there are moments you remember as a mother. more than you can possibly count. but there are some that stand out. you can feel it forever. any reminder of it makes you draw in your breath and pause. THIS morsel, THIS painting does that for me. THIS is how i feel.
the moment you are safety in a storm, respite in chaos, time-out in exhaustion. the moment of sheer relief, absolute validation, exquisite shared joy or devastating shared aching grief. the moment of connected silence, words with no air. an embrace that is forever.
the two of you: two reasons why i breathe ~ my children (cd liner notes)
this will never change. most of the things i gather around me are things that make me think of them, feel them near. it’s as simple as framed photographs or collages or a peace keychain or lanyards that say ‘colorado’ and ‘boston’. it’s a screenshot of a text message i want to remember. it’s a note jotted on my calendar about something My Girl or My Boy said to me or a date that is important to them i want to remember. it’s notes they wrote as children held by magnets to the refrigerator or in small frames bedside. it’s laughter saved in a video. it’s moments of tears driving away from their homes. it’s a rock saved on a hike in the high desert canyonlands with The Girl; it’s The Boy’s childhood favorite ny taxi pencil on my piano. nothing is huge. everything is huge.
most of my also-mom-friends will agree that, outside of spending time together, the one thing certain to lift them up on any given day is a reaching-out-to-them by a grown-up child. it’s the moment ANYthing else stops. it’s the silently-agreed-upon, strictly-held-to and always-welcome interruption in the middle of visiting others, working, hiking, cooking, sleeping. both The Girl and The Boy knew – and know – that they can call or text at any time of day or night and i will be there; i will answer. ‘always there’ is a fierce inner motherhood promise designed to both ground and frustrate children, whatever their ages. it’s a guiding principle, a mom-creed. it’s absolute. it’s truth.
from the moment they were born everything changed. and, from that moment on, one thing didn’t. the two of you ~ two reasons why i breathe ~ my children. ❤️
it comes in waves. in less than two weeks i will be 60. i’m not a consumed-with-my-age-person, but this particular birthday is proving me different. without any prompts, i find myself sorting through my life, the six decades that lead me to right now. memories flow in and ebb out like the tide on a surfboard of emotions. trying not to resist, i ride the wave as it brings me growing up times on long island…my nuclear family all together, all alive, gathered in our dining room on abby drive or up in the catskills in a rustic state park cabin….bike hikes and carvel….simple times of arguing for john denver over bob dylan….time walking or sitting or playing frisbee on crab meadow beach…late sunday morning mc-arnson sandwiches or waffles and ice cream around my sweet momma and poppo’s table in florida…the time of building the first home i ever bought, a big choice for us as a young couple…the sheep farm in new hampshire….moving to wisconsin away from family and the challenges that raised…celebrating the amazing birth of our daughter and son and watching them grow into the people they are….recording my first album and what that meant….letting go of the day-to-day mothering as my children became adults and still being an every-single-day mother….balancing the impact of good decisions and bad decisions….times of intense grief….choosing love….starting over….wondering what is coming next….
the inner monologue chronicles through all of these years…i sit in quiet watching the slideshow in my mind’s eye and ponder. what was most important, what is most important, what will be most important. what it all means. and it’s clear most of the time. the people who have surrounded me, who have loved me, who i have loved. the people i am missing – and will always miss – as well as the people who are right here. the times i am missing – as well as the times -moments- i could miss right now were i to be too engrossed in something else.
on the album RELEASED FROM THE HEART, the track that i selected to follow MISSING is called CONNECTED. because it all stays a part of the vast ocean that is each of our lives. the missing and the now and the wondering, all part of the whole. all waves to ride.
it drives them nuts, i’m sure, but i still write or say “triple always” to my children. a redundancy of course, the “triple” emphasizes the “always”… an unnecessary modifier that says “eternally”…. i love you eternally.
there is a boeing commercial we see often. in it, the narrator is stating steps of preparation for flight, counting down. then she says, “guidance is eternal.” that’s what i have heard every time. until one time i asked d why he thought she said that. he responded that she was actually stating, “guidance is internal,” which clearly makes more sense in the aviation world.
i had to listen more closely the next time to hear “eternal” as “internal”. i did discern the difference, but i still, each time it airs, hear “guidance is eternal” anyway, and maybe that’s a good thing. it serves as a reminder from an unlikely source, a sort of subliminal message, perhaps, at a time i need it. an absolute when looking to the universe for answers to unsolved questions, small eddies of confusion, sorting and attempts at balance, at level positivity, seeking wisdom from those who are beloved but on another plane.
the guidance is there. waiting. it is internal AND it is eternal. triple always.
