Bon Anniversaire, Maman

I'm sorry to admit it's been a long time since I have consciously remembered my mother. In part because I feel the loss of her more during those times, and none of us like to dwell on our losses...but partly because life carries on. There's always work to be done, children to be fed, laundry to be folded, and somehow memories get lost or fade in the shuffle of daily living...I'm sometimes afraid that I've forgotten more of her than I remember...but then I will find a picture or some other token and it all comes rushing back in a wonderful, comforting wave.

I was thinking about her last night. Today would have been her 56th birthday, aka "the high holy holiday!" In the past, the day would have been spent playing hooky from work and filled with a leisurely afternoon of lunch (or high tea) and wandering through shops and gardens before gathering for a family dinner. It was saddening to realize that it wasn't going to work out that way when I woke in the morning...

Feeling listless, I picked up one from a stack of her gardening books on my nightstand that I've been leafing through to gather ideas for our yard. I was thumbing idly through the pages, not really paying attention to what I was doing and I glanced over at picture of her on her last birthday. She is standing surrounded by a spray of pink roses wearing a red hat in honor of making it to 50 years. I've glanced at this picture many times in the six years since she passed, but for some reason I really stopped to just look at her for a while and soak in the details I've often passed over.

She had high, fine cheekbones and deep crinkles around her eyes from laughter and years of squinting in the sunshine while working on her garden. Her short dark brown hair was baby soft and still stick straight, despite her hopes that it would turn curly after multiple rounds of chemotherapy. Her hands aren't visible, but I remember the callused palms she kept soft and supple with generous amounts lavender-scented lotion. I remember the creases near the base of her neck that used to collect lines of dust from hours spent turning over the compost pile. And I remember the look in her eyes when she would listen to me talk about all the inane angst of my teenage years. They were open, clear, and without judgement--silently encouraging me to work through whatever the challenge was without fear of the outcome.

As I sat and mentally listed each precious detail, I realized what I was missing most at the moment was that silent encouragement I felt in her presence. Somehow in the past few years, I have become less optimistic about the future. It seems to be a place that breeds endless hardship and work more than possibilities and exciting opportunities...but I suddenly recalled looking into my mother's eyes...and I remembered that's not true at all. It wasn't the future that was bleak, it was me. When did I start fearing the outcome of the future enough to let it stop me from enjoying the present? Truthfully, I don't know.

I took one more long look, drinking in the background of the picture: the roses. Pink climbing roses. Vicious things with whip-like tendrils and masses of thorns that had inflicted more than their fair share of cuts and bruises when it was time to prune and train them up the latticework...but beautiful. With glorious sprays of fragrant blooms and glossy foliage. I think she would tell you they were worth the trouble. And if the roses weren't any less beautiful for the thorns; why should I feel my life was any less wonderful for the challenges in it?

My mom started giving me the same piece of advice over and over again in her last years, I didn't understand it then--and I certainly didn't appreciate it for what it was--but I hope I'm closer to understanding now. She would say "Be grateful for the hard times. That's how you know you're alive." It strikes me as very similar to a quote from The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: "Everything will be alright in the end. So if it is not yet alright, then it is not yet the end."

Thank you for the reminder, mom. Happy Birthday.

P.S. I found the courage to go back and read some of her blog today at work. (Perhaps not the wisest decision as I teared up and everyone keeps asking me if I'm okay--which anyone in my family can tell you will only makes us cry more--but I still don't regret doing it.) I found this entry written seven years ago today. I thought it was nice to "hear" her voice once more on her birthday.