Getting Out of the Way

We don’t make a big fuss about holidays around here anymore. With just the three of us (Jim, myself, and my mom) in town, our celebrations are really low key. My mom doesn’t like to eat in restaurants, and really doesn’t like to leave home much at all anymore. It’s a struggle to get her to come to our house, and I can tell she’s not really comfortable here. So for Mother’s Day this year, she will do what she does so often - make a meal for us. I know that’s what gives her pleasure.

When Jim and I set our wedding date lo those many years ago, we weren’t thinking about the fact that it was the Saturday before Mother’s Day. This caused a few difficulties, not the least of which was that we had a tough time finding a florist willing to do a wedding on their busiest weekend of the year. Then it occurred to us that we would be on our honeymoon on Mother’s Day. So, like the dutiful (and perpetually guilt-ridden) only children that we were, we called our mother’s first thing from the hotel in Niagara Falls  on the morning after our wedding to wish them a Happy Mother’s Day. 

I had hardly ever spent a night away from home before, and to initiate my permanent move out of the family home on Mother’s Day was like rubbing salt into her wound. But I was young and in love and eager to set off into my own life. She was gracious about it, as she always is, and never revealed any sadness she might have felt. 

I didn’t realize it at the time, but now I know what a cruel blow it must have been for my mother to be separated from me for the first time on that day of all days. Something like the way I would feel about 20 years later, when my son moved to Florida at the age of 18, shortly thereafter married a young woman from another country, and settled out of state permanently. As for Mother’s Day, in the almost two decades since, I’ve actually only spent only one of those holidays with my son.

It’s a little bit sad, but as I said, we don’t make a big fuss about holidays in our family. 

One of the most important lessons I learned about motherhood is that you have to get out of your children’s way. You can’t be the security guard who stands at the crossroads of their lives, pointing them in the direction you want them to take or the one you think is best. You can’t put your arms out and block them from stepping into the future they want. The ability to do this  takes a lot of skill. And you will get plenty of practice as they grow from the completely dependent blobs of neediness that erupt from your womb into full grown people with very strange and rebellious ideas of their own. 

But as I wrote in Life In General, “there is nothing easy about this process. There’s no magic pill you can take to stop missing your children, to keep your heart from aching when you’re apart on birthdays and holidays, to prevent you from wondering what they’re doing or how their day is going, if they’re in a bad mood or on top of the world."

My mother, as much as I dearly love her, was not terribly good at getting out of my way. I had to learn that motherhood lesson on my own. And my son was a very good teacher. He had definite ideas about what he wanted for his life, was responsible enough to take charge of getting those things done, and simply refused to be held back.

So, I stepped aside and got out of his way.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if I stepped back too far. If I should have held on a little tighter, should have protested a little harder. I was so eager to prove that I wouldn’t be like my own parents who wanted to keep me so close, maybe I let go of him a little too easily. In contrast to my experience, where sometimes I felt loved too much - where the warm blanket of parental care and concern occasionally threatened to smother me and suck the life right out of me - I hope he felt loved enough. 

Now he’s 35 years old, with a growing family, a busy career, a home to maintain, plans for the future. He works incredibly hard, is a faithful husband and loving father. Nothing stands in his way, certainly not his mother. And I’m incredibly proud of him for all of that. 

And most of the time I’m proud of myself for having the courage to get out of his way and let it happen.

But there’s still that shadow of a crossing guard mother in me, the one that wants to go back in time and stand on the corner with her arms outstretched. “Stop! Wait! Look every which way you can before you cross that street! It’s dangerous out there where I can’t protect you."

And then enfold him in a tight embrace where I can keep him close and safe forever.

Coming Up the Stairs

There is a narrow and twisty cement stairway leading to the basement of the Martha Mary Chapel, the small historic church where my husband and I were married thirty nine years ago today. When the wedding consultant directed me down the dark passageway to the Bride’s Room on that bright spring morning, my stomach did a back flip. I was scared of stairs, scared of the dark, and mostly scared that I would trip over the filmy train on my wedding dress.  I carefully wended my way downward, my father ahead of me and my Maid of Honor trailing behind holding the train out of harm’s way, only to realize about half-way down that I’d have to make this torturous journey back UP in about 30 minutes.  I could feel my heart beating faster and faster, my knees getting weak. “Hey, you can’t give up now,” my friend said to me. “You can do this."

Yes, I told myself. It’s my wedding day, I’ve been waiting for this day, I CAN do this. And so I did, navigating slowly and gingerly, but successfully down the stairs, and then, back up again for the ceremony that set me on a new course for my life.

Today, almost four decades later, I realize how much of married life resembles that stairway. We enter into a relationship filled with excitement and hope, ready to commit ourselves heart and soul to this other person. We set ourselves on a path hoping for sunshine and flowers, seeking a yellow brick road, never knowing how many times we’ll be forced to detour down a dark, narrow passageway.

