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.