Today is my Mom’s sixty-second birthday.
In this past year with a newborn, I’ve been remembering,
thinking of, and channeling my Mom through lullabies. A new song I discovered
is called ‘mantra
nocturna’ – sung in an Elizabeth Mitchell album. The lyrics are:
I will be your home
I will be your guide
I will be your friend
Always at your side
Sleep now in your room
Quiet of the night
Surrounded by the moon
Till you see the light.
The lyrics are modest and clear; sung over and over in
Spanish and English. As I sing the over Andrea, I realize that this is what I
miss most about my Mom – how she is home to me. How as I raise my children and
think of how she raises me, I realize that what I hope most for is to instill
within my children a strong sense of home that is bound up in our love for one
another and our love for community. My hope is that home for Asher, Moss, and
Andrea feels synonymous with a bond to who Charlie and I are as their parents.
My prayer is that lessons we teach them, experiences we share, culture we build
up together, and personalities of each of us, become interwoven throughout
their childhood so deeply that they can carry it with them throughout their
lives.
And then, last October another lullaby snuck back into my
repertoire. It was a crisp autumn morning and Moss had stayed home sick. Andrea
was sleeping in her bassinet as Moss lay curled up in bed, looking diminished and
weary. I sat there, exhausted myself from a sleepless night, trying to dig deep
to find energy to comfort him. I toggled through a playlist, thinking that some
gentle songs, familiar songs might bolster his spirits. I landed on a random
Raffi mix and then nestled in next to Moss, wrapping him in a warmth and gently
stroking his sweet head.
All of a sudden, ’The Garden Song’
started playing; it instantly grabbed my attention, as my Mom used to play a
John Denver version on her guitar, but I hadn’t heard the song in over a
decade. In that moment – a memory flooded my senses, and I could immediately
feel myself sitting within the memory. I was a little girl, seated next to my
Mom as her fingers danced across the frets and she sang the simple melody. I
saw her – in the glow of her youth, strong arms and a steadfast smile, looking
down on me. The return to this moment felt peaceful and sacred, and I sat there
– holding Moss close as tears streamed down my check, feeling her presence
suddenly deep within my tired bones – and knowing that even though she wasn’t
physically present to help me as a young mother, that her love and spirit was imbued
so deeply into my being.
I also sat and thought of the lyrics of the song; while
my Mom never had much time for gardening, besides planting an occasional tomato
plant and seasonal annual planters in the yard, I listened to the words and
thought of her life’s work. I thought of how she had planted seeds in mine and
my brother’s life, in the lives of her friends, and especially in the lives of
her students. I thought of the rich and fertile ground – as so many that she
has nurtured are now raising their own children and volunteering to work with
other youth. I’ve imprinted the lyrics in my heart and mind, and now sing them
over my family daily as I think about my Mom’s legacy – and about how our most
important work is in the small, daily tending to that calling.
Beyond these songs, and the memories that have been bound
up in them, I’ve been thinking so often of my Mom and our relationship now that
I am raising my own daughter. A few weeks ago Andrea and I ventured out West for
a long weekend, to go hiking in Joshua Tree with my best friend. My whole
experience was permeated with my Mom’s presence, as I felt like I was walking
in her footsteps – echoing how she and her best friend had taken me out West at
a similarly young age.
In a
recent podcast episode, Jad Abumrad beautifully described how some memories
have a sense of rhyme – of taking you back to another place. So often these
past months, as I grow into a relationship with Andrea, and continue on my
journey as a young Mom, I find myself standing in the middle of rhyming
memories – memories of songs and experience that have bound me back to my own
Mom. As I think of her today and celebrate her birth, her fierce laugh, her adventurous
spirit, her stubborn determination, and her sacrificial love, I am grateful for
formative moments. I am grateful for the glimmer of early memories from when I
was a young child and she was a new mom, and for how those memories can rhyme
and reverberate throughout the lives of my children, Barb’s grandchildren.
