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.
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