Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Happy Mother's Day

I know this blog is to be about the Word of God, but in honor of Mother's Day, I wanted to post this amazing photo of my Mom and a poem I wrote about her a year or so ago.  She will be dead 10 years this fall, although that statement seems wrong to me, to be an exaggeration of a fact.  When she died I was in seminary, and one of my very kind and wise professors, a priest of many decades, remarked that our belief in eternal life means that relationship does not end with our physical  deaths, but, in fact, can deepen and mature, even after the end of life.  I came to know, quite soon, in fact, what he meant.  My Mom and I were a bit like oil and water - or cats circling each other in a closed room.  I never thought she understood me and I certainly did not understand her.  My teenage years were ones of battle - not because I was a wild party-girl, but because I was so religious, so judgmental and "holier than thou" (the truth must be told) - so serious and righteous...I now know she was trying to save me from myself, however clumsy or heavy-handed her attempts might have been.  Since her death, I have learned much about her, and about our relationship - she is still a living presence for me - not some macabre ghost, but more like a guardian angel.  Perhaps, without the pressure of embodiment, I have found the freedom to let her in, to allow a closeness I could not afford in my younger years. I have achieved a measure of the generosity and maturity needed to see her for herself, rather than a projection of my own needs or desires.  
It occurs to me, in this Eastertide, that the apostles had the same kind of experience after Jesus died - and even after all those post resurrection appearances.  He became clearer to them as time passed - as they told the stories and followed the advice and remembered the good times and bad - perhaps this is why we think that the Communion of Saints is so important. Relationship does not end with the grave, life is changed, not ended.  We continue to grow in our love for each other, in our understanding of the meaning of our common lives; lives shared, broken, patched up,  often subject to bad timing, lack of insight, and having to settle for doing the best we can.    

"An unusual Saturday night for the three grace girls"

An unusual Saturday night for the three Grace girls –
            there’s soda pop, chips and a babysitter.

Toni, the neighbor’s girl, arrives
as my mother descends from her bedroom …
              abandoned, the usual dungarees and my dad’s old shirt ...
   adorned, now, in her good black dress,
               nylon stockings and high heels.

She bends to kiss my cheek:
“Goodnight”

Hot, sweet breath of mother love
mixes with the plastic scent of  Congo Red®   lipstick


A whiff of that expensive powder lingers –
 “Lilies of the Valley” from the round, pink cardboard box
                                                                                                  on her dresser

The smoky memory of her last cigarette
            punctuates the kiss.                                   

Words of blessing and warning:
            “Have fun. Be good.”

In that moment,
            she’s once again the woman in my favorite photograph:
a glamor shot taken by my dad in courtship
a frozen moment
in Eastman Kodak Brownie black and white

She leans, arms crossed,
against the back of the big chair in her mother’s front room,
         elegant hands with long silky fingers, stroke the opposite bicep;.
her pixie cut permed, a chic bob.
She’s hot!

Her short sleeve sweater, clinging,
part of that twin set I’ve always imagined a deep purple.

A necklace of charms encircles her throat,
            matching earrings –
                        career girl jewelry
                                    that she bought for herself.

In the full bloom of womanhood,
she’s ready for love.

Not a girl,
not anyone’s mother,
                                    a living doll
                                    a dangerous woman
                                    a woman
                                    Herself!

Behind the camera,
perhaps my dad, her young lover,
                        eggs her on,
catching her in a sexy laugh at their favorite inside joke:

“Facetious…”
                                    “…which means to be jocular or humorous”

An out of the ordinary Saturday night,
            my parents go out on a date

And I see her.

Really see her.
 As she was, and truly is, and perhaps will be again:
strange, exotic, complex, seductive …
                                    with a past that does not include me,
                                                and a future beyond these child rearing years.

I see her.

Not imprisoned by the mono-chrome of motherhood
            but free, at large,
in the multivalent prism of full personality.

I see her.
A woman.
Herself!

A person
with hopes and dreams too large to be contained
in a three-bedroom bungalow on Thorn Street.

I see her –
just for a moment.
           
My mother transformed.

Herself,
a flesh and blood woman,
a shimmering presence
in Congo Red  lipstick and a good black dress
going out on the town with her love.

1 comment:

  1. Wow, Pat. This is a BEAUTIFUL picture of your mother, and i love the rhythm of the poem. You should read this at our next writer's group! (~Lauren)

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