In her book, Magical Journey, author Katrina Kenison writes, “What I didn’t know...on the day I donned an ivory wedding dress and became a wife, was that every marriage is a gamble and the stakes are always high. Love, after all, is not synonymous with permanence; we offer our hearts into each other’s safekeeping on faith alone. Our relationship has survived, adapted, deepened, but it is hardly immaculate. In fact, the landscape of our lives together is a muddy criss-cross of mishaps and memories, exultation and grief, hallowed landmarks and forgotten detours made along the way as each learned, one day at a time, what it means to love another person for the long haul.” 

Getting down that dark twisted stairway was only the first of many challenges married life would present me.  In our many years together we’ve experienced long separations imposed by work, job losses and changes, my parents divorce, illness and death, moving house, giving up on dearly held dreams. So often it is these “muddy criss-cross of mishaps,” the “hallowed landmarks and forgotten detours” along the way that give us opportunities to strengthen our resolve, to look back and say, “we survived that and became stronger, more loving people because of it.”

I was really proud of myself for navigating to the bottom of that staircase, but I was even more proud to make my way back up again, to stand in the tiny vestibule of the church on that bright May morning in 1976, fix my gaze on the young man standing at the altar waiting for me, and take my first steps down the aisle into our future. Today, on yet another glorious spring day, I do the same thing, knowing so much more about what it entails.

“I stepped into my marriage convinced that passion would sustain us,” Kenison  writes. “Now, I know better. We will endure by the grace of acquiescence, cooperation, patience, and the small daily rituals that keep us close even as change transforms the landscape of our lives.”  Kenison is so right: If I’ve learned anything in all these years gone by, it is that those are surely the keys to getting back up from every dark stairway life puts in your way. 

So here’s to anniversaries, because they compel us to look back as well as forward, to see the long history of stairways successfully navigated, bridges painstakingly crossed, hurdles courageously cleared. And to know that with “the grace of acquiescence, cooperation and patience” we can continue on the journey together. 

Write On Wednesday: Window on the World

For a couple of mornings last week, this was the view from my bed. I spent a few days at the French Lick Resort and Spa, a huge mid 19th century resort in southern Indiana. It was so beautiful there -  lush, green, hilly country, with trees in full leaf and flower.  Everyone we encountered was warm and welcoming with a decidedly rosy outlook on life in general.

It was a restful few days for me. I was there for a musical event (a handbell festival) but neither the repertoire nor rehearsal schedule were taxing. There was plenty of time to sit on the long front porch, enjoying the company of good friends and the beautiful weather. 

Because I tend to hole up in my safe little cave, I often forget that it’s important to venture out into the wider world once in a while. This trip was like a spring tonic, restorative and energizing at the same time. And even though a few days in southern Indiana seems small compared to the world travels many of my friends embark upon, it opened a new window on the world for me, this quiet little homebody who rarely strays from her cozy nest.

Writers sometimes have this romanticized view of themselves, secreted away in a tiny attic space, fueled with coffee and spirits, connecting with their muse and pouring their creative heart and soul onto the page. My normal life is nothing like that, of course. I have coffee and breakfast to make every morning, a finicky old dog to feed and pamper, a husband with chronic pain and a frail elderly mother who needs daily attention. Somewhere in between all that, I may retreat upstairs to my desk under the window, stare out at the flickering branches of the dogwood tree and listen to the the finches and wrens who settle there after enjoying a meal at my feeder. I scribble some words onto the screen or in my journal. I take my small pleasures where I find them - lunch at an outdoor cafe, the arrival of a book in the mail, the listening ear of a dear friend, an unexpected kiss or kindness from my husband. This is my world, and I’m grateful for it.

But no matter how much we love our usual view, occasionally it’s powerful to open a window onto a new vista and gaze in wonder at what’s before us there. It’s like taking a deep, cleansing breath - it opens the heart to new possibilities, reminds you of all the reasons you have to smile, and make you eager to return to the world you’ve left at home.

So wherever you are today, open the window wide and savor the world around you. 

The Sunday Salon: The Reading Mother

My mother has many wonderful attributes and abilities: She is kind and caring, generous and considerate. She is a marvelous cook, has an elegant eye for fashion and interior design, and can grow any flowering plant. She is all these things and more. 

But one thing my mother is not is a reader. 

Oh, she reads the newspaper, which she continues to subscribe to mostly in order to read Mitch Albom’s weekly column. “Did you read Mitch today?” she’ll ask on Sundays.  “He really tells it like it is.” And she always enjoys her Southern Living magazine. She loves to thumb through cookbooks, sussing out new recipes to try. She once enjoyed fashion magazines, but says the styles are “too far out” these days to be of any interest to her.

But I’ve never seen her read a book. 

That is not until I gave her a copy of mine. 

You see, it came as a total surprise to her that I had even written a book in the first place. I think she knew I wrote things on the internet, but her understanding of the internet is similar to that of many octogenarians - sparse to nonexistent. 

When she unwrapped her copy of  Life In General last Christmas, she was confused at first. Then she saw my name at the bottom and looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and - I have to say - a little awe.

“Did YOU write this?” she asked.

