Saturday, July 28, 2012

My Mother's Angels

As my mother entered her mid-eighties, she began feeling more dependent and anxious. She occasionally had trouble falling asleep at night, and worried she would miss taking her daily medications at the appropriate times. My sister lived nearby, and fielded many a late night telephone call. I unfortunately lived several states away. Between us we sisters decided to give my mother a regular, evening bedtime call. I offered to call Mom four times a week. While the intent of these calls was to try to give peace to my mother, it turned out that these calls strengthened the calm, loving bond growing between my mother and me during her last years.

We began with a long, drawn out, almost comic “good evening.” I could feel my mother smile as our phone ritual commenced. At first I asked about her day, but this often led to her ailment complaints or to describing the misbehaviors of other residents, i.e., daring to sit where my mother always sat in the dining room. I started twisting this question around so as to have my mother tell me about two positive happenings and I would do the same. Weather was always a favorite topic, with her Arizona sun being too strong and my Oregon sun too scarce. Slowly, though, as I listened to my mother's concerns about meeting her schedule or having energy to exercise, I sensed what my mother needed was not a physical make-over but a spiritual lift.

My angel meditations started quite unconsciously. Instead of simply wishing my mother a good night's rest, I remembered the sleep meditations I used to do for my daughter when she was young. These meditations involved fantasy dream gardens, moon light and special stars. For my sometimes lonely mother I sensed she would love a nightly companion like a comforting, gently rocking earth mother. For my traditional mother I knew giving her her own special angels would be the best bedtime gift.

At the end of each call our routine became for me to gather my mother's angels around her bed.

“What do these angels look like,” asked my mom.”

“They're colorfully dressed in blues and greens with shimmering silver wings.”

“What about purple? I love purple.”

“You're right, Mom. Some of the angels have purple and pink flowing gowns.”

These angels would then protectively flutter their wings above my mother's bed and sing her a soothing lullaby. My mother's angels always promised her a restful slumber and wonderful dreams. Later the angels accompanied my mother during her days, giving her a contented, compassionate glow to her daily experiences. After several months of our nightly ritual, I noticed a decided lifting of my mother's emotional mood. She now easily found several positive events to relate about her day. The love between us increased as our “I love yous” became more soulful and deep.

To aid in my mother's meditations, I sent a sweet angel sculpture for her night stand. For her 90th birthday I knew a necklace with a silver angel charm would be just the thing. My mother gushed with praise and gratitude when the necklace arrived: “Oh, Vicki, it's so beautiful, it's so perfect. It's my favorite necklace.”

My mother wore her special angel necklace every day until she passed. As I sat by my dying mother's bed, I sang her favorite Broadway show tunes and shared with her that the angels were present surrounding her bed one last time. And I swear I could actually feel the presence of these comforting souls with me there in the room.

The angel necklace became my treasured remembrance of our loving last years' conversations. I have it hanging on a favorite picture of my younger, smiling mother.

© 2012

Friday, July 20, 2012

A Rabbit Story

A few weeks ago I got to participate in a drumming and story circle with a Shoshone elder. This man, living on cooperatively owned land, gave me a tour of their projects: a totally solar bathroom, harnessing the creek water for garden irrigation and as a future power source, greenhouses and outside plots growing all their food. The rough-hewn, high ceiling lodge where we met felt beautifully placed and open to the surrounding, natural world. I sat on the couch scanning the posters, books and videos. The presence of a DVD player and a computer didn't correspond to my image of old world timelessness, but this did not really detract from the experience. I continued sitting quietly, and the huge ceremonial drum, placed at the center of the room, called out to me.

Wake up and listen!

I am an impatient soul, yearning to have my wisdom given in huge bites, but I discerned that, on this day, the clock had been stilled and I would have to let go. Scattered, small conversations about movies and technology, reasons for people's absences, the introduction of the elder's new companion from Germany and his recent European adventures flowed across the room. Brought here by a dear, Native friend, she bantered and joked while I continued to observe and tamp down my restlessness.

Wake up!

Without “beginning” in the traditional term of the word, I realized after several spoken sentences, that the elder was telling this Sunday's story.

Live without expectations!

I had expected a tale but what I got was a truth. Capturing a long ago personal, historic moment, the elder began remembering the time when as a child with his parents and other Native tribal members they decided to purchase their own Nevada land.

Slow down!

Disgusted with modern world's fast paced, oblivious, destructive nature, this tribe's vision was to try and live on Mother Earth in the older ways. The more I tuned into this elder's words, the more I realized he could easily be speaking about today's America. The elder's voice wove in and out as he described how a seemingly waterless land chose them, how they built structures and gardens, how they hauled in animals and eventually found water, fertility and abundance.

Question old ways!

