home, no matter where I am. How lucky I am to have this. How lucky we are to have found each other.
There are others whom I love dearly -- brother, sister-in-law, daughters, friends -- but I think the ability to love comes from first being shown great love: the more love you receive, the more you have to give to others. When your own well runs dry, it's hard to find a drop for others. I am grateful to those who love me so well, and I hope you receive back from me that gift.
#2 -- There have been some wonderful gifts in my past, and a few maybe not so much (think Crock Pot...from my husband ... ex)
The one that I best remember is a personal life album (scrapbook) and family history made by my mother and father in 1997, I think, or maybe 1996. She had been so painfully sick with osteoporosis and heart issues that year that their traveling days had to stop, and she had quite a lot of time at home. She had gone through decades of newspaper clippings, photographs, school records, and the other keepsake papers, written a family tree geneology for each side of our family. She'd made a collage of pictures for the cover -- and this was not only for me, but she also put ones together for my brother and for my daughter, so each was different, with a few of the same elements.
They began with old pictures of each family -- our grandparents and great-grandparents, along with their names and a brief history. Where there were appropriate photos of us interacting with them, they were included -- like the four generation one of me, my father, my grandmother and my great-grandmother, taken when I was maybe 2 or 3. She'd chosen photos of me at all the stages (to that point) of my life: child, teen, college student, young married woman, young mother, middle-aged working mom, etc., and of the people who have been so important in my life, along with other little news clips or keepsakes from her treasure box (her wedding hankie, for instance, was in my daughter's album).
It was a beautiful gift and we all three looked at them all day, sharing memories, sharing some of the different elements of each book, telling stories, and listening to my mother and dad tell theirs. I have custody of the albums from which the life album photos were chosen, but none is more precious to me than the one she spent that year putting together for me.
What they cost was time, her time and my dad's, because he was there helping her choose photos, pasting them in, remembering stories along with her. That gift of time and memory is still the best one I've ever received.
How blessed I am!
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Reverb11 -- Day 18 -- Family Time and Lunching
#1 Prompt: Family: Recall a special moment with your family from 2011. Describe in detail what you want to remember about this memory forever.
#2 Prompt: Let's do lunch! - If you could have lunch with anybody, who would it be and what would you like to discuss?
#1 -- Family .My family is scattered, both immediate and extended, and the latter is not especially close: I've written some about that this year. Our girls are in Red Bluff and Kent now (and one who has been intentionally silent for several years is, we believe, on the other coast). When my mother was living, we gathered in Missouri for Christmas, my brother coming from Nashville, the girls from Birmingham (and once from Ohio), and we spent some fun times there, although it was never without some drama and anxiety. These days any family gatherings are few and far between.
This year, one special moment was a celebration of our grandson's third birthday. It was just Tony and me with V, her three older step-children, and Gabe, at a little picnic area near their apartment. We'd brought KFC, watermelon and other side dishes, and some gifts for Gabe. They'd put up a badminton net and spread some blankets under a big tree, and for once the June weather was warm but not hot. Tony'd brought his video camera and captured images of Gabe riding his new Plasmacar and the other children and even V taking turns on it. We got to talk more to the older children than we had in the past, and really enjoyed the day with all of them: it was precious to see the love the kids have for each other. And it was a real joy to see V efficiently mothering them all, wiping faces, serving up watermelon and chicken, pouring drinks.
Never frequent for a bunch of reasons, such moments will be even fewer with them now in Washington, but we hope to visit them in 2012 and look forward to another picnic, perhaps on the shores of Puget Sound.
#2 -- Lunch. Anybody? Living or dead? Famous or not? The possibilities!
If I chose someone famous -- say, Oprah, or Hilary Clinton, or the poet Mary Oliver -- I'd probably be too nervous to enjoy the experience, and I'd expect they'd see it more as just another obligation to get through and be pleasant. So no thanks.