‘you-hold-me’s i will always remember… among the more-than-i-can-count-mom-heart-moments, one of the last times My Boy fell asleep on my lap and i knew – at the age he was then, rounding 5 or 6 – it was something to hold onto. or the time he, all-grown-up, bent down and, one more time, hugged me goodbye. precious time dancing to marvin gaye with My Girl in the sitting room, her favorite infant-lullaby. the bittersweet-tender-time-stood-still time she – as an adult – fell asleep while i held her. in o’hare airport when d just held me while, with people swirling around us, we were lost in reuniting, in recognition. the greetings we get from dogdog and babycat every single time we arrive home. the hugs we get inside the door to our best friends’ house, their big beloved dogs jostling for attention. the memory of watching my sweet momma and poppo hold hands as they walked, always…those linked hands grasping each other. watching my momma hold my dad’s hand at the side of his last hospital bed, nodding off, both of them, but holding on. ‘you-hold-me’s aren’t always just about you.
in these times, in any time, the simple feeling of being held – a quick hug or embrace that goes on and on – is the one true thing. it doesn’t solve any problem, take away a worry, change any circumstance. but it is a reminder that you are not alone. you are woven of and into so much more. and you are held – by your family, by your children, by your friends, by this good earth, by a higher power. in appreciation of you. in a bigger thing called love.
in the last few days, one of my friends became a first-time-grandmother. those of us who were aware of her daughter’s giving-birth-countdown would text her asking for any news or updates, as excited as if it were our own story. sunday morning she texted to say that indeed a little baby girl had been born in the pre-sun hours of the day. her daughter, a friend of my own daughter’s since kindergarten, was now a mom and all was perfect in the world.
i saw this painting-in-process as i walked down the steps into david’s basement studio. the new mother, sitting cross-legged, gazing intently at her new baby made my heart skip a beat. i recognized the look, the tilt of her head, the gentle but secure way she was holding her baby. it took me back – immediately – to my first moments holding kirsten or craig, those nothing-short-of-miraculous minutes when time stood still and everything was perfect in the world.
i cannot imagine the power of this painting when it is completed. it’s already intoxicatingly striking. it brings back every memory. it reminds me of what is most important. the delicious feeling of holding a tiny baby, the dreams that soar in your head, the bond of love. times when everything is perfect in the world.
it wasn’t exactly a blizzard, but it was a great snowstorm. it makes me wonder what would have happened if i had wished for something else….
every weekend My Girl drives back and forth across the high mountains. she is a head coach for a snowboard team in aspen and instructs in telluride, so this four-and-a-half-hour-each-way-she’s-driving-where-there-are-no-guardrails-worry-zone for me is a necessity in her life. i check the weather and implore her to stay in touch as she goes. this last week, both of these towns and pretty much every town in-between had “winter storm warning” and THIS posted:
not exactly words that warm a momma’s heart. but kirsten knows i am worried and, probably rolling her eyes, generously lets me know how things are as she goes. she has good snow angels and i count on them.
i always say things like, “someday you’ll understand” to kirsten and craig, but i know that right now my mom-worrying might just be a burden to them. i’m grateful they humor me, and i do know that someday they’ll understand.
when we were driving across the country in really bad weather, wendy had the ability to locate us and we were both really relieved for this. checking in every so often, had something happened, at least she knew where-in-the-world we last were. a good snow angel. both The Girl and The Boy can locate me at any time too. this is not an uncommon device used by families and i know that every mom has eternal gratitude for such a thing.
we took a walk in the freshly fallen snow. It was very cold out and the wind was blowing, causing drifts across sidewalks and the waves to slam against the rocks on the lakefront. i was glad not to be driving and my mind wandered back in time to other snowstorms….ones where my children bundled up and ran out to build snowforts and snowmen, ones where i was the one on the road and my sweet momma was the one worrying. snowstorms when i went outside and played in the snow laughing with beloved old friends.
it had been kind of a long while since i’ve made a snow angel. we got back from our walk downtown and were in front of our house. i took david’s hand and we fell backwards into the snow. i drew in my breath at the cold and laughed, my arms the wings of a snow angel.
