mia madre... random musings for her day of birth...

My mother would have been 105 years old today. I think of her every day, like today. She was tough as fuck, with a heart more loyal and tender than I ever knew during her life. We shared a rough relationship. We shared a hard love with roots sunk deep into infinity. I used to say, “she’s so hard to love.” And at times, sweet goddess help me, she was. Now I say, “I’m so hard to love.” And, at times, I am. Assuredly so. There were some 4o years between us. This June will mark 11 years since her passing into the Big Mystery. I never (a word I rarely use) imagined that I would miss her as much as I do.

She could drive me to utter distraction. She knew my buttons and would press them relentlessly. And it didn’t bring out the best in me. And where I might have once blamed her for this, I now own it. But that’s another story for another day. I used to quip that we were like fine olive oil ‘n’ good wine vinegar: Hard to blend, but when we did, we were delicious.

She would likely have benefited from therapy ‘n’ medication. And the Work. As we aged together, we did some of the Work together… and it softened some of the edges, and enabled us to emulsify the best in both of us. And I’m so grateful for that.

I understand, now, that most - if not all - of her mental ‘n’ emotional peculiarities were born of her past, her herstory, the familial trauma born of the “meanness” that my uncle Chuck, her beloved baby brother, mentioned in ol’ school, typed correspondence to her. I recognize, too, that she had a singular tormentor throughout her adult life. A tormentor I knew, and still do - from a distance. A tormentor I recognized some 45 years ago when I placed distance between us. As much distance as I was able. It was a purely intuitive choice at that time, a decision born without conscious awareness. Conscious awareness I now claim. And I’m so grateful for that. And that’s yet another story for yet another day.

My mother, little Rita, as I called her in her later years, was a loyal keeper of a sacred contract. A covenant taken with her into that Big Mystery. And I love her more now for knowing that. Her tormentor is now my tormentor. Or so it seems. This tormentor is not a loyal keeper of anything sacred.

My mother could be so challenging to me that I would often say, “All I can do is love her.” And I did. I still do. And sadly, I now echo those words toward the tormentor; hers and mine. I don’t need to like the tormentor. I don’t need to forgive the tormentor. I don’t need to be around the tormentor. And I will not enable the tormentor. All I can do… is love her. From where I am. Reluctantly so.

My mother had an easy life. And a hard life. That’s often life. I’m grateful, in this moment, that she came to be mia madre, a loyal keeper of a sacred contract. A sacred contract that is my story. Was my story. Will be my story again. A sacred contract embezzled by the tormentor. A sacred story shattered to bits by the tormentor. A sacred agreement that I, with the support of the spirit of little Rita, will reclaim, repair, and make whole and holy once again.

Buon compleanno, mia madre. Ti voglio bene.

---

When I first started blogging back in 2004, the writing was for me, myself and I. I may need to reclaim some of that.

Peace. 🕊

Peace and the Power of Love - Blog4Peace

"Peace and the power of love" is this year's Blog4Peace theme and I could take this in so many directions, and it could take me in countless more, yet I shall do my best to ground, center and focus...

My first random thought was this: Peace can be hard. Manifesting and nurturing it takes effort and work. Love can be hard. Manifesting and nurturing it takes effort and work. This is my experience anyway... whether I'm nurturing these tender seeds in my own heart and my own life, in my family and tribe, or in my greater community and world.

I also thought: The words themselves have grown somewhat cliché. They're overused without conscious awareness, like so much of our contemporary communication. And then some. And then I chose to refocus.

And as I sat with this random thinking in the cool, morning sunshine, I guided my awareness into a space of deep quiet and focus. Some call this meditation. I asked that space, "what have been my greatest challenges with respect to this power?"