There are some long-ago friends I would like to see again, if only to find out how their lives have gone and what they've learned. And a handful of family members to share memories and figure out our similarities.
But I'd most like to have lunch with my parents. I'd like to know what getting older was like for them, what lessons they learned in their lives and what they'd do differently. I'd like to know how they figured out how to parent as well as they did, knowing something of how they each grew up. I'd like to know what they were most grateful for, and what their best memories were. I'd like to make sure they know how grateful I am for their love and support and non-judgmental acceptance (even when I'm sure they had doubts!), and how I miss them and think of them, especially at this time of year. I want to watch my daddy savor the good barbecued ribs he loved, and my mother taste the rich coconut cake from that little Victorian tea room she so enjoyed. I'd like once more to drink in the sound of their voices and their facial expressions and feel the touch of their hands on my face.
#2 Prompt: Let's do lunch! - If you could have lunch with anybody, who would it be and what would you like to discuss?
#1 -- Family .My family is scattered, both immediate and extended, and the latter is not especially close: I've written some about that this year. Our girls are in Red Bluff and Kent now (and one who has been intentionally silent for several years is, we believe, on the other coast). When my mother was living, we gathered in Missouri for Christmas, my brother coming from Nashville, the girls from Birmingham (and once from Ohio), and we spent some fun times there, although it was never without some drama and anxiety. These days any family gatherings are few and far between.
This year, one special moment was a celebration of our grandson's third birthday. It was just Tony and me with V, her three older step-children, and Gabe, at a little picnic area near their apartment. We'd brought KFC, watermelon and other side dishes, and some gifts for Gabe. They'd put up a badminton net and spread some blankets under a big tree, and for once the June weather was warm but not hot. Tony'd brought his video camera and captured images of Gabe riding his new Plasmacar and the other children and even V taking turns on it. We got to talk more to the older children than we had in the past, and really enjoyed the day with all of them: it was precious to see the love the kids have for each other. And it was a real joy to see V efficiently mothering them all, wiping faces, serving up watermelon and chicken, pouring drinks.
Never frequent for a bunch of reasons, such moments will be even fewer with them now in Washington, but we hope to visit them in 2012 and look forward to another picnic, perhaps on the shores of Puget Sound.
#2 -- Lunch. Anybody? Living or dead? Famous or not? The possibilities!
If I chose someone famous -- say, Oprah, or Hilary Clinton, or the poet Mary Oliver -- I'd probably be too nervous to enjoy the experience, and I'd expect they'd see it more as just another obligation to get through and be pleasant. So no thanks.
There are some long-ago friends I would like to see again, if only to find out how their lives have gone and what they've learned. And a handful of family members to share memories and figure out our similarities.
But I'd most like to have lunch with my parents. I'd like to know what getting older was like for them, what lessons they learned in their lives and what they'd do differently. I'd like to know how they figured out how to parent as well as they did, knowing something of how they each grew up. I'd like to know what they were most grateful for, and what their best memories were. I'd like to make sure they know how grateful I am for their love and support and non-judgmental acceptance (even when I'm sure they had doubts!), and how I miss them and think of them, especially at this time of year. I want to watch my daddy savor the good barbecued ribs he loved, and my mother taste the rich coconut cake from that little Victorian tea room she so enjoyed. I'd like once more to drink in the sound of their voices and their facial expressions and feel the touch of their hands on my face.
Friday, October 30, 2009
And four years ago....
My mother died late in the evening. I arrived mid-afternoon; Jimmy and Liz didn't get there until about 10:30 or so, and she died about an hour later, with us holding her hands and talking quietly to her, remembering childhood things, her favorite places, fun memories. It was very peaceful, very gentle: one wavering breath more and then nothing. Just silence.
We'd known it was coming, but it was still hard to lose her. Her body just plain wore out. She knew we were there, though, and I'd talked with her a bit every night that last week.