The key to this story's treasure, however, were the rabbits. Previously, the tribe had raised hundreds of rabbits all kept in gigantic cages. Transporting these rabbits to the land was no easy feat, and once the farm was set up, the tribal members started questioning their own old ways. Why are the sheep free and the rabbits contained? Why is a desert landscape thought to be arid and dry and impotent? And perhaps the biggest question of them all: Is success connected to the amount of money and material goods accumulated or is there something buried beneath these cravings that needs sprouting?

Overcome habits before change can happen!

The tribe opened the rabbit cages, and at first the rabbits didn't move. How often are we bound by habit and live unawares? But slowly, the rabbits ventured forth and claimed their free place on the land. The elder's story threaded his wisdom into a colorful weaving: This Nevada experiment flourished for through the tribe's hard work a plenitude of food, meat, water and shelter and a plenitude of earthly care and human love were created.

Honor tradition and when necessary break with tradition!

As the story ended, my thoughts wandered to my own family's rabbit story. Our daughter's preschool rabbits had babies and we brought a black and white one home. We named her Licorice and at first we had her in a cage. As we couldn't stand curbing Licorice's freedom, we broke with pet tradition and set her free in our side garden. Creating a fence between Licorice and our dog, Lacey, we watched as Licorice slowly adapted her habitat to rabbit country. Burrows were dug under the deck, grass was munched and her wildness added frisky stubbornness to her character.

For the first few years of her life we brought Licorice inside to our laundry room every night. Then, especially in the summer, she refused to be herded inside. We called it bunny hockey: we used a broom and all three of us tried to escort her to the laundry room. Unfortunately, it soon became easier in the warm weather to allow her to remain outside. I say unfortunately, because she died a violent death via a visiting, opportunistic raccoon. My daughter wept deeply and we wondered why Licorice was unable to escape to her burrow. But we told ourselves she lived a more natural rabbit's life.

What this Native elder's story tells, as does our Licorice story, is that we have to be willing to try something new, no matter how ingrained we might be in old traditional methods. Sometimes these new ways added to honoring the old ways bring fulfillment as with the Natives' abundant crops and animal production; sometimes in breaking with tradition the fulfillment is a matter of perspective as with our dear Licorice living a shorter but happier wild rabbit's life.

Give gratitude!

I smiled inside as the elder and the circle members whispered “Ho!” I bowed in gratitude to the elder, feeling blessed by his insightful story. Then I leaned in towards the ceremonial drum and whispered my thank you.

© 2012

Friday, July 13, 2012

Connection

(written in 2005)

525,600 minutes, 525,600 moments so dear. 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year? . . . Measure in love. Seasons of love. Rent

When my daughter was four years old, I remember sitting with her in my inherited green cushioned maple rocking chair. She was comfortably folded in my lap, her head resting on my chest. We were reading one of her favorite children's books, The Clown of God. The house was whisper quiet and we both felt not only connected to the book we were reading, but to each other.

The early years of raising my daughter were sweet and endearing, full of tender affection. Our bond deeply embedded itself in my soul. Experienced mothers told me to treasure this bond. And I have. Experienced parents told me she would be a teenager before I could ever imagine it so. And this has become true. I am now the mother of a fifteen-year-old who, rising two inches above me, has more difficulty folding herself onto my lap...Not that this incredibly beautiful, auburn-haired, blue-eyed daughter would ever be caught dead being physically close to her mother.

During my daughter's twelfth and thirteenth year, I was in complete denial. I felt that we would always be close. I felt that we would never experience the distance often described between a mother and her teenager. I have been forced to eat my naïve words. Delighted by the infinite love I have felt for my child, I have also been frozen in sadness by the chasm that appears to have suddenly come between us. Slowly I would learn that the love and deep connection are there only in a less visible form.

About a month before the arrival at our performing arts center of the Broadway musical “Rent,” my daughter approached me about going to this play together. I knew little about this show's storyline, but my daughter's eagerness was all I needed to say yes. She already knew about its “mature” themes of Aids, homelessness, drug use, Gay issues and romance. I always trust my daughter's instincts so bought two tickets. When asked if she wanted to bring her dad or another friend, she strongly underscored she wanted it to be just her and I.

The excitement bubbled up weeks before our planned date. We extended the seeing of the musical to include dinner at a favorite restaurant. We looked up “Rent's” plot on the Internet and read reviews of the play in our local newspaper. I was so flattered by my daughter's attention in preparing for our outing that I would do almost anything to make it “perfect.”

Our “Rent” day came. We left early. Both my daughter and I love to climb the stairs to the second floor of the theater and people-watch before we enter a show. We stood scanning the crowds, observing quite a number of young people entering with their parents or friends. Our seats were in the upper balcony, but we had a clear, centered view of the stage. Having forgotten my reading glasses, my daughter read out loud the program's synopsis. As I leaned in towards her, I could see how happy she was. The play began.

