My mom is a real writer. The kind who doesn’t write for paychecks and doesn’t write to see view-stats rise. When she writes, it is pristine expression. True art.
When she was about my age, she traveled around Europe, keeping a journal all the while. Back then you didn’t write a blog for all of your loved ones to keep track of you. You wrote snail-mail and kept private thoughts in the bindings of a notebook. On Christmas day two years ago, my mom dug out that journal from whichever corner of the house it hides in, and read her Christmas Eve entry for all of us. Her and a friend were spending the night on a long and snow-hindered train-ride, until finally arriving in Austria just in time for the holiday (if I recall). I loved hearing my mom’s writings: picturing a younger image of her with a long black braid peeking out of a snow-cap. Still the same person. Still the same wit and poetry. Still the same beautiful observer of the world and its peculiar ways.
I’ve been blessed to read various writings form my mom here and there throughout the years, and occasionally she’ll share something newly written. This is always a treat and I am always left with something thoughtful to carry with me.
One day in Thailand, after just arriving and after just recovering from a bout of food poisoning, I saw a local perform a few classic folk songs from the 70’s. The man had a soft voice that was easy to listen to. It reminded me of the songs my mom used to play for us kids as we fell asleep. I particularly remember “Time in a Bottle.” She sat out in the hall outside of our bedrooms and played until we fell asleep. Maybe this is why I always find myself going back to folk music, if I need something to listen to. As I listened to this Thai stranger play my mother’s lullabies, I thought of my mom and missed her.
I’m grateful for skype and email and facebook and all of the many ways I have to connect with the family I adore and miss.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom!