Mother's Day

I was dreading the arrival of Mother's Day, primarily because I didn't know how it would affect me. I had a few invitations to spend the day with people, and felt like I could capitalize on them, should I need to, but I really didn't feel like it. Not in a mopey, self-pitying kind of way, but gradually throughout my 20's, I have become increasingly comfortable with my own company. For an extroverted person who has often distracted herself by the entertainment of having others around, this is a milestone, especially on Mother's Day 7 months after losing her mom.

A friend had suggested visiting Huntington Gardens--a combination art museum (with Gainsborough's "Blue Boy"), library (with an early edition Gutenberg Bible), and acres of beautiful gardens. My mom loved gardens and gardening, and so I thought that would be a beautiful way to honor her in her absence.

But first, I slept in really, really late. Perhaps I was being avoidant, but on the other hand, it's a glorious thing to let yourself fall in and out of sleep over and over again on a weekend morning...an indulgence I rarely engage, especially when my body is busy adjusting to working at 5 am or 11:30 pm to provide coffee for the masses.

On the way to the gardens, I connected with a couple of my mother figures--my best friend's mom, one of my mom's best friends--and my friends who are moms. Conversations filled with more laughter than reflection.

I arrived at the gardens and it was packed. I guess a lot of moms like gardens. I got a map and wandered around, but really I was craving a quiet place to sit. Every bench in every nook and cranny was taken, so I kept wandering. Typically, I can keep moving for quite some time and never really settle in my spirit (this, unlike sleeping in, is definitely avoidant), which leaves me feeling more agitated than before. I crossed a large field surrounded by palm trees, and considered plopping down in the middle of it to stare at the sky, but knew that I would quickly be distracted. I looked up and saw one of my beloved purple-carpet trees (see May 8 entry) and bee-lined it for the trunk. I was ready to get friendly with the dirt and trampled leaves beneath the tree when I saw a giant bumblebee perusing the area. Better not.

But just off to the left was an unoccupied, secluded bench up against the gnarled trunk of a very friendly-looking tree, and I knew I'd found my spot. It wasn't near any paths. It wasn't occupied. The perfect secluded spot I'd been seeking. So I settled in for a little bit. Pretty soon, I heard a low buzzing sound, like a slow-running motor, or more accurately, someone farting for a long time. It was strange. Until I realized the sound was the rapid beating of a hummingbird's wings. The hummingbird flitted to and fro. And then my eye caught a curious squirrel in a semi-distant tree devouring a nut. The breeze blew against my skin carrying the scent of jasmine blossoms. Sun peaked through branches. Birds chirped and children laughed. I leaned my head back against the big friendly tree and watched tiny insects excavate the peeling bark. It was truly exquisite. And I shed some tears, partly because it was so beautiful, partly because I couldn't share it with mom. I didn't realize how hard it would be to see other people with their moms. Most touching was a son with his mom who had the very obvious post-chemo crew cut. I so desperately wanted to run up and talk to them. I was compelled to pray for them, so I did, but from a distance. I journaled. I let my eyes and mind wander from one moment to the next. I don't know how much time passed, but eventually my capacity to be still became stir crazy. So I walked around a bit more. Part of me was dreading leaving, knowing that there would be a ripping of sorts--like when you separate velcro--that I'd be leaving something of the experience of celebrating mom in that place behind.

I came home and took the time to make myself a really nice dinner. I enjoy the process of cooking and creating something aesthetically palate pleasing, but rarely do I make such effort for just myself, so that was a nice treat. Then I went to see some friends. All in all, it was a good day, even glorious at certain moments. It was full in a way that assuaged the emptiness that could have easily taken over. It was a day of remembrance and a day of honor, with some reflection and tears, but mostly joy and enjoyment. A celebration of life in every sense of the word--life that springs forth from dry, crusty ground into blooms and life that propels hummingbird wings at enormous speeds to remain stationary in thin air. A life where you can put one foot in front of the other, even when it hurts, and still relish in the beauty and the pain, sitting side by side on a park bench against a friendly tree in Huntington Gardens.