If I could do it all again,
I would—every blooming bit of it.
Every bout of pink eye,
every snotty nose, every
late night waking, every
single reading of Good Night Moon,
every fairy house, every
drive to every ballet class,
every singalong to the entire
soundtrack of Hamilton,
every wobble and stumble
and blunder and lapse
to arrive at this very moment
when we lie on her bed
in the dark and talk about
this miracle, this astonishing
life, and watch dumb videos
and curl into each other.
In every moment, a seed.
It surprises me now,
how beautiful the field.
Posts Tagged ‘mother’
The Night Before My Daughter’s 13th Birthday
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged choices, daughter, mother, parenting on July 14, 2021| Leave a Comment »
Recalibrating
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged mother, parenting, pillow on June 13, 2021| 2 Comments »
I would like to go inside your pillow, hear
your breath and know you are okay, catch
the tears you cry when no one else is looking.
Today, you told me you don’t want to be held,
but I still want to hold you—want to meet you
with gentleness, support. How many years
have I been the one to comfort you, the one
you would run to, the one who could make
things feel better with a kiss and a shhh
and slow rocking of our bodies.
A pillow wouldn’t take it personally
if you didn’t use it. A pillow wouldn’t wonder
what it did wrong or wrestle with letting you go.
I try to invite that softness into myself,
try to transform my woundedness into feathery
acceptance. There is some unlikely magic in this—
a downy inner quiet that doesn’t try to fix anything,
that is content with being soft. And nothing changes,
and everything changes, oh terrible surrender,
oh beautiful tenderness that appears inside this loss.
May 19, 2021
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Corona Virus, daily life, daughter, mother, quiet on May 19, 2021| 6 Comments »
Will I remember this day with its greening of grass,
its blooming of apple blossom, its stilling of pond?
Will I remember the sweetness of my daughter
not leaving the house for school on a Wednesday
because her classes are all online? Will I remember
how she comes to snuggle on the couch during lunch
and pinches my cheeks and teases me about my ugly feet?
Will I remember the terrible yellow sticky casings
of the cottonwood seeds, how they glue to the hood
of my car that rarely moves from the drive? Or
the lavender in the garden that always looks
grey and dead before it erupts into fragrant life?
Perhaps there is some wave of presence
that will carry such stillness forward, a current
of quiet, a tide of tenderness that will insist
on itself for years to come. How forgettable
it all is—and how cherished—this swooping of swallows,
this opening of iris. How necessary, this holding
my daughter while the dark pool of night curls around us,
this cradling each other as we say nothing at all.
Love, Like Mint
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, love, mint, mother, parenting on May 10, 2021| Leave a Comment »
Of course I knew the mint
would take over the pansy garden—
I planted it anyway.
Now the garden is overrun
with thick ropes of roots
and there’s mint in everything—
the garden, the lawn,
my hands. Even if I tried
to pull it all out, it would return
with its cool, bright scent of resilience.
It is, perhaps, similar to the way
a mother thinks she knows
just how deep the roots of love
will go. But I, I had no idea
how, despite drought, despite
poor soil, love’s runners
would spread through every
inch of my life, untameable,
and just when I might think it gone,
new sprouts erupt
fragrant and green,
sweet and fresh,
everywhere, everywhere.
Evolution
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, driving, evolution, mother, parenting on January 31, 2021| 6 Comments »
We drove seven hours,
and half the time it snowed
so I kept my eyes fixed
to the slushy road, but
there was the moment
when I looked at my girl
in the passenger seat
and fell in love in an instant
and stroked her hair
and she, catching my gaze,
offered me her open hand—
for this the first tetrapods evolved
in shallow and swampy freshwater,
for this the ichthyostega formed
arms and finger bones,
and for this, though it took
thirty-million years
of primate and homo sapien change,
for this we learned how to smile.
Because
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged consequences, daughter, mother on November 15, 2020| 2 Comments »
for my mother
Because you are the morning song,
I sing dawn into the sleepy room.
