Musings for the Motherless

If mother’s day (or my nickname for the holiday “meh-ther’s day”) is not a day you celebrate, I see you. That’s me too. No explanation needed, unless you want to pull up a chair and share.

We can sit in the garden, drink ginger tea, or something fizzy, like champagne. The popping bubbles can represent the hard won freedom from a physically or sexually abusive or emotionally wounding relationship with a woman you called mom.

Or the mom you never knew.

Or both.

Sitting in nature, jasmine scented breeze against our skin, a hummingbird zips by, busy, nosing into the nasturtiums who nod in appreciation. The yard kitty, a sweet stray I call Alice, longing to be loved and nurtured, will curl around our ankles attentive to the healing conversation, the laughter, maybe tears. When the sun sets and we’ve had enough talking we can skinny dip in the pool, floating, hair streaming on the surface, or lay on the damp grass and make angels, green stains on white cotton dresses, starlight parenting the wounded little girls we once were.

I will make us grilled cheese, and in PJs we will sleepily discuss our favorite movie scenes that we have studied over the years, rewinding, rewinding again…mothers and daughters sharing sweet moments, arms around each others shoulders, “Oh mom, you are my very best friend!” “Oh honey, I couldn’t ask for a better daughter!” Or gazing at the social media posts, a foreign smorgasbord we are hungry for, dishes of joy filled moments, smiles and hugs between women who share…

Blood
Secrets
Memories
Inside Jokes
Facial Features

Snippets of conversations overheard on that annual Sunday in May: "My grandma’s lemon cookie recipe; you have your mom’s green eyes; let’s go to Target tomorrow; Thank you for brunch!” The “remember whens”, and, “I need a hug moments” all layered like a favorite birthday cake made each year for the lucky ones while we match holders keep the flame alive outside of the window as we watch.

Those of us in our not so hidden society who are motherless “by choice” know that there was no other choice. The secret word to enter our club was always “escape.” We chose safety over insanity. We chose self care over cruelty. We chose boundaries over betrayal. We chose moxie over manipulation. This felt like less of a choice and more like spiritual CPR.

Run, run away, run quickly!

No one chooses this willingly. The choice is a raft haphazardly set off to sea, the hammered planks of our hearts tied together with the last shreds of dignity. Waves of uncertainty looming in the distance, the sun overhead, “Did you bring water?” “No! Was I supposed to?” “Oh shit, what about a compass?” “Yikes, I didn’t know!” “Snacks?” “Nope, but I have cigs and books!” “Oh, and I have a stuffed animal!” “Well, we can’t eat that dummy!” “Sorry, we had to flee quickly...”

"I hope they will make it to a shore”, the people say, shielding their eyes, turning back to their safe sanctuaries and dinner tables.

We do. We make it to a different shore. Barely. Sunburned, half drowned, skinny as fuck.

Over the years we pick through the piles of confusing scraps left for the motherless. We do our best to build a little life. Maybe this person? Maybe this class? Maybe this job? Maybe this partner? Maybe this path? Maybe this house? Followed by the “how do I” years: How do I learn to drive? How do I apply for a driver’s license? How do I open a checking account? How do I fill out a job application? How do I get birth control? How do I cook eggs? How do I register for college?

The searching, sorting, finding, wondering, worrying, falling, rising, falling, rising, repeating, relearning. Endless.

Early in this new adventure which doesn’t feel like an adventure, there is judgement and jabs from the observers. Sometimes envious, sometimes incredulous, “Why would she do THAT?” “Why doesn’t she do THIS?” “What does she see in HIM?” “Who does she think she IS?”

At night, curled up on a couch, Paul speaks words of wisdom to our frightened and shamed souls, “Let it be, let it be.” And I do. And I don’t. And I continue on my journey, directionless but determined. The couch surfing continues for another year, celebrating 18 with no one knowing except the seagulls singing happy birthday in their sad circles. Learning to surf, the sea lifting me up, bringing buoyancy to my inner mermaid, another girl with no legs under her, the tide moving me toward the bigger waves of a life yet to be lived. Of loves yet to be broken.

As the years float or hurtle me along, I learned the meaning of Sisu. I learned about my viking roots. We motherless learn and we unlearn. The rare and remote healers enter, some better than others, and we soak in that temporary nurturance all the way to our marrow. Over time as the healing wounds turn to wrinkles the words I now receive from well meaning strangers begin to change, “What a resiliency rebel you are!” ; “I want to have your life!”; or “You’re fierce and brave!” by those who love you.

Am I? Is that what I am meant to be?

OK then, let me try that mask on, maybe this one will fit. I look in the mirror carefully putting the brave girl mask in place. Growling softly I say, “Grrrr, I am fierce!” flexing an arm muscle while Stanley the indoor kitty looks on with a dubious expression. “Grrrr, grrrr kitten head!” I respond with a chuckle.

This mask is interesting, it fits. Sort of. But it is itchy too. And hot after awhile.

I gently place the “brave mask” in the redwood chest. Not grandma’s chest. Not mom’s chest. It is a chest from a dumpster dive at 16. A prized possession likely abandoned by a mothered girl who had too much. My beloved chest has aged with scars from the decades I’ve dragged it along. I lift the etched lid, and the other masks gaze up, their eyes empty. In the corner is the people pleaser mask with the great big grin. Next to that is the sexy girl mask with the smeared lip gloss and mascara trails. The good Christian girl mask with the lips sewn shut. The angry mask with a grimace of pain. The reliable woman mask with the chubby face. The smart one mask with the wise eyes.

My “fierce brave mask” finds its place among the others. Closing the lid, the scent of ancient trees filling me, I look up, chin raised, eyes closed, arms stretching above my head, feet grounded into my little home near the sea, mermaids singing. Arching my back, back over the years, back and back I breathe in deeply, the breath of God, the breath of possibility, the breath of release, the breath of grief, the breath of gratitude, and I whisper to my self, to my heart….

“Happy Mother’s Day Mari, I love you.”