A Letter to My Mother

I wrote this about fifteen years ago for an online publication. Every word of it is still true. Mom, Of all things that are certain and all things doubtful, that I am your daughter is the former. I will be your daughter when I am fifty. I will be your daughter when you have left this world. I will be your daughter when I join you in the Afterlife. And our relationship will forevermore be characterized by this union. How can I delve into the mysteries of this creative power you were given? How can I fully explain the depths of my feelings about you as my mother? My innermost recollections and emotions can only be served up on the platter of a reincarnated repetition—for in becoming Mother I know my mother; in evolving into a creator I have become like my creator and my Creator. Fleeting visions—sounds, smells and tastes; meld together into a reclining ladder that leads to our meeting place. The place of understanding and forgiveness and ultimately, Peace. My senses come alive at the memories of childhood. The familiar clangs of spatula against pot, beaters against bowl, and plates against table as you prepared my food. The sound of a new crayon box; opened by your hands, and the swish of an encyclopedia being pulled from the bookshelf as you encouraged me to expand my mind and soul. The hot, moist smell of mashed potatoes and the sight of a steamed-up kitchen window. The firm softness of your voice as you explained a difficult concept to me so that my heart would not become hardened. The warmth of your hand as you consoled me in my inexplicable sorrow. Such awkward years before I Left for Greater Things—how intelligent and powerful I thought I was! You were outdated—I was progressive. You were obstinate—I was tolerant. You were emotional—I was stable. You didn't understand—I was all-knowing. You were Mom--always in the background and often taken for granted. I was consumed with my needs and my wants and my dreams. I thought of your presence as an obstacle to overcome. Into adulthood, the obstacle turned into baggage—deliberately carried in spite of plenty of time and space to relinquish it. Why couldn't she have done it this way? Why didn't she say it that way? It's because of her I feel so… It's because of her I feel. I Feel. Life. You gave me life. The power of God's creative ability was manifested into your being. You Lived and you Loved by giving birth. You toiled and prayed and accomplished the task at hand. There was suffering. There were regrets. But surely, on my part, there was room for gratitude at the very least. Surely I could move on. So I moved on. And in moving on I, too, carried Life and brought it forth with the same Creative power that you held. I gave my Life and my All to my child with Love, and the journey continues—a journey not of my own making, but of yours and God's. For I am merely a rung on that ladder which started at the beginning of the Ages, culminated with your grandmother and her daughter, and continues with my daughter and me. The continuance of praying and toiling and accomplishing the most daunting duty ever created now occasionally makes me suffer. I have regrets and worries and all I can do is hope that my child will thrive. And in this realization comes more than simple gratitude for your perseverance. What comes is celebration—a joyous song of thanksgiving for all that you were, all that you are, and all that you will be. For in forging ahead I have come to understand the years behind us. I am humbled and exalted at the same time. Will my daughter revel in the sound of a new crayon box? Will she ever understand how, despite her protests and rolling eyes, some things that I tell her are only to help keep her heart from becoming hardened? Can the wafting scent of freshly-cooked something stir in her a simple fondness for the good things? When she is overcome with fear or anger or disappointment, will my comfort envelop her and give her renewed strength? Will the remembrance of that comfort remain in her heart forever? Before she decides to Get Out of This House, will she contemplate that I, too, am fragile beyond understanding and that my deepest desire is her well-being? When she moves on to try and discover who she is and where she is going, will she carry my memory as a weighty burden or will she lift it off with careless glee as we walk the rest of our Pilgrimage together? My only salvation that keeps me from wandering into a dark abyss of fear and "what-ifs" is the Present. The conversation that you and I had just the other day; sharing health concerns and baby stories and hopes for a better tomorrow: the notion that we are all just trudging our way through these valleys and plains and mountains with the very same tools the women before us also used. Gut instinct, a miraculous Mother Sense, and an intense, innate desire to protect those whom we've co-created from harm. You still perform this Mother Work. You still utter your praises to me and offer assistance. Only this time you first ask what my needs are. You trust that I have found my own way, and your Mothering has grown and changed. I use the gifts you gave me and also the ones I developed on my own, but still it is not enough. It is not perfect. Only in the realm of God will we come to know if our efforts were truly fruitful. There we will be shown how our Love gave Life and how our Lives gave Love. There we will meet all of our maternal ancestors and be reunited with the Creative Essence that enabled us to extend the ladder; to eternally give of ourselves in the most profound way that no other can possibly possess or even comprehend. You nurtured, pruned, and tore your hair out. I am nurturing, pruning, and tearing my hair out. I am you. You were me. We accept the past for what it was—a process, a learning; an infinitesimal speck and at the same time a bonding beyond measure to the turning universe. And so, my dear mother, we peacefully, painstakingly, move on. We lift our legs one rung at a time, climbing Life with no looking back—only holding on. For if we've made it this far, we can surely make it to the top. Just like they did. Love, Your Daughter