The actors randomly appeared on stage in a scene that depicted “real life” slum tenement conditions and began singing the theme song, “Rent.” My daughter touched my arm. For the first part of the performance I felt a bit lost and the sound was distorted. I also quickly noted how adult this play would be and had a moment of regret. Had I done the right thing in bringing my fifteen year old to such a play? The sound eventually cleared, my understanding was less confused and the magic of this real life drama drew me in.

By the end of the first half of “Rent” I was so engrossed I hardly noticed the few tears staining my cheek. What I saw in “Rent” was the youth culture my daughter would soon be part of. At fifteen she already knows about isolation and bullying. She already knows about the pressure to conform and the pressure to be tempted by destructive habits. As a Lesbian teenager she is aware she is a minority and not like other girls. The outer culture does not always speak to my daughter, but this Broadway musical did.

The second half completely captured my mental and emotional attention. As both Gay and straight couples developed their relationships I knew as I have always known that love is universal and non-discriminating.

My daughter and I didn't say a word. We didn't have to. I could tell we were both feeling the anguish of the deaths of loved ones, the despair of poverty, and the need to creatively be oneself no matter what. The end came much too soon. The applause soared and filled the quiet theater with triumph. This play proved: Obstacles could be overcome; division could eventually bring unity; isolation could bring connection. As my daughter and I walked up the aisle to the exit, we linked arms.

Our stroll back to our car was slow and lingering. We discussed the play. “Did you like it?” my daughter asked in a pleading voice. I answered with a resounding yes. I was honest about having a hard time in the beginning, but how by the second half I absolutely loved it. We spoke about our favorite lyrics and our favorite scenes. We drove to the restaurant glazed in awe. Once at the restaurant, we gradually became the teen daughter and her mother out to dinner. We ordered fun foods like french fries and garden burgers. My daughter wrapped herself in her more self-conscious persona. She stared in front of her expecting me to talk and not her. I put on the cheery mom persona; the one that tries to keep the one sided conversation going. Our faces were full of smiles and nods.

I was determined to relax and accept my quiet daughter. Upon reaching our car, she said, “Let's drive around and listen to music.” As we fastened our seat belts and turned on the CD, Lucinda Williams began belting out the lyrics to her song, “Words Fell,” only I heard, “Words Fail.” How appropriate, I thought to myself. We started driving and I mentioned, “I know when you first get your driver's license, I can see you cruising around like this.”

“Let's drive past my old middle school,” my daughter suggested. We drove up the hill around small winding curves and up another long hill until we reached the school she had just left last year. “It seems so small,” she blurted out. I drove extra slow. I was remembering her first day of sixth grade and how huge this school had been appeared to her.

We continued driving up into the hills beyond her old school. I continued listening to Lucinda Williams not as though she were speaking about her lover, but as though she were speaking for me about the love I have for my daughter. This love is so strong and yet during these teenage years so indescribably painful. We kept driving and as we did, I bit my lip to keep from crying. I brought my eyes to the outside world. When I caught the glistening of autumn's reds, oranges and yellows, heard the music blaring from the car radio and felt the presence of this nearly grown daughter close beside me, my heart filled to bursting.

As we drove, I had a revelation. I knew our hearts were touching; I knew we didn't need words; I knew she would always be my daughter and I would always be her mother. This connection we feel is deeply rooted and will withstand the teenage storms. Couldn't I be with this daughter of mine in the present moment wherever she happens to be? It sound so simple, but somehow the older our children become the less this simplicity is remembered. I know my tears emerge more readily as I watch my teenager become a young woman. Mostly they are tears of joy and amazement at how competent and compassionate my daughter has become. But they are also selfish tears because I will truly miss her when she is gone.

© 2012

Friday, July 6, 2012

Raising Our Lesbian Daughter

(written in 2008) My high school senior daughter came home last weekend from her Integrated Outdoor Program desert camping trip bubbling over with excitement. In this class, she has enthusiastically biked, rock-climbed, bouldered, and learned orienteering/survivor skills. She grew up with most of these activities, but shifted them aside during adolescence. As we sat around the kitchen table, she proudly told of her bouldering adventure. “I was the only girl who reached the top,” and of her fearless navigation through the narrow passageways to the end of Boyd Cave: “At one point I had to crawl on my stomach to get to the next opening. When we turned off our flashlights, it was totally dark.”

I am in awe of my daughter. Though I came through a typical fifties childhood and then stepped into a sixties consciousness raising women's group, my daughter has from the get-go been herself. We live in a gender-specific world: girls are encouraged to demurely shrink from adventure and risk, be quiet and polite; boys are encouraged to be adventurous, loud, athletic and to be protective of girls.