It's hard to think that she's been gone that long: that's going from a freshman to a senior in high school or college, going from a twinkle in someone's eye to a pre-schooler.
Time goes on despite our losses, despite the holes in our lives that death leaves.
"The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to him alone, and is, therefore, absolutely and irretrievably lost." ~Arthur Schopenhauer
Since my mother died, two of her six siblings also have joined her and my father, who died 10 years ago this December, but who I miss still every day, especially when I see an older man with fine, white hair blowing a bit in the wind, or one who walks with a bit of a hitch in his git-along.
They both are with me not only because of the genetic heritage, but in Daddy's fishing tackle box that I have recently raided for bits to become part of a collage necklace I'm making, in the handwritten recipes from Mother that she gave me when I got married so many years ago, in the pictures that smile at me every morning from the dining room buffet chest. They're with me when I sing little songs to our grandson -- my father had a song for every occasion, for every turn of a phrase. They're with me when I read a book or see a movie or television program that I know they would have enjoyed.
It's gone beyond raw, hurting grief into a soft place, a gentle, warm place that even now makes me feel loved by them every day. Doesn't mean I don't puddle up sometimes, unaccountably, unpredictably, when something zings a memory. But time and life have moved on, moved ahead, as it should.
"Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle
Everything I do is stitched with its color."
~W.S. Merwin, "Separation"
We'd known it was coming, but it was still hard to lose her. Her body just plain wore out. She knew we were there, though, and I'd talked with her a bit every night that last week.
It's hard to think that she's been gone that long: that's going from a freshman to a senior in high school or college, going from a twinkle in someone's eye to a pre-schooler.
Time goes on despite our losses, despite the holes in our lives that death leaves.
"The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to him alone, and is, therefore, absolutely and irretrievably lost." ~Arthur Schopenhauer
Since my mother died, two of her six siblings also have joined her and my father, who died 10 years ago this December, but who I miss still every day, especially when I see an older man with fine, white hair blowing a bit in the wind, or one who walks with a bit of a hitch in his git-along.
They both are with me not only because of the genetic heritage, but in Daddy's fishing tackle box that I have recently raided for bits to become part of a collage necklace I'm making, in the handwritten recipes from Mother that she gave me when I got married so many years ago, in the pictures that smile at me every morning from the dining room buffet chest. They're with me when I sing little songs to our grandson -- my father had a song for every occasion, for every turn of a phrase. They're with me when I read a book or see a movie or television program that I know they would have enjoyed.
It's gone beyond raw, hurting grief into a soft place, a gentle, warm place that even now makes me feel loved by them every day. Doesn't mean I don't puddle up sometimes, unaccountably, unpredictably, when something zings a memory. But time and life have moved on, moved ahead, as it should.
"Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle
Everything I do is stitched with its color."
~W.S. Merwin, "Separation"
Monday, November 03, 2008
Passages through time
The third anniversary of my mother's death was Thursday -- Oct. 30 -- and according to pagan tradition, the "veil" between the worlds thins on Oct. 31, so the spirits of those who have left this earth are closer to us.
I spent much of the day thinking about her, about those last hours of her life and her peaceful passage into the next dimension. While I miss her, the raw grief has diminished. Time heals. And I've also come to better accept death as a part of the life cycle, I suppose.
While I am spiritual, I'm not sure what I really believe about spirits. I have, however, felt loving spirits around me from time to time. Those presences have comforted and helped me through some difficult moments. If it's just my overactive imagination, I don't care -- it's sort of whatever works.
There are churches who believe in "spirits" and explain bad things or actions as a "demon" being in you -- actually, we had that experience not long ago when a mental health professional attributed a demon with the source of unhealthy behavior. THAT was scary to me, frankly -- not because I believed there was a demon, but because the professional blamed the demon for inappropriate actions -- as if you can absolve yourself of responsibility for your actions because of a demon?
But the title of this post is Passages, not spirits. I'll leave more of that to another day.
