I miss my Mom today. Well, I miss her every day, but today
especially. In a parallel universe – where she didn’t die seven years
before her Grandson’s birth, I can see her as Gabriel’s Grandma. She’s
painting with him. She’s telling him about color and making it real for
him, because she was an artist. What words are to me, colors were to
her – everything. They were her language, a language that held more
power than English. The language she felt most comfortable speaking.
My Mother was dyslexic, you see. Being dyslexic in the 1950’s American school system was not a good idea. She couldn’t understand why she couldn’t learn to read, her teachers gave up on her and her parents had eight other children and a shoestring budget. She fell between the cracks. When she was in the fifth grade, and still couldn’t read on a ‘See Dick Dance’ level, she convinced a friend to break into their classroom at recess and sneak a peek at her permanent record. She wanted to know what the teacher said and she needed her friend to read it for her. In a depressing nutshell, she found out that her teacher thought she was retarded but excellent at drawing.
My mom slowly learned to read, God only knows how – but never even close to the level of age appropriate expectations. She was in High School before anyone realized that the reason words didn’t make sense to her was because her brain transposed everything she saw. The discovery of her problem came too late for her, she’d already spent years thinking she was stupid and the only thing she was good at was art. Oh, how wrong she was. She had a unique way of looking at the world, because she had a unique way of seeing the world. She was kind to everyone, because she knew what it was like to be lost. She never judged people based on what they looked like because she saw beauty in everyone and everything. She had absolute faith in God, because so many times in her life she felt all alone.
That parallel universe – where my mother and child play together – is beautiful, but it’s a farce. In a world where my Mother still lives my son would not have been born. After her death, I felt like I’d lost my North Star. I indulged my wanderlust and followed my feet here to this island, where I met Gabriel’s Father. All the might have beens, and coulda–shoulda–woulda’s, are irrelevant. I miss her, but I’m so grateful for all the things she taught me. To love music, and art, and the way the leaves swirl in small circles on the ground, just before it rains. To believe with all of my heart that things happen for a reason, to have faith in things the mind can’t comprehend, to believe in magic and love and a God who IS magic and love.
You may have noticed that this is not a typical post by me. I’m writing about a subject so close to my heart, so sacred to me, that I don’t feel a need to try and make you laugh. This entry is to make you understand why I am able to keep my humor, even in the face of my struggles. I was loved, as I love. I was taught, as I teach. I was given a corner stone of faith, so strong, that it withstands all the pressures of this life. I falter, I stumble, I despair… but I know that I’m not ever truly alone. I believe I won’t ever be given more than I can carry.
I’d like to think that I make my Mother proud, because I’m incredibly proud to be her daughter. I’m proud to pass her wisdom to my son. I couldn’t have been half the Mommy that I am without her. Gabriel and I talk about his Grandma in heaven. We believe that she’s been promoted to Guardian Angel and watches over his little footsteps. She’s not gone, not forgotten, just somewhere else.
My Mother was dyslexic, you see. Being dyslexic in the 1950’s American school system was not a good idea. She couldn’t understand why she couldn’t learn to read, her teachers gave up on her and her parents had eight other children and a shoestring budget. She fell between the cracks. When she was in the fifth grade, and still couldn’t read on a ‘See Dick Dance’ level, she convinced a friend to break into their classroom at recess and sneak a peek at her permanent record. She wanted to know what the teacher said and she needed her friend to read it for her. In a depressing nutshell, she found out that her teacher thought she was retarded but excellent at drawing.
My mom slowly learned to read, God only knows how – but never even close to the level of age appropriate expectations. She was in High School before anyone realized that the reason words didn’t make sense to her was because her brain transposed everything she saw. The discovery of her problem came too late for her, she’d already spent years thinking she was stupid and the only thing she was good at was art. Oh, how wrong she was. She had a unique way of looking at the world, because she had a unique way of seeing the world. She was kind to everyone, because she knew what it was like to be lost. She never judged people based on what they looked like because she saw beauty in everyone and everything. She had absolute faith in God, because so many times in her life she felt all alone.
That parallel universe – where my mother and child play together – is beautiful, but it’s a farce. In a world where my Mother still lives my son would not have been born. After her death, I felt like I’d lost my North Star. I indulged my wanderlust and followed my feet here to this island, where I met Gabriel’s Father. All the might have beens, and coulda–shoulda–woulda’s, are irrelevant. I miss her, but I’m so grateful for all the things she taught me. To love music, and art, and the way the leaves swirl in small circles on the ground, just before it rains. To believe with all of my heart that things happen for a reason, to have faith in things the mind can’t comprehend, to believe in magic and love and a God who IS magic and love.
You may have noticed that this is not a typical post by me. I’m writing about a subject so close to my heart, so sacred to me, that I don’t feel a need to try and make you laugh. This entry is to make you understand why I am able to keep my humor, even in the face of my struggles. I was loved, as I love. I was taught, as I teach. I was given a corner stone of faith, so strong, that it withstands all the pressures of this life. I falter, I stumble, I despair… but I know that I’m not ever truly alone. I believe I won’t ever be given more than I can carry.
I’d like to think that I make my Mother proud, because I’m incredibly proud to be her daughter. I’m proud to pass her wisdom to my son. I couldn’t have been half the Mommy that I am without her. Gabriel and I talk about his Grandma in heaven. We believe that she’s been promoted to Guardian Angel and watches over his little footsteps. She’s not gone, not forgotten, just somewhere else.
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