Here's one that surfaced: I loved my mother. Without doubt or question. And my mother could be very hard to love. There's power in that candid awareness. Regardless of her deeds, behaviors and words, I consistently chose to love her. It could feel obligatory at times, forced even, yet in my personal tenacity, I consistently chose to love her. Even at times when the cruelest of tortures seemed like they might be welcome options. And long stories short, I am glad for my stubbornness. Why? Because I was able to stay rooted to the love I felt, the love that resided deep in my heart flame, the love ~ with all its challenges ~ that I'm confident I invited when I entered this life. And it's in that love that peace resides. No matter how crazy I'd find myself feeling when listening to or interacting with my mother, I'd remind myself, "all you can do is love her." And it was in that truth that I'd feel peace rise up and spread through my body... it's from that truth that we, my mother and I, were able to nurture peace between us and love one another with greater awareness and appreciation. It's in that truth that I evolved to discover that, no matter how I feel about a situation or the actions and behaviors of an individual, all I can do is love.

You may "have" other options. I imagine I do too. And I admit it can be infuriating at times. But I choose love. And there's power in that choice. And the power nurtures peace.

Within and without.

Peace.

Bear Medicine

Last weekend I started an intuitive painting. You know, just puttin' paint to canvas without expectation. As I worked on (what are now) the background layers, a shape emerged, and it asked for attention. I honored it by giving the form some definition. What came through was Bear Medicine.

The practice of intuitive painting and drawing is common for me. It's a space to which I'm drawn. And there's a metaphor of Word. And it's an active space to which Nona Entropy has bound me.

All the same, it seems that lately it's taking a turn. A turn toward discipline, or ~ some might say ~ obsession. It's taken a turn toward expansion of meaning and healing too: Medicine. Thank you, Nona E.

In any event, I was perplexed by the emergence of Bear and have been sitting with the mystery of it all week. Today ... today I begin to see and feel inside the shadow of that mystery. To Bear witness. Today, my mother, Little Rita, would have been celebrating her birthday. This past week also held the birthday of my mother-in-law. And there it is: Bear Medicine. Or, at least an aspect of it. A place for me to sink a root or two ...  until I "finish" this latest work in progress, "Bear Medicine."

And I share this WIP with my artful friends at this week's Paint Party Friday ... and, as it turns out, with the tail end of February's Art Journal Journey!

Peace.

Time and Space for Beauty

That is all.

Peace.

A Gem of Gratitude

This morning's reflections reminded me that this Thanksgiving holiday is the *first* Thanksgiving holiday that I've not "had" to travel in … some 34-ish years.

In these reflections I recognize that I miss Little Rita, my mom, in my own way … and yet, I do not miss all the traveling (and upheaval) that that relationship fostered. I also recognize the lengths that us two-leggeds will go to for LoVe. We're foolishly amazing. Or amazingly foolish. It all depends on the moment, methinks.


In this acknowledgement of shadow and light I walked into today's reality and into the mirror of this holiday week with a new gem of gratitude to light the path. And what a shiny gem it is.

Peace.

Waiting in Randomness

Today is a day in-waiting for me. It's the kind of day one fills with randomness.

A few details were tended to this morning.
Clothes and other take alongs are organized for packing, which I'm putting off until I grasp a bit of understanding as to why I'm putting it off.
I had a nice thank you card, but I can't find it now. I guess I'll have to pick up another.
I tidied a bit, even collected a little dust, but there's still plenty of it, and dog hair too, to help my weekend angel feel comfortable. That's my story and, yeah, I'm stickin' with it.
Lunch take-alongs for tomorrow are thought through. I think. Some are prepared and ready for the cooler.
I'll be making some flat bread shortly for the travels.
I have kale to cook.
And broccoli  to harvest.
Files holding papers that might be handy when meeting with the attorney are packed and ready for the ride.
Directions are reviewed, documented even. Even for the places I know, and know well. And if I think about it, I know them all.
The less thinking I have to do over these next few days, the better. I'll be more able to keep myself present, in the moment, as a witness to the Eternal Now.
Ashes, Mass, reception and the assorted details are in place.
The cars are gassed up.
All I need to do now is unwind my mind, enjoy some of this glorious afternoon, and later, get a good night's rest.

Tomorrow is the travel.
Saturday is the Memorial Mass.
Today is a day for my mind to wander, with absolute randomness, as I await this closing bell.

Peace.