*****************
And we are in November -- our birth month, the transition month from autumn into winter, of losing the leaves as the earth prepares to sleep for some months. I like November. I like the rain, the blustery winds, the promise of hot chocolate and cider, the preparation of feasts for Thanksgiving, the sharing of lives and gratitudes.
I don't like that we're seeing lots of ads for Christmas already, and that seems to be the focus for any retail store. This month is the gratitude month, and I like to savor it first. Christmas will come in all its gimme-gimme-buy-spend-expectancy all too soon.
*****************
Both Tony and I have now had cataracts removed from our eyes, and we each see better than we have in years -- me since early childhood (if even then), and him for at least 20 years. While I know it is not so easy for everyone, we are tremendously grateful for renewed clarity of sight. I still cannot get over the fact that I wear neither contacts nor glasses at the moment, other than occasionally using cheaters to see fine print. Yes, I'll probably have something for driving. But for normal sight -- especially for computer work -- I see better than I ever have without any correction. That is truly a miracle, and I am grateful to doctors and nurses who performed the operation, and for those who have worked through hundreds of years to perfect this procedure.
**************
Election Day is tomorrow. We all voted by mail this time, and will watch along with the rest of the country to see what happens tomorrow. I confess to being very nervous that another election will be determined by hanging chads and Supreme Courts. And while I can't wholeheartedly support either candidate, I believe Obama may offer my generation better healthcare options than McCain. And I'll tell you, that's a HUGE factor in our lives right now, as it is for the millions of other babyboomers as we count down to Medicare and Social Security.
*****************
We entertained my ex and his new wife this weekend -- they were here to see our daughter, and it was a very pleasant visit. Actually, his wife, Susan, was a high school student of mine when I taught in a tiny Missouri town back in the early 1970s! I liked her very much then -- she was a good student, loved literature (I taught English), and enjoyed analyzing words. We also knew her in college -- she attended the college where my ex and I both worked at that point. They reconnected last winter and it was practically love at first sight. I'm very happy for them both, and I still like her very much. And I'm grateful that he and I are friends and that we both want to do the best we can for our daughter.
************************
Each 24 hours is a gift: it is all we have, this moment, this day. We get to determine how we spend it, what we do in it, how we look at it. In this day we get to choose if we want things to remain the same, or if we want to take steps to change a part of our lives that we don't like. Change - meaningful change -- doesn't happen in just 24 hours (generally anyway), but we can take a step to help move it along the path. That's what I tell my daughter. That's what I tell my brother. And that's what I tell myself. Every day.
What do I want to change? What can I do in this moment, this day, to help that happen?
I spent much of the day thinking about her, about those last hours of her life and her peaceful passage into the next dimension. While I miss her, the raw grief has diminished. Time heals. And I've also come to better accept death as a part of the life cycle, I suppose.
While I am spiritual, I'm not sure what I really believe about spirits. I have, however, felt loving spirits around me from time to time. Those presences have comforted and helped me through some difficult moments. If it's just my overactive imagination, I don't care -- it's sort of whatever works.
There are churches who believe in "spirits" and explain bad things or actions as a "demon" being in you -- actually, we had that experience not long ago when a mental health professional attributed a demon with the source of unhealthy behavior. THAT was scary to me, frankly -- not because I believed there was a demon, but because the professional blamed the demon for inappropriate actions -- as if you can absolve yourself of responsibility for your actions because of a demon?
But the title of this post is Passages, not spirits. I'll leave more of that to another day.
*****************
And we are in November -- our birth month, the transition month from autumn into winter, of losing the leaves as the earth prepares to sleep for some months. I like November. I like the rain, the blustery winds, the promise of hot chocolate and cider, the preparation of feasts for Thanksgiving, the sharing of lives and gratitudes.
