The Crux of It

Sunniest Flower

5/12/2013

I have a friend who longs to be understood by her grown sons. And so, she is writing a memoir.

She believes that her sons know nothing of her essence. She says they know her simply as Mom, as their father’s wife, as the daughter of the grandparents they once had. They do not know who she was when she was 18 and married to a man they never knew. They cannot know how she looked when she won the barrel race with her horse Gunner when she was 15. They do not remember when she wore her long hair in an up-do and it was blonde. And they think of her life’s work as bookkeeping, though it has been poetry all along.

The story she is writing is poetic and purposeful and full of messy beauty. From what I have read so far, it is much more than a rehashing of years.

As I read my friend’s story, I began to imagine the story my mother might have written—had she been of the mind to tell it. Not liking undue attention and not inclined to spend much time thinking of herself, she did not write a memoir.

I can only speculate how my mom’s story might read. Beyond the basic, indisputable facts, what she would write about herself might be quite different from what I know. I am, after all, not privy to what lie deep within my mother as she journeyed this Earth. I can only guess what she might have wished for when she was 16 and what it was that she might have changed at 80. I do not know what she feared most.

Truth is, I know her stories better than I know her story. I know she ate a spoiled Bologna sandwich on her honeymoon and spent most of the trip to Colorado with food poisoning. I know some about her life on the farm and growing up poor in rural Kansas. I know some about what she did and did not like about her jobs that helped send four kids to college. I know how she looked sitting on the bed next to her mother, brushing what white hair remained on my grandmother’s head at age 100.

Maybe we children are not meant to know all there is to know about our mothers. Maybe in addition to babies, mothers give birth to a part of their self that reaches inside and picks out what beats loudest, folds it up neat and square and tucks it away for safekeeping. Maybe moms peek in to admire that essence, like they peek in at night to watch their sleeping babies. They touch the soft skin of their babies now grown, they smell the green grass they rolled through in childhood, they taste the mashed potatoes of the family gatherings and they see each added page of the photo album of life. Maybe a mother’s essence is protected from the worst of life’s lessons and not immune to the change of experience. And though it may be hidden from the light of day, it remains.

Did I really know my mother’s essence?

In the way known by all who had the good fortune to have had a loving mother in the center of their childhood universe, yes. While I might not be able to state everything that was important to her or each disappointment or happiness she lived, I know for a fact that she gave her children comfort and safety, kindness and caring, love and security.

I could write lots of stories of what my mom did and rehash her years in all their messy beauty.

But what I would rather remember, and honor, is not what she did, but how she made me feel.

That was, and is, the best part of her essence.

Your Lucky Day

At Independence Pass, near Aspen, Colorado

You might recall this picture if you have been around here a while.

I used it in my Luckiest is Me post which was written on John’s birthday. 

This time around, it’s here to make a big announcement.   (And to tempt you with the opportunity to see more than the rear view of John.)

I have lots of pictures of the back side of John, many moments when I have captured him in the process of taking a picture.  I have plenty more pictures in which he is facing me, but hidden behind his camera. That shows, I guess, just how much he loves photography.  (His passion for photography started when he was in his twenties.  His passion for me, of course, is no less strong–simply not as long-lived. )  

As I said in my last post, I have been busy writing and taking pictures and doing the other things that fill up my life.  I’ve also been watching over John’s shoulder as he preps his photographs for a show at a local venue that will happen in June.   We often stand side-by-side and click the shutter of a nearly identical view, but in my over-the-shoulder analysis, I noticed that his pictures end up with far greater depth and clarity and brilliance than do mine.   Could it be that’s because I always fiddle around between the “big” shots and am taking even more pictures of John taking pictures?

Anyway, I said last week that I would soon share exciting news.  It seems only right that you should be among the first to know and that you should be invited to join us on our big day.

Yes, we have decided to plunge.

Yes, we are ready to take a very big step.  

Yes, we are poised to hitch together our tomorrows.

It’s true.

And so amazing to announce: 

We have decided to blog together!

Please click here to RSVP and sign our guest book.  

No gifts, please.  Your gift will be your presence.

Please note:  Since I am no longer a “marrying” kind of girl, I should let you know that I will also be keeping my name and my space at Winsomebella.com. 

We look forward to seeing you at Through the Lens of We.

In Blue Water

2/12/2013

I have been known to stick myself in a spot that is not where I should be and to hang on as if it were the only thing afloat in the middle of a giant sea.

 I fled to one such place long ago and it took me in. I grabbed with all my might, holding my breath for unfathomable time against the rush of up and down breakers. It was an anchor, that place, tied to solid ground deep six below the ripples and waves. I clung because I was tired and treading so faintly that my eyes were half-full of stinging salt water.

I suppose I loved that place more than I loved myself at the time.

I dreamed of it again last night. I was snorkeling in blue water and came upon something. I cleared my mask and looked again. Through the fog of deeper water back-lit by hindsight, I could make out that what I was seeing was the place I loved.

I swam closer as it shimmered and faded, shimmered and faded, shimmered and faded. Up close, I could see that the books on the shelves were not mine. I could see nothing other than packages of Ramen noodles in a pantry which I had kept fully-stocked. The beautiful but heavy dresser I had struggled to move into place was now filled with clothes that would fit someone else. Curious Christmas stockings I would never have bought hung on the mantle and on the island in the kitchen was a half-empty glass of wine.

It was all so murky that I pulled again at my mask.

And then it was gone.

I awoke, short of breath and with a firm grip on the blanket.

I turned over and in the light of the moon I began to think about places I have loved. My grandmother’s house, the house my boys grew up in that sat high on the hill above the river and the house of my dreams with the view of the meadow.

I felt my breath slowly ease and let go of my grip and slept.

And in the dream that came next I was on solid ground and the view was very clear.

“You will find that it is necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles.” C.Joybell C.