“…i love to watch the lights shine on my baby’s face…”
the place this song came from. motherhood. the full-body-overwhelming-love-feeling for me of holding my babies those first christmases. seeing the lights from the tree play on their faces was magic-on-earth. i suddenly understood my sweet momma and her joy having us there at christmas, surrounded by her babies (forever her babies, regardless of age.) this is a story-song. i’ll say little else about it. you’ll understand when you listen to the lyrics.
a couple of weeks ago i ran into a couple i hadn’t seen in many years. they asked me about my children and how they were; i excitedly rambled on about them for several minutes, explaining where they were living – 20 hours west and 20 hours east – and what they were doing in life. then they asked me how i was. i said, “you can always gauge a mom’s happiness by how recently she last got to see her grown children.” i was fortunate enough to see my daughter in november AND my son in november, so i was happy-happy-happy. time spent with them. a wondrous thing.
i was perched on one edge and My Girl on another, a ways down the side of the canyon. we yelled back and forth, listening to the echo, ultimately dissolving into laughter. the beauty. the joy. the echo. the laughing. a wondrous thing.
it was not his best bowling day; the planets clearly were out of alignment for My Boy, who pretty much rocks at bowling and many other sports, but he goofed around and cartooned and had us all laughing. so much fun on that lane. a wondrous thing.
we stood around the piano and sang in my studio, wendy’s voice next to my own. suddenly, that thing-that-happens-when-two-people-who-are-related-sing-together happened. my sweet niece’s voice and mine had the same timbre and it took my breath away. i had to stop for a moment to take it in. a wondrous thing.
from the moment we walked into their house, my girlfriend-since-elementary-school and i laughed. we told stories, reminisced, struggled to remember details, poured a little wine, shared some more. our husbands sipped lemon drop martinis and we talked non-stop. i wanted to stay longer, talk more, remember more. so much of my growing-up-history was standing next to me, hugging me as we left. a wondrous thing.
we don’t really leave the kitchen table when we are there. we sit on high stools and the chatter starts as soon as we arrive. our dear friends jen and brad and the two of us have potluck dinners on many friday nights; each couple has leftovers from the week and no one has to worry about cooking. we just heat up our leftovers and plate them and talk, wine glasses (or a beer in brad’s case) in hand. conversations about our children, our work, politics, travel, ukuleles, npr…the spectrum is wide and we relish the time that flies by; six hours later we glance at the clock pointing to post-midnight. a wondrous thing.
as glorious as the high mountains, ocean-front waves, flowers birthing out of winter, exquisite melodies, the first sip of coffee in the morning, a magical snowfall, texts with heart emojis, a hand holding yours, finding an old note in your child’s little-kid handwriting, black and white pictures of your parents in young days, shooting stars and sunrises…the list of wondrous things we can see around us is endless…limitless…boundless…
and moments shared? also endless…limitless…boundless…
i’m thinking this is just a fancy term for procrastination? you know, those moments when you have a list-of-things-to-do and you do something NOT on the list. to be honest, i ALWAYS add the things i ended up doing TO the list so that i can cross them off. there is something i find so very satisfying about crossing things off. even if i haven’t gotten to the crux of what i need to get done.
d says that i work in a circular manner. i suppose he’s right. but i swear it’s a woman-thing. we are spinning many plates at the same time, keeping them all in the air, and, although everything will eventually get done, we move from one thing to the next and then circle back. i know very few gals who – in an OCD kind of way – stay cemented to one task until its completion without punctuating it with others.
when The Girl and The Boy were little i was constantly moving from writing at the piano to reading books aloud to playing with matchbox cars to making business calls and back to the piano….many layers all at once. i remember having a phone conversation with one of the VPs of barnes and noble when they were placing one of my albums on the listening station wall. in the middle of this phone call, you could hear one of my children in toddlerhood – i will not mention which one – in the background, beckoning me from the bathroom, yelling, “i finished! i pooped!” the VP heard it too and he was gracious enough to tell me he would hold on. it’s a mom thing, right? those spinning plates.
we work differently, d and me. we are both productive, but i’m guessing he would oft label me productively avoidant. eh. he just doesn’t see how i accomplish that ever-growing-ever-crossed-off list in my head (or on paper, for that matter.) it’s amazing what i can accomplish when i am “supposed” to be accomplishing something else. i know you know what i mean! #allwillgetdone #whatdoesitallmeananyway?
reverse threading 