mother.

By ashley On August 3, 2012 · Leave a Comment

My mother is the truest of renaissance women. A mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, an artist, a poet, a graphic designer, a therapist, a cook, a park-walker, a gardener, a photographer, a traveler, a blogger, a nurturer, and a best friend, she represents some amalgam of these qualities to everyone who’s had the pleasure of meeting and knowing her over her past 57 years. Recently, she’s added cancer survivor to this list, and with it comes the title (perhaps the one she’s most proud of yet) of “warrior woman.”

baby and her mother

My mother (here 33) and me (1).

Though I speak to her on a daily basis and see her nearly as often, I am continually awed by the words with which she chooses to express herself on her blog, What Are You Waiting For? Never have I been so moved by what I read from her today — enough that I feel morally, or genetically, compelled to share her words with as many as possible. She is, in every sense of the word, the most beautiful person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Were someone to ever ask me why I wanted to have children, or what I hope to be when I age further (god willing with the grace my mother has), or how I hope to cope with dealing with the various forms of myself over the years, I could do no better than to point them in the direction of this essay. The words of my mother follow:

Having just finished a self portrait from a photograph taken when I was 23, I’m rather enamored. She’s hanging on the wall across from me and, flaws aside, I like her. I like who she was — timid, too quiet, gentle and reticent — and I like who she’s become — brash, passionate, level-hearted, and wild for life. I like looking at her and knowing that she’s okay now, and that I am too. I like considering the deepness of her eyes so young, and knowing that I made her, moment by moment, each of 21,020 days now, give or take a few leap years. I like looking at her as she is, unaware of the intervening decades, and as I am now, aware and more or less okay with them. And I wonder, if she had peeked out the window in 1978 and caught a glimpse of us at 57, what would she say to this older self?

Would she be surprised at the friends I still hold close? And those I’ve let go?

Would she be surprised that I still sew, that I still read Faulkner, Eliot, and Nabokov, that I still write, that I’m still slow to speak?

Would she wonder how I found the nerve to travel alone, to open a business, to finally crack in the face of inequities and speak out, make waves, lose friends?

How disappointed would she be over my first marriage? How angry that it took me so long to learn to speak? How devastated over the too-many-times that I kept my mouth shut?

How much in awe at knowing our children, so like her and yet so not?

How stunned to realize that they are both older now than she is?

Our mother died six years ago, and missing her has changed my view of aging — a bit. I used to surprise myself by seeing her in the mirror now and then, and finding her skin across my legs and arms. Sometimes I scan the road ahead of my car, and I know I’m looking through my mother’s eyes, seeing with her hazel irises and interpreting my view in that funny way she had. For so long, I didn’t like these intrusions of age, but now I welcome them as a little more time spent with the woman who gave me life and shared it with me longer than anyone I know.

And when I glance across the room to 23 now, I’ve got that motherly thing going on. I want to protect her, to encourage her, to give her a fear of not living, to make sure she wrings every drop of life out of her years. In a way, I’m re-mothering myself, and she’s re-childing me.

Here’s what I miss most about those early years: knowing what you love and believing you’ll never, ever let go of it, for any reason; the certainty that everything is possible; being an impetus for change rather than fearing it; sharing a comfortable relationship with time; believing you’ll always be beautiful.

So yeah, she’s staying on the wall right in front of me. I suggest you post an image of yourself on the wall too — it’s quite the kickstarter.