About Mothers

 There's a writer I follow on social media whose work consistently robs me of breath. A month ago, she posted that she was giving a writing workshop the day before Mothers Day, specifically to create a piece of writing about our own mothers. I registered right away. 

Although I have been writing about my mother for years, I was excited about learning from someone whose writing I admire very much. I was also anxious about writing and reading my piece aloud for the group, but I wanted to try. 

I pushed my sewing machine back into the center of my crafting table and made space for the laptop. I closed myself into our little craft studio and locked the door behind me, after warning my kids to please give me this time and space. (Don't worry, T was home, but they love interrupting anything they can!)

In the workshop, we listened to several different poems and pieces written about mothers. We participated in small writing sections, with prompts and purpose, and then we were given thirteen minutes to craft a letter to our mothers. There were some prompts that could be used if desired, but it was designed to be anything we wanted to write. 

I found words pouring forth from my fingertips as they flew across the keyboard. My wife always asks me, "What are you typing so furiously over there?" I guess I got my dad's heavy fingers. 

My mother isn't hard to write about. She's my center. She's my foundation. She's my best friend. But it was interesting to read over my piece after I wrote it, because I felt like I was not fully present during those thirteen minutes. The teacher instructed us to not stop writing. Do not go backwards to correct or review. Don't lift your pencil. Keep going. 

And I did. 

After the time was up, we broke into small groups to read our pieces and give each other feedback. My group, and indeed the majority of the workshop population, was older women than I. I spotted a single man, who did not end up in my group. As I listened to these women read what they'd written about their mothers, I wondered if my piece could possibly stand among these pillars of strength and imperfection. I couldn't even really remember very well what had come out of me, so I was sweating and emotionally on edge from all the pieces I'd been hearing. 

Voice shaking, neck and ears flushed with anxiety, I read. 

"Dear Mom,

I find you always in water. The boiling of a pot, the rushing water in a sink of my children’s dishes. The burble of the coffeemaker and the whistle of my tea kettle. The sound of hot liquid flowing into a ceramic mug. You have always been the ocean, you are it and it is you. Rushing, strong, crashing waves but then receding, lapping at my shores. Constant and unending. The salt of your tears always pulls at my insides, our spirits intertwine and it is impossible to not cry when you cry. Summers in the swimming pool, days of laughter and sunscreen and bowls of fruit. And then you rinse your hair out in the yard, always under the hose.

Water, like you, can change the shape of everything over time. Sometimes the water diverts, and sometimes the water carves its place in the rock. Yielding but also insistent.

Over my adulthood, I’ve watched you continue to grow. I don’t know if I really knew you when I was a child. I knew your bottomless love and selflessness, but I didn’t know you. I made observations about how I knew I wanted to parent my own children, admiring your presence and your commitment to us and noticing even then how you put us first.

Now that I’m a mother myself, we’ve discussed that your selflessness is a problem for you. Prioritizing yourself sometimes seems impossible. I’ve watched you find truths that took you to your knees, but you got back up and kept looking, even though you were hurt. I’ve witnessed you stand taller, refuse to be talked over, become more steadfast in your convictions, and make your voice louder. You are surer of your voice now than I’ve ever known you to be.

You no longer have children in your home to shepherd. Your rescue puppies are gone, and I know you feel sometimes rudderless. This time is yours. Time you never wanted anyway, but here it is and here you are and I have to say, I am incredibly and repeatedly stunned by my pride in you. To see the work and efforts you’ve gone through to plumb the depths of despair and still hook your fingers around a small pocket of purpose is something I didn’t know I’d get to witness you do."

My group was incredibly supportive and sweet of my piece. A couple of women even commented that they thought it ought to be published, which I found to be such a high compliment I barely knew how to express my gratitude. They all told me they hoped I would share it with my mom. One writer commented that if she'd received a letter like that from her daughter, she'd probably do something silly like have it tattooed on her in its entirety. I gave them all my word that my mom would get it. 

This morning, I sent it to her. She's my mom, she's no stranger to my writing or to my love. She loved it, because she loves everything I do. It makes my heart sing to have this relationship with her. 

I felt the gentle presences of those other six women from my group, when I sent my mom the letter. Those other six daughters, all whose mothers have passed on. I was the only one who got to send a letter today. I carry those women, those incredible writers and loving, angry, unresolved, yearning, confused, joyful daughters with me on my shoulders. I hope they felt that they were with me today. 