I had my daughter at forty-two and believed her dad and I could bring her up in an “open” manner. From the moment of conception I dearly wanted a girl. I wanted to pass on my journals, my growing-up-female experiences, my love of women's literature. When at the moment of her arrival her dad held her up and said, “It's a girl...I think,” little did I know this small being would be the one to redefine for her parents the meaning of that word “girl.”

Today it's called gender neutral parenting. Logging onto the Internet, I find scores of blogs and articles trying to assist socially aware, determined parents in raising their boys and girls beyond the stereotypes. But when we brought our baby home in 1989, all we knew was we wanted her not to be defined by gender. While dressed in blue, I held her in my arms as we entered a concert hall elevator. “Oh what an adorable boy,” the woman on my left cooed. As I dressed my toddler in brown overalls, I realize now, I was simply shifting her to the “other gender.”

Dress has been notoriously gender specific. As a preschooler, my daughter only wanted to wear dresses and tights. She refused jeans until one day I said, “These will be easier to play on the playground with.” Once in pants, my daughter has rarely turned back.

With toys and television, social media and peers spurting their continual influence, we weren't certain how to begin raising a daughter. We had dolls, stuffed animals, cars and trains; we had music, stories and time for jungle gyms and hiking. Our daughter took ballet classes and rock climbing; she was on soccer teams and took art classes.

I remember one summer when we had gotten our daughter involved in Ukrainian folk dancing. She came to me one practice and asked, “Why do the boys get to do the fun things like jumping and kicking?” She had noticed the girls were twirling and turning and not moving a whole lot. If her mother were braver she would have asked for kicking and jumping privileges for the girls. But this would have broken with a cultural tradition.

As new parents we made concessions. We wanted our child to fit in. But soon we learned to see our daughter simply as who she was. Having been raised in an extremely gender specific world, I fell for some of the stereotypes: I made frilly dresses for Christmas and dollhouse dolls for the playroom. I loved when she wanted longer hair and played dress up with jewelry and scarves. But I also loved when the boys visiting our house wore dresses too, played with her dollhouse and had longer hair. What became important was taking away the limitations for either gender. Unconsciously I found myself expanding the definitions of love and relationships. Around four my daughter asked me about love. “What does it mean to love someone, Mommy?” Without hesitation the following words poured out of my mouth: “To love means you really care about someone and you want to be with them. You can grow up and love a man like I have with your daddy or you can grow up and love a woman.” At the time this answer seemed so natural. Little did I know how appropriate it would turn out to be. Shortly before my daughter's fourteenth birthday, she sat me down on our couch and told me, “Mom, I think I am a Lesbian.” Again without skipping a beat I replied, “You've chosen the right parents.”

My daughter's “Queer-Identification” has pushed me to the next level of gender understanding. She currently prefers the word Queer over Lesbian but ideally would like no label. She has pointed out to me on several occasions that she is more than her sexuality. Her so openly and stubbornly being who she is, has encouraged her father and me to be who we are.

Her father does the cooking and grocery shopping; I do the gardening and schedule organizing. He does maintenance. I do cleaning. It's a mish-mash, sometimes fitting the gender stereotype, sometimes not. Sharing how gender specific her parents' upbringings were also gives our daughter perspective and can be a positive teaching tool: I had to wear skirts to high school and the vice principal made girls kneel down in the hallway to assure these skirts were the appropriate length; her dad wanted to participate in high school team sports but he didn't have the “masculine skills” and body image.

Joining PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals, Intersex and Transgenders) assisted me further with my own “growing up process.” Immediately I met Annie and Anita, who have been partners for over twenty-five years; then I got to know Robert and Scott, who also have been together nearly thirty years. Slowly I began to see that my Queer daughter could like her heterosexual classmates have it all: love, marriage and family. As a PFLAG mother I have come to understand that the LGBITQ desire for marriage equality encourages all of us to break free from the confining masculine/feminine paradigm. How lovely no matter what our sexual orientation to be able to dress as we please, act as we please, simply love as we please.

I am in awe of my daughter. She has come through being teased, called a boy and turned away from the girls' bathroom by her elementary school peers because she had short hair. She wanted dearly to be a boy, not only because in our society boys have privileges, but also because her attraction to girls would be deemed “normal.” Her interest in women's strength and independence, her non-interest in “dumbing down” or “dressing to impress” have made her feel eccentric. In high school she refused to be closeted allowing herself to appear in a story in our daily newspaper with her then-girlfriend.

We sit around the kitchen table and my daughter's face beams with the bright confidence of knowing and loving who she is, as she entertains her parents with further adventures from her recent high school camping trip. She has taught her parents more than she will ever know about the meaning of gender. “Gender is overrated,” she once quipped to me.

As parents we have struggled to push the handy girl/boy labels aside. If I could rewind the tape and go back to the moment of this daughter's birth, I would love to hear my husband say, “It's a remarkable human being.!”

© 2012