Musing

[written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park]

7C/45F, a long 'heart pounding outside my chest on our return' walk this morning - our weather is that stuff dripping from Gusta's coat as 'chance of showers' dances on fresh apple blossoms outside my window as I sit, sipping coffee on my patio now . . . back from wet empty paths, just the sound of rain on my hat visor, hitting leaves, touching ground

not everyone has the opportunity to be a mother, but every one of us is some mother’s child – today is a day for celebrating that, revering that, enjoying that, but that depends of the nature of that relationship, doesn’t it?

I try to remember times of joy with my mother - but that doesn't help much or take long; I try to remember at lease some moments of resolution - but that was but a glimpse of a glimmer in the last weeks of her life; live or dead, our mothers play a relationship role with us that may as well be laid in stone, impossible to alter whether we love it or hate it; for most, I think, that relationship fits somewhere on the spectrum near one end or the other, rarely do I meet anyone with half-way feelings about their relationship with their mother

today is a day of sadness for me - I don't want it to be but it is; perversely it seems, as an adult - as my relationship with my father grew better my relationship with my mother grew even more strained; was that me pulling away, her feeling threatened, both, neither?

strained, apt reference . . could not hold it, it just leaked through, impossible to contain, our relationship simply ‘strained’ with periods of difficult, estranged or just plain strange; something I tolerated, more easily upon leaving home - living 200 miles away, my own adult life, gave us distance; we didn’t hate each other but we didn’t love each other like in books or on TV or in the movies, not like I hear about or as described in greeting cards

we each have these relationships – they are what we make them to be; a psychologist I spent time with many years ago convinced me my relationship with my mother was something I was going to have to work on alone as she was not going to be a participant in the discussion; so true then, for the last eight or so years of her life, and still true now that she is long gone

she is gone, resolution of the relationship is another matter; many times I wished it was over, wanted it over, tried to have it over, but it is not over; from time to time, not necessarily on this day of the calendar, I spend some time thinking about ‘that relationship’, thinking about her, thinking about our family dynamics and the role we played with each other

our relationship began much better than it became; I was a playful kid who paid not much attention to the woman who cleaned the house, cooked the meals, washed the clothes; this woman was married to my dad, gave birth to me . . but was never close; perhaps that was as much my fault as hers later on, but as a child I don’t think it was anyone’s fault so much as it was the way it was and I knew no different – but seeing such differences in other homes I became convinced I must be adopted; getting my hands on my birth certificate at age seven I remember thinking ‘how could they fake that?’ . . .

on this day the world conspires to have us ‘put mother on a pedestal’, without regard to whether or not we are gushing with emotion or pride or caring or fond memories; whether or not she is gone, for some of us . . that feels pretty hypocritical

mothers and their children can pick a day - any day, this day, tomorrow, whichever day you wish; call it any name, validate how you feel, say it, make it heard - but listen too, listen to what you hear in return; we can all hear what she says, listen to how she feels, discuss
why . . or why not . . when your mother is alive, you can try that but, when she is gone, that is not so easy

carpe diem means seize the day; seize what you can while you can

if you can, squeeze who you can while you can for as long as you can

because you can

Mark Kolke
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