Tag Archives: mom

I had every intention …

of blogging about driving around today with the convertible top down, the music loud and the wind in my face; of blooming trees and budding flowers, puffy clouds in a blue, sun-drenched sky and the perfectness of a warm April day.

But I just hung up the phone after talking to my mom and the things I previously held up in importance faded into the background.

She is a rock, a beacon, a lighthouse, a safe haven.

She knows everything about me, the things that shamed me and, at one time or another, shamed her.

In my youth, I hurt her deeply and couldn’t find within myself the knowledge or ability to make it right.

She knows of my dreams and aspirations and is always the first one to encourage me even as she puts her own dreams and aspirations on hold.

It isn’t easy to explain to someone that thoughts, images, words, experiences, memories and a myriad of other flotsam runs through my head, in a constant stream, even when I’m sleeping.

And that is when I am at my baseline and not in manic mode.

She takes it in stride without judgement or condemnation and, I have come to realize, did so even when I felt I was being judged and condemned.

Nobody can condemn me any more than I condemn myself.  It is the nature of my world and I live with it.

She knows, though, simply by looking at my face or hearing my voice ,when I am in the throes of mania or, thankfully more rarely, the despondency of a depressive crash.

She understands that sometimes, I have to go away; from her, from myself, from everyone and just be dormant.

She knows these things and doesn’t hold them against me.

There is no “well, you did this or that or the other thing”.

She isn’t like that.

She is patient and kind.

She is, without doubt, the Proverbs 31 woman.

I would like to be like her, but that is an aspiration that will never come.  It isn’t that my cup is half empty, but that I live, as much as I can, in a reality-based existence.

She is a light in a dark place and I migrate to her when I need simply to know that someone loves me unconditionally.

I tell her I love her, but how do you describe to someone that  you cannot imagine a life without them.

Unless I die first by some freak event, by the natural order of things, I will lose her at some point in my life.

I cannot imagine a world without my mom.

So I will put that with other things I cannot imagine into a box that lives in the outer-regions of my heart.

When I am manic, the box will break open and I will have to face the possibility, but for now, when I am am simply on overdrive, it is secure in the  little locked box.

She inspires me with her acceptance and encouragement and that, without doubt or reservation, beats blooming trees in springtime seen from a back road drive with the convertible top down.

I love you, Mom .

A houseguest

 

My Mother's Mother's bleeding hearts

My Mother’s Mother’s bleeding hearts

 

This is how she makes me feel ... cherished

This is how she makes me feel … cherished

All of that being said about my mom, I want to extrapolate to another area and  extend prayers and encouragement to a friend that I have long lost touch with.  She lost her son, the light of her world and is now lying among the shattered pieces of her world.  Keep Pam Begley in your prayers when you pray.  I cannot fathom losing a child.

 

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What a mess …

my house, I mean.  I hate to clean house, do laundry, wash dishes.  There is nothing about keeping house that I like.  My mother, bless her heart, will attest to that.  She likes a clean house and tried to instill that need for order to my sister and me.  It didn’t take.  I am, at the very core of my being, unorganized.  It is a miracle that I can keep my photography, poems and stories in any kind of order and some of it, well, let’s just not go there.

I’ve had some time off this week and could have easily devoted a day to do chores around the house; I could have, but I didn’t.  There were places to go and things to see that held much more appeal than vacuuming the rug or washing the dishes.  Luckily, in regard to dishwashing, I don’t cook.  If I can’t heat it up in the toaster oven or on the stove top, it likely won’t be found in my house.  I used to heat things up in the microwave, but it stopped working several months ago and I just haven’t replaced it.   But I digress.

This afternoon, I decided to have some soup.  I heated it up, poured it in a bowl and went to get a spoon.  There wasn’t one.  They were all dirty.  I looked more closely at the silverware drawer and saw that not only were there no spoons, there were also no forks or knives.  I tried to remember the last time I had washed dishes, but it was a lost cause.  At this point, I looked around the house and winced.  Without me even noticing, it had become more cluttered than I am comfortable with.  Shoes in the floor, papers on the couch; the usual clutter that normal people pick up as they go along.  Don’t misunderstand … I don’t mind a little clutter, but when it gets bad enough to make me want to move, well then it’s time to get rid of it; so I cleaned.   I vowed (as many times before) that I would be more careful to pick up as I go in the future; I knew, even as I told myself this, that it was highly unlikely.

It only took an hour or so to get it done, but in my mind, that was an hour or so that I could have spent doing nearly anything else.  I can see my mom shaking her head and asking herself where she went wrong.   Sorry, Mom.  Some things never change.

My Mother’s Heart

Tonight, as I edited photographs from the last couple of days, I kept going back, time and again, to the same one.  It was like a hundred more I have taken over the years, with the same shapes and textures, but this time, I saw it in a different light.  I developed the photograph in black and white which brought out each line and crease, each flaw and each vein.  It showed that, although in color, it is nearly perfect, in a pure form, without distractions, my mother’s Bleeding Heart is imperfect and scarred.  My mind began to wander back in time and the years melted away as I saw my mother in a way I can’t ever remember seeing her… as the imperfect jewel that she is.  How her heart must have broken when mine did…  How she, like Mary, must have treasured a lot of things up in her heart.  She hid her hurt, cried when no one could see, and did what needed to be done, whatever it might be.  She cooked and cleaned and did all the motherly things that moms do, but her love is what made home a place I wanted to go.  Knowing she was there was like a balm to a burn… a kind of soothing that comes from a cool cloth on my head… there were special birthday dinners, roller skates, Journey records, leg warmers, ballgames, a huge Andy Gibb poster, a phone in my room, food in the fridge, clean clothes in the closet and a million other things that I took for granted… of course there were disagreements, tears, tantrums, hurt feelings, arguments and, my own signature contribution, plenty of stomping and slamming doors… but when all was said and done, I was me and she was my mom, always ready to run to me if I needed her… Looking back, I see what I’ve known all along… that her heart is beautiful… and so is she.

Proverbs 31:25-31