Because you are a prayer,
I have psalms for hands, vespers for feet,
and there is holiness in the spatula,
devotion in the chair,
faith in sirens, in old vases.
If there are cranberries in my thoughts,
it is because you are the sugar
that taught them not to be afraid
of their own sharpness.
And the white and red petunias
that flutter inside my hope
are there because you planted them
decades ago.
I didn’t know all these years
that I was being made—
but because you are the abacus
I am the calculus of possibility.
Because you are the basket
I’ve learned to weave.
Floating Feeling
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, meteor, mother, night, shooting stars, son, stars on August 14, 2020| 2 Comments »
I had imagined we’d see dozens of meteors
streaming across the sky, streaking,
flaming, impossibly bright.
Instead, I lay on the driveway
between my son and daughter
and we stared into the night,
laughing and singing and listening
to the sound of the earth turning,
the pavement hard beneath us—
and above us, the whole
starry firmament unfolding.
Not one shooting star did we see, no, but oh,
how the milky way swirled all around us,
our eyes wide open, my heart soaring, swarming,
a small piece of matter burning up,
glowing, impossibly bright,
never quite touching the earth.
Helping My Parents Move
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, housework, kitchen, love, mother on June 29, 2020| 5 Comments »
At seven, I sat on a towel in front of the freezer
with the blow dryer, a sponge and a bucket
to earn money for a new plastic recorder.
Oh, how I wanted that reward.
So for hours, I switched the blow dryer
from one hand to the other, inwardly fussy,
wishing mom would just buy it for me.
How enormous the task seemed then.
When that brown recorder
finally came in a beige vinyl pouch,
I played “Hot Cross Buns” like I meant it.
I blew “Ode to Joy” in bright torture through the house,
and mangled “Mary Had a Little Lamb,”
but oh was I happy.
Now, scrubbing my parent’s refrigerator
I see how the tables have turned,
how the work becomes its own reward.
Decades of my parent’s love and sacrifice
bring me to this moment, when,
kneeling in front of the fridge,
sponge in hand, bucket beside me,
I feel like the luckiest woman alive,
Mom going through the cupboards beside me,
humming “Love is Blue,” perhaps a little out tune,
but oh, she is happy, so happy.
The Annual Mother’s Day Project
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, garden, growth, mother, mother's day on May 11, 2020| 4 Comments »
My daughter plants nasturtium seeds,
two per hole, four inches apart.
Meanwhile, two rows away, I drop carrot seeds
four to the inch, into the soft dark soil.
Oh, the secrets of dirt, this kingdom
of earth with its cool and damp quiet—
how quickly its finite borders pull me
into the infinite. What joy to travel here
with my girl, though she is a hesitant traveler.
One could say the main thing we did today
was measuring—how deep, how many seeds,
how far apart. Perhaps. When we finish, it will look
the same as when we began. But
I look at my daughter across the rows,
humming with her hands in the dirt
and I see already in her the fiery petals,
the peltate leaves like green flags
that know how to play with the wind.
What Stays With Us
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, love, mother on May 9, 2020| Leave a Comment »
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!
I was five, perhaps,
when my mother and I
would sing duets
in the nursing home,
and though I can’t recall
what I ate for dinner
two nights ago,
I still recall the lyrics
to our song.
Funny what sticks
with us through the years—
like a goofy song
about zebras and penguins,
like the zig zag of the piping
on the dress I wore,
like the certainty
I feel even now
that I was totally loved.
Quarantine
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Corona Virus, love, mother, quarantine, son, touch on March 18, 2020| 2 Comments »
This morning, my teenage boy and I
sit quiet on the couch. He does not move
to pick up his phone. I do not rise to work
or rush to make a meal. We sit, leaning
the trunks of our bodies into each other.
We do not say much. I close my eyes
and cherish his sapling weight.
There are so few people I dare now hug—
our hands, our bodies dangerous—
but here in this house so still I can almost
hear him growing, here in these minutes
that fell off the clock, here I remember
how surely we baptize each other with touch.