Mothers and daughters. This is something that transcends us all. Everyone has a mother, at least in the way that every child was brought forth from a womb. That mother may have died, or been forced to give you up, or loved you the rest of her life. But once we become mothers... we are connected to this timeless network. This universal and yet painfully unique experience of mothering. As vast as the sky and as detailed as the shape of our fingernails, we are all one and we are all completely our own. 

To mothers. That deepest and most complex relationship. 

Broken Horses

Not only did we end up with 4 copies of Broken Horses by Brandi Carlile so we could attend a handful of the virtual book tour events, but I also downloaded the audiobook because she recorded 30 songs to include in it. We listened to it during a quick getaway to Flagstaff this weekend.

I was struck, as I often am, with how powerful it is to find myself in someone else's stories; to see myself reflected in someone else's song.  It reminds me of the power of marginalization. The power of making people feel "other." The microaggressions that on the own are inconsequential, but build up to such a heavy weight over time. It happens so slowly that you don't notice until you reach the breaking point and become "that angry lesbian" making mountains out molehills.  Or, like this weekend, you are caught unprepared by seeing yourself so clearly reflected back in someone else's experience, that you are able to set down the weight and know that you are not alone, you are part of a community. They weight is lifted, the isolation is broken, if only for a moment.

Brandi Carlile has provided me with moments like this for so long. I remember in 2008, as I was trying to get the courage to propose, I came across a video they recorded during their UK tour that included a cover of "I've Just Seen a Face." Hearing a woman sing those words changed the song forever. Sorry Paul, it is now a Brandi Carlile song. 

I've just seen a face
I can't forget the time or place
Where we just met

 
She's just the girl for me
And I want all the world to see
We've met, mm-mm-mm-m'mm-mm

 

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgBpgOZr6-Q, start at 2:25)

 

Moments like this have taught me how much representation matters.  How much we look to the outside world for acceptance and value. I fight against this, I don't owe anyone conformity. So the excitement and comfort that come with each of these moments of community are tinged with guilt and self doubt.  

Being a parent is hard. A and I often appreciate that the lack of gender roles in our marriage takes away a layer of expectations, especially around parenting. However, being a queer parent can be incredibly isolating. To be reminded we weren't alone in our struggles to carve out our little corner in such a herteronormative space was very impactful. 

 

I am eternally grateful for the wonderful community we found in our birth center. I became a member of the community advisory board and we are now friends with the amazing nurses and midwives who helped E and C come into this world.  However, we were always "other." It was challenging to set aside the protective, defensive shell and see the families and medical providers in the group as our new community when our experiences were so fundamentally different. 

 

As we've connected with other LGBTQ families, it often feels like coming home. There is an ease, an unspoken understanding. This doesn't mean I don't value all of these other relationships, because of course I do. Rather, it reminds me of the value of things like our Rainbow Families group that met monthly before the pandemic. It makes me excited for the day we feel comfortable meeting in-person with the other queer families in our foster care agency. It makes me incredibly grateful for our new family that we adopted along with J.

 I have three children. One birth certificate lists me as "mother," another as "father," and the third should arrive in the coming weeks with me listed as "parent." A isn't even on E's. I often make a joke about this, but that is just to cover up the fact that it hurts. We were quoted $2000 from our lawyer to adopt E & C during J's adoption so we would both be listed on all of them as "parent," and not have to worry about the state recognizing our rights if something happen to one of us.  If we waited it would be $4000 to do it in a separate hearing.

No.  I'm not going to spend thousands of dollars for something that we shouldn't even have to do.  To prove the legitimacy of our family. To tarnish the exciting addition of J to our family with the acknowledgment of the state's bigotry. Let's save that for another day.

The pain and guilt of this has been weighing on me lately. For a moment, while we drove down a mountain with such majestic views that you can't help but feel small, I heard another mother talk about how their family began with lawyers and awkward classes.  How she dealt with the internalized homophobia that convinces you that you don't belong in these spaces, you aren't really a mother. How she also surrounds herself with family, both biological and chosen, as a cloak of protection from these hurts, both big and small. I wiped away a tear and drove back to the real world, where these things fade into the noise of everyday and the weight finds it's well-worn spot on my shoulders.

 

To my family, my protectors: Thank you

I'm beginning to feel the years,
But I'm going to be okay,
As long as you're beside me along the way.
Gonna make it through the night,
and into morning light.