I don't like that we're seeing lots of ads for Christmas already, and that seems to be the focus for any retail store. This month is the gratitude month, and I like to savor it first. Christmas will come in all its gimme-gimme-buy-spend-expectancy all too soon.
*****************
Both Tony and I have now had cataracts removed from our eyes, and we each see better than we have in years -- me since early childhood (if even then), and him for at least 20 years. While I know it is not so easy for everyone, we are tremendously grateful for renewed clarity of sight. I still cannot get over the fact that I wear neither contacts nor glasses at the moment, other than occasionally using cheaters to see fine print. Yes, I'll probably have something for driving. But for normal sight -- especially for computer work -- I see better than I ever have without any correction. That is truly a miracle, and I am grateful to doctors and nurses who performed the operation, and for those who have worked through hundreds of years to perfect this procedure.
**************
Election Day is tomorrow. We all voted by mail this time, and will watch along with the rest of the country to see what happens tomorrow. I confess to being very nervous that another election will be determined by hanging chads and Supreme Courts. And while I can't wholeheartedly support either candidate, I believe Obama may offer my generation better healthcare options than McCain. And I'll tell you, that's a HUGE factor in our lives right now, as it is for the millions of other babyboomers as we count down to Medicare and Social Security.
*****************
We entertained my ex and his new wife this weekend -- they were here to see our daughter, and it was a very pleasant visit. Actually, his wife, Susan, was a high school student of mine when I taught in a tiny Missouri town back in the early 1970s! I liked her very much then -- she was a good student, loved literature (I taught English), and enjoyed analyzing words. We also knew her in college -- she attended the college where my ex and I both worked at that point. They reconnected last winter and it was practically love at first sight. I'm very happy for them both, and I still like her very much. And I'm grateful that he and I are friends and that we both want to do the best we can for our daughter.
************************
Each 24 hours is a gift: it is all we have, this moment, this day. We get to determine how we spend it, what we do in it, how we look at it. In this day we get to choose if we want things to remain the same, or if we want to take steps to change a part of our lives that we don't like. Change - meaningful change -- doesn't happen in just 24 hours (generally anyway), but we can take a step to help move it along the path. That's what I tell my daughter. That's what I tell my brother. And that's what I tell myself. Every day.
What do I want to change? What can I do in this moment, this day, to help that happen?
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Missing my folks
I don't know why the memory came to me exactly, but I have had the strongest memories in the last couple of days of the house where I grew up in Springfield, Missouri.
And specifically, oddly, of my parents' bedroom, which was at the back of the first floor of the house, a two-story Tudor-style dwelling. Their room was an add-on, I think, before we bought it when I was in the fifth grade, and could have been used as a family room. Two other bedrooms were upstairs -- mine and my brother's.
Their room had a door to the back yard and a window opening to the kitchen, in addition to the door from the small hall between kitchen and living room that also had the door to the basement. My mother, a neatnik, always kept the room immaculately neat and tidy. There was a tall bookshelf in their room, which was fairly large, and built-in drawers and a countertop near their large closet. They had a bath off a dressing area.
But my memory is of my mother taking a nap, probably on a Sunday afternoon, which was the only time she really allowed herself that luxury unless she was sick, which she hardly ever was (at least until the last several years of her life).
I can see the drawn drapes, the partly closed shuttered window into the kitchen, the soft glow of an afternoon. I can see her on her side of the bed, curled on one side, with the bedspread pulled back and neatly covering her.
It makes me puddle to remember that, somehow. Maybe it was the sense that all was well.
Daddy would likely be dozing in his big swivel rocker with golf, or maybe football or basketball, flickering quietly on the television and the newspaper's crossword puzzle in his hand. The Sunday papers would be on the brown leather hassock that sat in front of the other two rockers in the room. There might be a hint of pot roast in the air, or of spicy apple pie, reminders of the good Sunday dinner we had enjoyed after church.
It was quiet, peaceful, and all was right with the world.