“I did,” I answered, trying to retain my humility. After all, we never completely lose the desire to impress our mothers.

There was a suitable amount of ooohing and aaahing, some tears at the inscription I had written on the flyleaf, and some lengthy explaining on my part about how the book came to be. When I left later that day, she was still holding it on her lap, unwilling to part with it for a second.

The next day she told me she had read the entire book that night. “And I’m going to turn around and read it all over again,” she said. “It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve every read in my life."

Well, of course. She’s my mother. She thinks everything I write - from the gobbledygook typing on that first old typewriter I played with to my high school term papers - is the best thing she’s ever read. (And remember, she doesn’t read much.)

But then she said something that I would hear from a lot of readers in the days and weeks ahead. “I think every woman who has had a family, or a home, or been married, or gone through losing parents could relate to this book. I feel like you connect with all the things I’ve thought about and felt over the years."

Every year when Mother’s Day approaches, I realize once again how fortunate I am that  (1) my mother is still with me and still functioning independently; and (2) she has been so supportive of me and my family every step of the way as I’ve gone through all the experiences of Life In General. Although I’m not nearly the cook she is, nor is my thumb anywhere close to being as green, I hope I’ve inherited at least some of her ability to love unconditionally, to listen without judgment, and to give of her time, energy, and love without measure.

In the end, it didn’t matter that my mother wasn’t much of a reader. She completely supported my obsession with books, making sure I always had plenty of them around, getting me to the library whenever I wanted to go, and always encouraging me to read widely and often. She nourished my love for reading just as she did my love of music and dogs and cars and pretty dresses. 

Since December, Life In General has had pride of place on the coffee table in my mom’s living room. She says she picks it up and reads from it every so often. “Sometimes I laugh,” she commented, “and sometimes I cry.” It has prompted her to share many stories of her own with me, stories I’d never heard before about her life as a young wife and mother.

“Did you know,” she said the other day, “when I was young I used to like making up stories. I’d tell them to all the cousins, and they loved to hear them."

Well then. That explains a lot.

 

A Mother’s Day Offer

Perhaps your mother (or grandmother, or daughter, sister, aunt or friend!) would enjoy reading Life In General too. In honor of Mother’s Day, if you purchase a copy of Life In General, I will beautifully gift wrap it, sign or inscribe it, and mail it to anywhere in the United States.

I will also donate 25% of all Mother’s Day book sales to Church World Service Blanket Sunday, which my own church supports each year on Mother’s Day. Donations are used to provide blankets, tents, food, and shelter to those affected by disasters worldwide. Read more about the project here.

To order a book as a Mother’s Day gift, use the order form on the Life In General page. In the notes section, indicate if you would like a special inscription inside the book, and where you wish the book to be sent. Books must be ordered by May 5, 2015.

The Thing With Feathers

Yesterday I wrote a long post in this space, a post in which I laid bare some of the pain of these past months. I revealed that I was going through a “valley time,” a time of anxiety, sadness, discontent. When I had finished it, I thought immediately that I should delete it, should not dare to reveal this weakness, should not indulge myself in such blatant self-pity.

But I changed my mind. Let it go. Released it to the eyes of others.

And then. Then you responded. In comments. E-mails. Private messages. “Yes, me too,” you said. “I’ve been there. I understand."

Once again a connection was made through writing, words were shared that shed some light on my darkness, much the way the morning sun just this minute broke through pewter colored clouds still laden with cold. That brief flash of sunlight directly outside the window reminds me, as your words did yesterday, that warmth and brightness are still there, even if they are sometimes obscured by the heaviness of clouds around us.

I had thought I was alone, and you reminded me I was not. You listened, you heard, you recognized. 

There is great strength in that. Today there is a crack of light in the darkness. I feel empowered to start the climb upwards, away from the recesses of that darker place where I’ve been dwelling. With that feeling comes hope..."the thing with feathers," as Emily Dickinson described it. A gentle, fragile, feeling, but one with the amazing power of lifting our hearts and taking wing against the darkness.

Although I mostly dwell in this land of sensing and feeling (my Myers Briggs profile is Introvert Sensing Feeling Judging) I am a practical person, a person who needs concrete things to do. So this week I have been putting only good food in my body - no sugar, no processed foods, no alcohol, and no caffeine (well, just a tiny bit in the morning). I’ve walked every day because walking for me is “moving meditation” and gets the blood flowing through my heart and to my brain. I’m planning my days so I can accomplish what I need to, and trying not to let myself be sidetracked by the time killers that so often disable me... especially the Internet. I’m looking at the world around me with brighter eyes, remembering how to savor the small moments of beauty -  like my pretty coffee cup, the call of ducks in flight over the ponds, the smooth pages of a brand new book, the warmth of my little dog as he snuggles next to me in bed.

I’m trying to get myself back on the track, the trail that leads out of the valley and into a brighter place. 

 I’m grateful. For the connections we shared, for the hands held out to my as I opened my heart on this page. 

And I’m hopeful. That thing with feathers is perched in my soul this morning.