A Prepositional Rest and Refinery

These past several days have become a blur of reflection and action. The weekend, as folks call it, seemed to fill and flow with the ugliest of memories, the memories so deeply buried beneath the shadows that they are almost forgotten. And I'll tell ya, I don't care what anybody says, these menacing places-n-spaces are the mines of Love Most Infinite. These are the places-n-spaces that are most challenging to face candidly, and yet when faced with conscious awareness and with the un-judging eye of The Witness, they yield forgiveness, compassion, grace, the essence of humanity with all its flawed perfection … it yields what Love is made of.

And that sentence needed to end in a preposition.

Monday coalesced with the confirmation of the date for Little Rita's Memorial Mass. This was followed by hours of phone calls and various plans and decisions and assorted activities of contemporary convention as well as personal need. More came together yesterday and again today, and I can feel this chapter preparing for closure.

As my dear friend Kate said to me on the first day of July, "I hate doin' grown-up shit …" and I laughed. I laughed because we're both, from my view, very adept at the "grown-up shit" when we need to be, and equally skilled in pure play and assorted merrymaking.

And I'm juicy-ripe for some play and merrymaking. Alas, the time is not ripe for me … yet. But I can feel it coming in the next chapter. And I look forward to it.

So, I suppose, my life in this moment (and in the coming days) is akin to a dangling preposition, complete in the moment, making sense, acceptable to many, yet feeling a need for refining.

Had to do that, too, just for the merrymaking factor, such as it is.

Yeah. OK. I'll sit with that and see what I can do to manifest refinement in the chapters ahead.



PS   I read what I've written and I'm sensing that the next chapter shall be rich in rest. Yeah. Refinement after rest. I can dig it.

Peace.

Kinship

This past week has swelled to overflow with love. Love that arrives in the form of reconciliation and forgiveness, friendship and healing, busyness and stillness, sun and moon, glow and reflection, light and shadow.

I feel blessed.

And feeling these blessings with the heightened awareness to which I seem to be rooted only adds to the intensity. And, taxing though it may feel at moments, I am grateful for that fervency.

There is still much that is unresolved in my present state, yet I feel comfortable, at peace and comforted by this moment of chaos. Another blessing for which I feel grateful.

Today I feel akin to the elderflowers on my little acre, swelling from bud to blossom, sweetness and healing in the moment, with a phase of fruiting not far off.

Peace.

A Shared Appreciation

Today would have been the day that Little Rita moved to Connecticut. It's quite surreal to me, sitting with this prospect, this unrealized adventure. And surreal fits. Like a 1950's kid glove.

And kid glove, somehow, fits too.

I found several pairs when clearing out her bureau.

I found some gorgeous pieces of clothing too, many perfectly preserved, that hadn't been worn in decades.

Rita truly loved dressing up, especially for formal events. This is something that we did not share. Yet, dressing up for such events often yields the possibility of glimpsing handsome young men in their finery, looking their best. Rita always, even at 95, had an eye and an appreciation for a good-lookin' young man. This is something we did share.

Peace.

A Bouquet of Fondness

Rita loved springtime. I recall taking rides with her to witness the earliest blooms of the season, cultivated and wild. In Delaware, she loved her azaleas and rhododendrons. In New York, it was the daffodils and peonies that delighted her after the snow melted. I planted both. She loved the wildflowers, too, and would create grand arrangements with her pickings … a perfect blend of formal and wild. She had a knack.

There were always flowers somewhere in her dwelling, it seems. She kept altars with photos, prayer cards, figurines, candles and almost always a bloom of something to honor the lives of those for whom she prayed.

The first condolence card I opened was from one of my spouse's co-workers. It was a Mass card offering blessings of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, the "Little Flower." How fitting this felt. 

For Little Rita … and for me.

While the two of us did not see I eye-to-eye in matters religious, we did share so much in matters spiritual. Taking those rides together to witness the blossoms, pausing at harbor's edge to watch boats come and go as the sun set, sitting on the boardwalk gazing at the horizon and witnessing the waves break against the sandy shore … these are just a few memories that conjure those special moments when we would speculate together on the Big Mysteries of life. 

These moments are memories I hold with grand fondness.

The last photograph I took of her was on mother's day and she had a flower in her hair. I put it there. And it's no accident.

Peace.