It makes me miss them so much, though -- or maybe it is simply nostalgia for a time when my world was predictable, safe, calm, and pretty much without stress. I knew I was loved, I was safe and taken care of. My responsibilities were pretty minor -- clean my room, help with housework and laundry, keep up my grades, tell the truth. The only other person who ever saw my parents nap like that on a Sunday afternoon is my brother -- and I don't know if he remembers it as I do.
I'd welcome a little more simplicity right now, a little more predictability, a little less stress, a lot less worry about those I love. It seems like such a different life, this one, and so very far removed from that time.
I nap -- on those rare occasions when I DO nap -- much the same way as did my mother, curled under the bedspread or maybe with an afghan covering my legs. It is one of the sweetest sleeps I know, napping like that on a quiet, lazy Sunday afternoon. It doesn't happen often enough. Maybe it should.
And specifically, oddly, of my parents' bedroom, which was at the back of the first floor of the house, a two-story Tudor-style dwelling. Their room was an add-on, I think, before we bought it when I was in the fifth grade, and could have been used as a family room. Two other bedrooms were upstairs -- mine and my brother's.
Their room had a door to the back yard and a window opening to the kitchen, in addition to the door from the small hall between kitchen and living room that also had the door to the basement. My mother, a neatnik, always kept the room immaculately neat and tidy. There was a tall bookshelf in their room, which was fairly large, and built-in drawers and a countertop near their large closet. They had a bath off a dressing area.
But my memory is of my mother taking a nap, probably on a Sunday afternoon, which was the only time she really allowed herself that luxury unless she was sick, which she hardly ever was (at least until the last several years of her life).
I can see the drawn drapes, the partly closed shuttered window into the kitchen, the soft glow of an afternoon. I can see her on her side of the bed, curled on one side, with the bedspread pulled back and neatly covering her.
It makes me puddle to remember that, somehow. Maybe it was the sense that all was well.
Daddy would likely be dozing in his big swivel rocker with golf, or maybe football or basketball, flickering quietly on the television and the newspaper's crossword puzzle in his hand. The Sunday papers would be on the brown leather hassock that sat in front of the other two rockers in the room. There might be a hint of pot roast in the air, or of spicy apple pie, reminders of the good Sunday dinner we had enjoyed after church.
It was quiet, peaceful, and all was right with the world.
It makes me miss them so much, though -- or maybe it is simply nostalgia for a time when my world was predictable, safe, calm, and pretty much without stress. I knew I was loved, I was safe and taken care of. My responsibilities were pretty minor -- clean my room, help with housework and laundry, keep up my grades, tell the truth. The only other person who ever saw my parents nap like that on a Sunday afternoon is my brother -- and I don't know if he remembers it as I do.
I'd welcome a little more simplicity right now, a little more predictability, a little less stress, a lot less worry about those I love. It seems like such a different life, this one, and so very far removed from that time.
I nap -- on those rare occasions when I DO nap -- much the same way as did my mother, curled under the bedspread or maybe with an afghan covering my legs. It is one of the sweetest sleeps I know, napping like that on a quiet, lazy Sunday afternoon. It doesn't happen often enough. Maybe it should.
Monday, May 12, 2008
About mothers
Yesterday was Mother's Day -- the third since mine died -- and I did a lot of thinking about motherhood while I was cleaning out my closet (transitioning from winter to summer), washing and folding clothes, grocery shopping, and generally doing stuff that needed doing -- which I also did most of Saturday, only it was in the garden and cleaning off the front porch and mucking out the kitty houses.
So. Mothers.
Mother's Day really glorifies mothers, don't you think? All those schmaltzy cards, gift ideas, reservations for dinner, etc. -- makes every single mother sound practically like a saint. And come on, folks, you KNOW that's not true.
I'm sure many mothers really do the best they can for their kids, fix good, healthy meals, help them with homework, attend various sports events, always know what's going on with their kids, and so on. I sure tried, and that was with me working full time (where DID I get the energy!)