Such simple blessing. Silence. The metronome
of breath. The leaning in. Infectious love.
The Day after International Women’s Day I Think of My Mother
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, equality, international women's day, mother, women on March 9, 2020| Leave a Comment »
My mother did not forge tech innovation,
didn’t win Olympic medals, didn’t write
a textbook on equal rights.
But she did run for office. And won.
She coached the soccer team so girls could play.
At church, she led the people from the pew.
And she started a company so my father
could leave his job. I don’t think
she thought of herself as an activist.
She’ll be surprised, perhaps, I see her this way—
as a leader, a role model, an example
of a gender equal world. Because of her,
I never felt less than. Because of her,
I could see myself as doctor, poet,
model, president. Because of her,
I know how to scratch my children’s heads
each night before sleep. How
to make up a song when life is too much.
How to cry for beauty and love.
How to notice and praise
what is right with the world.
Hoping His Eventually Comes Soon
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged heartache, mother, scent, son on February 2, 2020| 6 Comments »
Allspice. Basil. Bay. Caraway. There were mornings
my boy and I spent on the floor pulling herbs and spices
from the drawer. We’d open the jars and close our eyes
and gently sniff. Cardamom. Cilantro. Cinnamon. Dill.
I took out the cayenne and red pepper flakes
and put them up high on an uppermost shelf.
Some agonies are easy to prevent.
We focused on Fennel. Fenugreek. Mint.
Today, he comes home having breathed in deeply
the scent of heartbreak, a jar I would have hidden if I could,
but all of us know it eventually, feel the burn, the inner sear.
Beyond safety, thyme, turmeric, there is fire, and once inhaled,
it hurts everywhere. Eventually we respect the heat as a gift.
Eventually the heart learns to walk through it.
I’m Thinking of an Ornament
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Christmas, mom, mother, parenting, poem, poetry, questions on December 16, 2019| 2 Comments »
The rules are simple. One person chooses
an ornament on the tree. The others ask
yes/no questions until they guess it correctly.
It was my mother who taught me.
I taught my own children. It’s a ritual
as important as the tree itself. Is it red?
Is it round? Is it cloth? Handmade?
So many questions we never can answer.
So many questions elude yes or no. But here,
in the soft glow of Christmas tree lights,
we share moments when every question
leads us closer to a treasure, where
the moments are treasures themselves.
Beside the River with My Daughter
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, fairies, mother, poem, poetry, purpose, river, rocks on November 17, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Hundreds of smooth red stones—
we gathered them that summer
and spent days carefully laying them out
into a wide and winding red path.
It had no real starting point, no destination.
We tucked white daisies between the rocks.
We said it was for the fairies.
I wouldn’t have said it then, in fact,
I hesitate today to say we didn’t believe in them.
They gave us so much purpose.
Even now, I’m following that path.
Still Learning About My Mother
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, humanness, mother, parenting, poem, poetry, strength on November 3, 2019| 4 Comments »
It surprises me she is fragile,
this woman who labored for eighteen hours
to birth me, this woman who cared for me
every time I was sick, who coached
my soccer team, who led my Girl Scout troupe.
This woman who went hunting and fishing
and still often comes home with the biggest
catch. This woman who walked ten miles
to raise money for hunger. This woman
who prays for everyone, everyone.
And so tonight when I walk her
to her room and she needs to stop
a moment to catch her breath,
I marvel at how human she is,
this woman who has been more
than human to me my whole life—
a super hero, a champion, a star.
And somehow, knowing this, and
understanding that it’s been true all along,
I fall even more deeply in love with her
as she leans back on the bed, lets out
a long sigh, closes her eyes, and smiles.
Making Choux Pastry for Eclairs with My Daughter
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cooking, daughter, kitchen, love, mother, parenting, poem, poetry on August 31, 2019| 2 Comments »
First, you must weigh everything.
Precisely. The butter. The water.
The sugar, the salt. You must
catch the mixture just as it boils,
then add the flour, sifted and weighed.