Tenacious Admiration

I look at the week that lies before me, as I routinely do on Sunday mornings. I see it empty of all things personal and work-related. Even the mom-tasks that once filled the spaces to overflow are gone. You see, this was the week that mom's furniture and personal belongings were to be moved to her new apartment in a beautiful assisted living community near to me. This was the week that I would have had her room set up, a new recliner delivered, the week I would have personally handled all the finishing touches of her new home, the week she would have moved in.

But—hey, things change. And that is at it should be.

Rita claimed to dislike change, and yet she was a master of facilitating it. Right up to the end.

On Monday I had confirmed all that needed confirmation for her assisted living apartment and the care she would need. I's were dotted, t's were crossed, checks signed and handed over. I even saw the view from her windows and thought how she would like it, how it might remind her of her long-time home in Delaware. Early Wednesday morning I firmed up all the moving arrangements and was getting ready to complete the plans for a comfy medical transport for her … when I got the call.

Plans were cancelled and new plans put in their place. I smiled as I whispered to myself, "another exercise in futility." I laughed as I recalled countless times she asked me to do this-r-that for her, only to to have her undo my efforts through changing her mind or saying, "I'll do it myself."

She was one independent lady. Fiercely so. Right up to the end.

I have to admit that I always admired her independent spirit, even when it frustrated me beyond reason. She was a woman of principle, even when the principles for which she fought didn't fit the reality of the situation. Even when her principles did not mirror my own. She was tenacious. So much so that, on occasion, she would wear one down to give in, toss aside protocol, defy rules in order to bend reality to meet her principles, her reality. This behavior often felt like wasted effort to me, especially as she got older, but ~ bless her willful little heart ~ she rarely gave up. Right up to the end.

Ya gotta admire that.

And I have to admit that there's a good bit of this tenacity in me too. I hope it lasts. Right up to the end.

Peace.

A Rambling Reciprocation

This mother-daughter relationship I'm exploring is, as I've already suggested, a multi-faceted gem. Rita may have posed formidable challenges to me, but when I'm candid with myself, I can't deny that I gave as good as I got.

I'm quite certain that I came into this life with a well seasoned will, complete and intact. And I thank the gods for that.


My mom would often tell me how much she loved dressing me up when I was little. I mean, she loved dressing up, and was one of those ladies who always looked her best before leaving the house. Even at 95 she would want to be properly dressed, made up, hair done, and nails polished before heading to a doctor's appointment … or to just go for a ride to see the lake. I, on the other hand, have always been willing to run out "as is," most often jeans and t-shirt or tank. This not only perplexed her, but frustrated her to occasional anger.

I can't tell you how many times I heard her ask, "Are you wearing that?"

When I was little she would dress me up in adorable fashions of the day. I wore a pretty dress, lacy socks and patent leather mary-janes to my first day of Nursery School. When my mom came to pick me up she asked the teacher how I did that day, and the response was that I did just fine, and that it would be best to dress me more casual for the play that was typical of Nursery School. She would laugh about that, but inevitably return to how much she loved dressing me "like a doll."

She would recall times that she dressed me for some occasion or another and how I would quickly, if not eagle-watched, get dirty and hopelessly wrinkled before said occasion ever had a chance to commence. She would reminisce about my Nono cleaning ink stains out of an outfit after I climbed onto a desk, complete with inkwell, to have a little unguarded fun. There's photos of me somewhere covered in that ink - clothes and body. There's photos of me, too, looking stiff as a statue and more than a little fearful of wrinkling whatever I was wearing.

Every prom I attended in high school involved a hat and gloves. Ugh. It was the '70s, man, and no one wore those things anymore. I'd comply, stand for the photos, and quickly loose the trappings when out of sight. If anyone caught me in photo without them, there'd be hell to pay.

She was a strict disciplinarian, make no mistake, and in my teenage years I learned to navigate her rules with exceptional savvy. My curfews growing up were skewed when compared to my contemporaries. I can still hear my daddy saying, "Oh, Reeter, let her go." He was my champion and after he died, it came down to our two hard heads bashing, time and again. And as a proper nemesis, she generally had the upper hand. Of course, the risk of retribution rarely kept me from challenging her, from staying out past curfew, and I know that many of my teenage choices drove her to the rim of madness.

