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Tea with my grandmother, to be specific...
That is what I want for my birthday, really. To have a nice cuppa and chat like we used to before I moved away. I miss her so much sometimes. The last time that I saw her was when she attended my cousin's wedding back in 2007. I can't believe that she's 87, because she's still fairly spry and so young at heart. She is the genealogist, the historian, the glue that holds our enormous family together. She has been my inspiration, especially when I feel impulsive or impatient. I think of her gentle patience and good humor, and try to channel a little bit of her compassion and soothing energy. She taught me so much more than gardening. We bonded over long walks in nature and hot cups of tea with biscuits. When I thought of running away during a really tough time at home, she let me spend the night with my sleeping bag, and in the morning sat me down and told me that my mother loves me very much, so much sometimes that it's difficult to see where I end and she begins. She let me in on a little secret: my mother and I were two sides of the same coin. Fire and Water. I was the woman that my mother would have been had she not been beaten by my father, had she been given the opportunity to shine, had she believed more in herself. Experiences shaped us and cast us in roles that we didn't want. Rebellious young woman. Sharp-tongued martyr. Neither one of us could see how much we were hurting each other, until my grandmother decided to intervene with fresh-baked breads and tea.
Through her eyes, I saw Mom in a different light, for which I'll always be thankful. My mom had given so much for us, and gladly, but that did not mean that it wasn't painful or that she did not have doubts. She'd had responsibility thrust upon her at an early age, and her life had been full of anger, pain, and unmet dreams. She had doubled her efforts into making sure that I never had to want, never had to fight for attention, never had my dreams crushed. She lived through my achievements, tried to give me the best opportunities at her own expense, and I never saw how much she'd sacrificed for me. Instead, I felt smothered and silenced, tired of going along with the status quo and trying to please her. We had both begun to resent the other, and had ceased really listening to each other. Mom and I both missed the closeness that we'd shared before high school.
Now that my daughter is almost thirteen, I can see echoes of mothers and daughters. I understand how you can love a person so much that their joys and defeats become your own. I can see the line blur between us at times, and have to remind myself that she is not me, that although we are of similar temperament, she wants different things than I want. I won't live through my daughter, but I will gladly cheer her on.
Anyway, I'm making my grandmother a rosary for her birthday. When I string each Hail Mary, I'll be thinking of each woman in my life and their influence on me, and for each Our Father, the men who kept me from hating or fearing all men. Although I am not Catholic, I was raised so, and sometimes the patterns and repetitions are soothing. Sometimes I want to look back on my time at Church and remember feeling filled with love and light, when things seemed simpler and purer. It wasn't God that I was running from, nor was it my mother... It was me.
That is what I want for my birthday, really. To have a nice cuppa and chat like we used to before I moved away. I miss her so much sometimes. The last time that I saw her was when she attended my cousin's wedding back in 2007. I can't believe that she's 87, because she's still fairly spry and so young at heart. She is the genealogist, the historian, the glue that holds our enormous family together. She has been my inspiration, especially when I feel impulsive or impatient. I think of her gentle patience and good humor, and try to channel a little bit of her compassion and soothing energy. She taught me so much more than gardening. We bonded over long walks in nature and hot cups of tea with biscuits. When I thought of running away during a really tough time at home, she let me spend the night with my sleeping bag, and in the morning sat me down and told me that my mother loves me very much, so much sometimes that it's difficult to see where I end and she begins. She let me in on a little secret: my mother and I were two sides of the same coin. Fire and Water. I was the woman that my mother would have been had she not been beaten by my father, had she been given the opportunity to shine, had she believed more in herself. Experiences shaped us and cast us in roles that we didn't want. Rebellious young woman. Sharp-tongued martyr. Neither one of us could see how much we were hurting each other, until my grandmother decided to intervene with fresh-baked breads and tea.
Through her eyes, I saw Mom in a different light, for which I'll always be thankful. My mom had given so much for us, and gladly, but that did not mean that it wasn't painful or that she did not have doubts. She'd had responsibility thrust upon her at an early age, and her life had been full of anger, pain, and unmet dreams. She had doubled her efforts into making sure that I never had to want, never had to fight for attention, never had my dreams crushed. She lived through my achievements, tried to give me the best opportunities at her own expense, and I never saw how much she'd sacrificed for me. Instead, I felt smothered and silenced, tired of going along with the status quo and trying to please her. We had both begun to resent the other, and had ceased really listening to each other. Mom and I both missed the closeness that we'd shared before high school.
Now that my daughter is almost thirteen, I can see echoes of mothers and daughters. I understand how you can love a person so much that their joys and defeats become your own. I can see the line blur between us at times, and have to remind myself that she is not me, that although we are of similar temperament, she wants different things than I want. I won't live through my daughter, but I will gladly cheer her on.
Anyway, I'm making my grandmother a rosary for her birthday. When I string each Hail Mary, I'll be thinking of each woman in my life and their influence on me, and for each Our Father, the men who kept me from hating or fearing all men. Although I am not Catholic, I was raised so, and sometimes the patterns and repetitions are soothing. Sometimes I want to look back on my time at Church and remember feeling filled with love and light, when things seemed simpler and purer. It wasn't God that I was running from, nor was it my mother... It was me.
