Mother

Dear Ira Glass,

Have you ever had the experience where you think I really get this, and then your understanding is turned completely upside down? You believe a film, a song, a book, or even a person is about one thing, when truly they are about the opposite. The weirdest part about this experience is that your false understanding may have lasted a long time, maybe years, until suddenly, through no effort of your own, realization stuns.

I recently had this experience with a song. I thought it was about death. Always when I listened to it I felt pensive and dark blue, like a grounded bird looking out from the brush. This went on for about five years. Then I looked up the lyrics and discovered the song is actually about birth. Not kidding. Here are the words:

Through love’s labor,
Her labor
Sons and daughters were blessed and given favor

She smiled and we were safe
She cried the cords gave way
We grew into life
We left our homes too soon
Too soon… too soon.. too soon..

My mother’s face
Her state of grace
I hope I have your strength and all your gentle ways

She smiled and we were safe
She cried the cords gave way
We grew into life
We left our homes too soon… too soon…
Too soon.. too soon

As the years, they come and go
She will find her soul
In quiet life, she will hear
Those voices sound so sweet and clear
So sweet and clear, so sweet and clear
So sweet and clear, so sweet and clear

It’s too soon

Imagine my relief in finding out my own interpretive blunder, because I’ve always listened to this song with uncharted spasms clutching clear through my heart at the fear, a full and manic sorrow kind of fear, of losing my own mother. And I could never separate her from the song. Now I finally understand why. Umbilical cord, of course. Labor of childbirth. Raising kids who then leave home. What was I thinking?

I have a brother and two sisters. We are 24, 22, 18, and 17. We are in the process of leaving our home. As of last autumn we are all gone except the one who is 17. And I can’t say that it is too soon, mostly because we return often. By often I don’t mean every holiday. I mean about once a week. I would say that at least one day per week is celebrated as though it were a holiday. Tuesday, Saturday, whatever. We love celebration. We love it for any day. And my mother is the maker of celebration. In my whole memory of her there is not one still picture. She is always in motion, ever since we were born, since before that in the stories she’s told us about what gymnastics was like when she was a little girl. Her home in movement. She is always dancing, stretching, singing, working, her fingers and feet flaring with sheer spirit and her features kindling with an idea just under the surface, just glowing, almost ready for her to make. My mother makes everything feel glamorous. Dinner, choosing an outfit, exercising. It is all part of her daily fame. It’s always a great time to practice being famous.

My mother never shrinks away from anything. Not even her own feelings. This is the bravest thing. Sometimes it could be confusing as children. We didn’t always get her. In the flash flood of emotions in a family of six we couldn’t understand how a grown-up could feel things as big and raw and immediate as us. Things so central. In days glittering orange with expectancy and quiet triumph she didn’t hide anything. In days overwhelming and solid with life’s cyclical sadness she didn’t hide anything. So beautiful. We didn’t totally perceive it then. The full expression. Running into the sea change, riding it into the next day, the next project, the next storm. And this is how she taught us to keep on, to engage the hour, to feel it all with grace and veracity. To emerge with voices sweet and clear. My mother is always showing us things like this. Things we might not understand, might in fact misunderstand completely at first. She doesn’t give up. She keeps loving and teaching and celebrating, all in every minute. All in motion. All in.

Happy birthday Mom. I love you. I get you, for now. I’m a big fan of yours. I’ll see you in yoga class tomorrow. I’ll be in the front row.

Sincerely,

Courtney