And I still felt like a failure so many times, like the worst mother in the universe, in history probably. And my kid, probably like yours, pretty much told me that more than once when she was a teenager -- but that's what teenagers do, remember...
But there are some truly awful mothers too, y'know? You read about them in the newspaper, locking their child in a cage, or pimping them out for drugs, or driving them into a lake. Beating them with words and whips. It makes me wonder why they were lucky enough to have children...
And yet the primary person in everyone's memory is mom, no matter how awful. There is a bond that is almost impossible to overcome, even when it is in a person's best interests to do so.
And realizing that, it becomes so important to take care of that relationship between mother and child, to honor it and treasure it and nurture it, even when you told you are the worst mother in the world, even when you FEEL like the worst mother in the world. Even when your kid is driving you crazy, worrying you beyond worry, behaving like no child you could have raised!
That bond lasts beyond death. Ask anyone who has lost their mother. She's right there, whispering in your ear, praising, scolding, loving.
That's what it's about: loving.
I had a long, loving talk with one daughter yesterday, a talk that gave me hope for her and a belief that she is going to be okay. And I heard from another daughter who is slogging through a hard time, step by step, and with more confidence and practicality than I'd have imagined she could have.
It made me feel good that I'm their mom.
And then today, a card came thanking me for listening, and saying how proud my daughter is to call me mom and her best friend. It made me cry. And it makes everything worth it -- all the worry, the fear, the uncertainty, even the times when I felt like the worst mother in the world. Today I felt like the best one.
So. Mothers.
Mother's Day really glorifies mothers, don't you think? All those schmaltzy cards, gift ideas, reservations for dinner, etc. -- makes every single mother sound practically like a saint. And come on, folks, you KNOW that's not true.
I'm sure many mothers really do the best they can for their kids, fix good, healthy meals, help them with homework, attend various sports events, always know what's going on with their kids, and so on. I sure tried, and that was with me working full time (where DID I get the energy!)
And I still felt like a failure so many times, like the worst mother in the universe, in history probably. And my kid, probably like yours, pretty much told me that more than once when she was a teenager -- but that's what teenagers do, remember...
But there are some truly awful mothers too, y'know? You read about them in the newspaper, locking their child in a cage, or pimping them out for drugs, or driving them into a lake. Beating them with words and whips. It makes me wonder why they were lucky enough to have children...
And yet the primary person in everyone's memory is mom, no matter how awful. There is a bond that is almost impossible to overcome, even when it is in a person's best interests to do so.
And realizing that, it becomes so important to take care of that relationship between mother and child, to honor it and treasure it and nurture it, even when you told you are the worst mother in the world, even when you FEEL like the worst mother in the world. Even when your kid is driving you crazy, worrying you beyond worry, behaving like no child you could have raised!
That bond lasts beyond death. Ask anyone who has lost their mother. She's right there, whispering in your ear, praising, scolding, loving.
That's what it's about: loving.
I had a long, loving talk with one daughter yesterday, a talk that gave me hope for her and a belief that she is going to be okay. And I heard from another daughter who is slogging through a hard time, step by step, and with more confidence and practicality than I'd have imagined she could have.
It made me feel good that I'm their mom.
And then today, a card came thanking me for listening, and saying how proud my daughter is to call me mom and her best friend. It made me cry. And it makes everything worth it -- all the worry, the fear, the uncertainty, even the times when I felt like the worst mother in the world. Today I felt like the best one.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Passings
I marvel at the first of every month that it's here, that time goes so quickly the older I get.
Events this last week have made me do that, too--observe again how quickly things come and go.
Presidential elections: I remember the election of 1968, in which I missed voting (age was 21 then) by a mere two weeks, but I got special permission from the Dean of Students to stay out of the dorm until midnight-1 a.m. or so. I was news director at KMOE, our campus station, the first woman on the (paid) executive staff, and we covered the results. It was a very big deal on all counts, and I worked very hard to report the results from a professional, neutral viewpoint.
