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Saturday, Nov 7, 2009
the greatest thing my mom taught me was empathy...it is something that children have a capacity for, but i think that empathy vessel is never filled without being modeled, without the example of seeing it in the family. and even one as atypical and disfunctional as ours was in so many ways.
she had a naïve ability to only see the good in people till they proved otherwise, not polyannish, but a choice.
so the ability to place yourself in someone else's shoes, and transubstantiate their pain and discomfort, is a gift. and though i'll never be as good at it as she was, it has, to my ontological relief, provided a basis for my lifelong progressive and democratic pursuits.
my mom was not brilliant in intellect, she was a bestower of gifts, though, to the five children plus one lost that she raised alone, all alone, as an immigrant and compoundingly alone.
may she rest in peace. i love you mom.
Thank you, Garrison. I sent it to my little criminals and also the big one. And I light a yellow candle most evenings for my mother. But by just writing it...and my reading it (and, btw, I did produce on Broadway while mopping up and pouring Listerine), you offer me grace.
yes, the little criminals should get this, and I especially like the challenge, notwithstanding, they were Godiva chocolates.
Sonnette (sp?) indeed. Okay, I am googling for exact definition. I did need to fill my time.
Nobody should be this creative. It discourages us mortals.
Thank you for reminding me. I recently forgot my mom's birthday. I called her a week later, simply to call and say "hi." We chatted amicably, as sons tend to do with their moms, and then she dropped the bomb.
"You forgot my birthday."
In my head was the sound of an ellipsis. There was nothing I could say. I couldn't even remember the actual date. To top off the humility of forgetting my own mom's birthday, she pointed out that my brother, too, had failed to call her on the day.
So I will faithfully write her a sonnet, and hearken back to my days of debauchery, as my brethren and I raged beneath the full moon in an open field, drinking as much alcohol as possible, and she showed up unannounced with homemade cheese sandwiches.
My friend, a devout carnivore, ate the simple sandwich, which consisted of nothing more than a slice of cheddar cheese, a leaf of lettuce, a slice of tomato, and some dijon mustard, perfectly applied on two hearty slices of wheatberry.
"This is the best sandwich I've ever eaten," he said, wide-eyed and staggering.
I looked over at her as she got into her car, and told her that even though I was drunk, I loved her, and meant it.
"I know you do," she said, "but it's still good to hear you say it."
A lovely piece, as usual, by Mr. Keillor. But he has rather hamstrung his budding sonneteers by providing them with a first line that doesn't scan. Since most mothers have picked up, among the vast array of skills that motherhood requires, the ability to count up to 10 ("You've done what? Wait now, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 - there, there, dear, mother will sort it out."), they really aren't going to be fooled. Can I suggest, as an alternative:
"I couldn't count to ten, so here's these chocs"
This was so funny I decided to send it to my mom. If I can come up with a sonnet, I might send that as well.
Your column is just so right on ... I thank you for your words, as a single mother, a tired middle aged lady, an OB nurse, and finally, midwifery student (after enduring years of torment and despair and pennilessness from raising my hellions); I witness the miracle of birth and the transformation of girls and women into mothers daily. I let some of them in on the secret: pain of childbirth is transient and goes away. Just wait until they are teenagers. There are no psychic epidurals for that, except the drink in hand or toke.
-- Bitch Nurse, hopefully Bitch Midwife one of these #$&*% years
I'm sending this to my Little Criminal (who is now a cop, so I suppose I got him on the right end of the gun) and I'm writing a sonnet to my own mother (who will be 95, and put up with my youthful foray into show biz).
Salon Wednesday
I look for Keillor his words
Make clouds of my eyes
I'm 48 years old, childless by choice, although a "mother" to 2 geriatric cats. I don't know what it's like to be up all night with a sick child, or to help another woman bring life to this world, but I am so grateful for people such as yourself. I take public transportation to and from work each day and I watch in awe of how patient parents are with their whiny, cranky kids. Forget the gurus - people like Jane Doe are the embodiment of compassion, humanity and make this world a softer place. Namaste.
Just wondering
"Should be working" should be jumping off a bridge. Methinks Dr. Freud could then pay him/her a posthumous visit in the great beyond and salve whatever deep wound must fester daily in his/her daily life. A pity indeed.
Why would someone want to take a lovely sentiment, and echoed by so many other contributors, and despoil it with venom? I shudder for the poor lot drawn by the mother of "should be working."
I still think I may write the sonnet and give it to her nevetheless. Thanks for a lovely, thought-provoking essay, Garrison. I've been feeling my way around the fringes of finally forgiving my mother for some pretty horendous parenting, and this may just be the final nudge I need. "My story has grown tiresome" even to me. And what better way to celebrate the day, as a mother myself? My mother's made great strides in her life, and yet for years, it's been difficult for me to let myself get closer to her. It's really time to let it all go and move forward. After all, our mothers are only growing older. How much longer will we have them around? Better to let them know now how much we value them, what they mean to us....
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