I haven't been thinking of my mom in a positive light over the past year. Maybe it's because I am struggling with my own inadequacies as a mother. Maybe it's because I've now surpassed my own mother's short 3 decades of life. Maybe it's because I know I will not be bearing anymore children, and am not pleased with the Satan-spewing hormones slapping me in the face and kicking me when I'm down. But last week as I dug in the dirt with bare hands, split and arranged perennials, and carefully selected and planted annuals, I happily thought of my mom.
Gardening just seems like something we would enjoy doing together, peacefully shaping a hole that would soon house a delicate flower. Neither of us talking, but just knowing the other is there, and then triumphantly standing back and admiring the beauty we accomplished together. I don't recall my mom gardening extensively, but I do remember marigolds in the front yard way before "curb appeal" and "garden design" existed. I also remember an abundance of house plants, mainly philodendrums and ferns. Nevertheless, I feel a connection with my mom as I work the soil and then each and every time I walk through the front door and am engulfed by my own little piece of heaven.
(It was really chilly this morning, so the blooms were not open, and much is still poking its way through soggy winter remnants.)
My sister loaned me her extra copy of Motherless Daughters. Apparently I read it years ago--even took notes and earmarked pages--and then I professed its greatness and gave it to my sister to read. I don't know how great a book can be if you don't even recall reading it, but seems like now's the time for me to read it again. Maybe I don't need to remember the words I read, but if the book helps give structure and peace to what is floating around in my head, I'll be happy enough.