I lived with my spouse for ten years before we married and this displeased her - greatly. I heard about her displeasure and my transgression(s) frequently. When we married, the marriage was done on the sly, so to speak, with Rita receiving notification after the fact. There was hell to pay, but I was confident then (as I am to this day) that it was more than a fair trade-off to avoid her dictates for a "proper" wedding.

Rita was beside herself when I left the corporate world. She argued with a passion that this was a big mistake. She did her best to instill fear of perceived consequences, and grew increasingly frustrated when her arguments slid off and away from me sans impact.

I know I drove her crazy. Probably more than I will ever imagine.


And to this day … no matter what anyone may dish out … I'll be able take it … and return it with a curve they'll never see coming.

How, in the name of all that is sacred, could I not thank her for her contributions to this particular skill?

Peace.

A Sanctuary in the Loving Darkness

Most anyone who knows me knows that my relationship with my mom was one of many, many facets. Facets that shimmer in the warming light of noon at midsummer, and those that are perpetually turned toward the darkness of shadow, never sparkling, yet holding the promise.

Of all of the relationships in my life, this one with my mom has been my biggest challenge. And mightiest teacher. And lets be clear, I have a spouse of 35-years, so we're not talkin' anything lightweight.

I was two years old when my folks adopted me. I was a willful toddler that my mom was set on indoctrinating. She might say mothering, but I don't. And I convey that with a loving smile. She would likely call it a smirk.

Rita frequently shared the story of my early days with her and my daddy. They hadn't had me long when one day she put me down for a nap. She walked down the street to visit a friend for afternoon tea, which was a routine of hers. When her friend asked, "Where's Rosemary?"she was like, oh my god, I forgot all about her. She would laugh at the retelling, and so would I. There was darkness in the humor, and if you know me at all, you know that dark humor tends to be a favored flavor.

In more recent years she moved to New York state, from Delaware, where I (for the most part) grew up. I had searched for condos (as I had in the past) in Connecticut, where I live, but she settled on New York. When folks would ask her why she moved to New York she would consistently reply, "Because I have family there." Now bear in mind that I'm an only child. The first time or two I heard this response it sliced into me. Yet over the years I learned to not take it personal, to accept Little Rita for who and what she was, and not try to fit her into any mold of my own making. All the same, less than a year ago we were visiting one of her docs, who knew I was her only child, who consistently engaged her in conversation about living alone at her age, about assisted living, about moving closer to me. He asked her why she had moved to New York state. When she responded with her patent reply he shot me a look of such wonder, compassion and empathy, that I felt the old scar stir. It took such strength of will in that moment not to collapse into a puddle of tears.

Don't get me wrong. She loved me. And I know she loved me.

I've often called her my nemesis. Mostly to myself, but also to a few special folks who not only have a feel for our relationship, but also for the truest meaning of this all-too-often misunderstood word. As my nemesis, she was a formidable challenger, a masterful teacher, one who matured to wise elder with infinite Wisdom to share, whether she knew it or not.

We live in times that prefer to demonize the darkness, to shun the shadows. We're taught to run away from them, fear them, hide from them, lash out at them … but I say go into them, for there you will discover Love in its truest form.

Peace.

Time to Mourn and Celebrate

Today began the first full day of my earthly journey without the physical presence of my mother somewhere "nearby." Yesterday she passed into the big mystery, as I like to say.

I find myself wafting between moments of utility, memory, smiles, occasional laughter and tearful floods. It feels as if a plug has been pulled somewhere within my being, and that some part of me is draining out. Like the hole that my mother's passing has left for me, I wonder what will fill these spaces.

In the meantime I honor my grief, mourn my loss, celebrate her life … a life that was integral to mine and to shaping me into the being I am ~ right here in this moment.

I offer infinite gratitude for our relationship, for this brave and tenacious woman was strong enough to take on my spirit. I've often said, especially in her later years, that she may have only been as big as your little finger, but she was giant force of power.

She had to be.

She was my mother.

Peace.