I supported George McGovern in 1972, and watched with tears in my eyes his defeat with a fellow AAUW member after our monthly meeting in my little Missouri town.
I remember voting for Jimmy Carter, with my baby girl in my arms.
Coursework: I finished today the second of two required courses for my real estate license, and wonder how it is that I've worked as an agent for nearly 18 months already. I can account for it all, transaction by transaction, but it's gone so quickly. We've been here nearly two years, in our house!
People: My frail little mother ended up in the hospital Friday -- first time in 2 years. She's okay and will go back to the nursing home soon, but she never comes back quite all the way. I remember so clearly how she was at MY age -- how active, busy, involved, pretty. It's hard to think I'll be 57 in just two weeks, and she's already 83-close-to-84. And it's been five years since Daddy died. (I still talk to him.) Two of their friends died this last week, too, and while I know in my head that dying is a part of the circle, it is hard to think of a world without these people in it.
It's fall here--another passing of the season, from hot and dry into cool and damp, from swamp cooler to wood stove, and it was within the same week that it happened! Christmas will be here and gone too soon.
And more: You can't MAKE people see reason and a good path, and I still (forever) have trouble with that. Egos get in the way of good judgement, and tempers flare. Makes me sad.
Our kittens are growing up: the inside boys were neutered last week. When they came to us, they couldn't have been much more than 4-5 weeks old -- tiny kittens dumped by the railroad tracks.
Makes me want to put my foot out and drag it, to slow things down a bit. I want to savor people, events, places, things a little more than I seem to have time to do. I want to hold them close in my mind's eye so I can go back to them when they're gone. I do that some now, but I want to do it more.
Events this last week have made me do that, too--observe again how quickly things come and go.
Presidential elections: I remember the election of 1968, in which I missed voting (age was 21 then) by a mere two weeks, but I got special permission from the Dean of Students to stay out of the dorm until midnight-1 a.m. or so. I was news director at KMOE, our campus station, the first woman on the (paid) executive staff, and we covered the results. It was a very big deal on all counts, and I worked very hard to report the results from a professional, neutral viewpoint.
I supported George McGovern in 1972, and watched with tears in my eyes his defeat with a fellow AAUW member after our monthly meeting in my little Missouri town.
I remember voting for Jimmy Carter, with my baby girl in my arms.
Coursework: I finished today the second of two required courses for my real estate license, and wonder how it is that I've worked as an agent for nearly 18 months already. I can account for it all, transaction by transaction, but it's gone so quickly. We've been here nearly two years, in our house!
People: My frail little mother ended up in the hospital Friday -- first time in 2 years. She's okay and will go back to the nursing home soon, but she never comes back quite all the way. I remember so clearly how she was at MY age -- how active, busy, involved, pretty. It's hard to think I'll be 57 in just two weeks, and she's already 83-close-to-84. And it's been five years since Daddy died. (I still talk to him.) Two of their friends died this last week, too, and while I know in my head that dying is a part of the circle, it is hard to think of a world without these people in it.
It's fall here--another passing of the season, from hot and dry into cool and damp, from swamp cooler to wood stove, and it was within the same week that it happened! Christmas will be here and gone too soon.
And more: You can't MAKE people see reason and a good path, and I still (forever) have trouble with that. Egos get in the way of good judgement, and tempers flare. Makes me sad.
Our kittens are growing up: the inside boys were neutered last week. When they came to us, they couldn't have been much more than 4-5 weeks old -- tiny kittens dumped by the railroad tracks.
Makes me want to put my foot out and drag it, to slow things down a bit. I want to savor people, events, places, things a little more than I seem to have time to do. I want to hold them close in my mind's eye so I can go back to them when they're gone. I do that some now, but I want to do it more.
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