You must set the timer to dry the dough,
must add the eggs slowly, must not
let it be too dry, too wet.
There’s more, my friends. The angle
of the pastry sleeve, must be 45 degrees.
You need to use the French star tip.
And then, you must not open the oven
lest the steam escapes and the eclairs
don’t crust. So many musts. So many dos.
And still they don’t always turn out.
It is not at all the way I love you. Though
sometimes I’ve tried to find the recipe.
Though sometimes I’ve wished it
were as easy as measuring well and using
a timer. I have wanted to do it right.
I have studiously wanted to make yours the best life.
But the only way to be a good lover
is to love. It has nothing to do
with following directions. Has
everything to do with the doing.
Like making choux pastry dough
together. Taking turns at the stove.
Reading the directions out loud to each other,
four times. And then watching the dough,
astonished as it goes from slimy to smooth
to something sturdy that shines.
Floral Rx
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, flowers, help, helplessness, medicine, mother, poem, poetry on July 23, 2019| 5 Comments »
Because I cannot fix her heart,
I plant flowers in the two empty pots
on my mother’s high rise patio.
She’s always loved flowers around the house—
peonies and petunias in Wisconsin,
succulents and larkspur in Colorado.
She taught me when I was a girl
how to deadhead the plants
to produce more blooms,
how to make the snapdragon
open its reptilian mouth, how
to tell the story of Cinderella
by carefully dissecting the bleeding heart,
how to make touch me nots spit their seeds,
and how a few flowers around the home
bring immeasurable joy. And so
I pick out white and blue lobelia and
a soft gray vine and a hot pink begonia
and other flowers and vines I can’t name
and we sit on her patio together
in the late afternoon sun
and arrange the potted plants.
There is something about planting flowers
together that changes the way
you see the flowers—the same way
a soup tastes better when made
by someone who loves you—
and I thrill to think of her
looking out the window and seeing
the bright red geraniums surrounded
by purples and blues and greens
and thinking to herself, wow,
that girl really loves me, and
surely, surely, though it won’t
fix her heart, surely it will do some good,
those draping pink petunias
so familiar, so new.
In the Northwestern Hospital ICU
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, father, hospital, icu, love, mother, parents, poem, poetry on July 21, 2019| 4 Comments »
And as my mother steeped toward slumber,
her thin body wired to monitors,
there, surrounded by incessant beeping
and the red and green mountains and valleys
of pulse and pressure and the slow drip
of IV tubes finding her veins, yes,
there as her speech became mumbly and her
eye lids heavied, my father leaned over
the rails of the hospital bed to smooth
her gray hair and kiss her lips and whisper
I love you. And she rallied a smile and
whispered it back. And there, in the sterile room,
with all its instruments of cardiac measurement,
there was nothing, nothing that could chart
how open my heart, how—unable to hold
all the love I felt for them both—it broke
in the most beautiful way. How I prayed
it would stay that open, that broken, that whole.
**
Dear friends, thank you for all your good wishes. After having a heart surgery go wrong a few days ago, my mother was released today from the ICU and is now resting at home, and though she is not out of the woods yet, she is not in imminent danger. It’s been very scary and I thank you for all your thoughtful messages and prayers and thoughts. Rosemerry
*
In the Airport
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged airport, kindness, mother, poem, poetry, strangers, tenderness, travel on July 20, 2019| 10 Comments »
I wonder who else today
in Concourse A
is traveling to see their mom
in the hospital, who else
has a parent with a surgery
gone wrong? Who else
could use some tenderness—
perhaps that woman in green
on the transporter? Or maybe
the young mother chasing her child
on the moving walkway? Or
the middle-aged man deliberating
over snacks? Today, it seems
so obvious that all of us
need some tenderness—
regardless our story.
And so when the man
in 31 C offers to lift my suitcase
and fit it somehow
into the overhead bin,
I almost weep with relief,
but instead I smile and say
Thank you, yes, I need help.
All day, I think of how
one small generosity changes
the landscape of the heart.
All day, I am met with chances
to be grateful, to be kind.