Vol. 12, No. 3,009 - The American Reporter - October 19, 2006

The American Reporter Wishes
Every Mom A

Happy Mother's=
by Cindy Hasz
American Reporter Correspondent
San Diego, Calif.

Printable version of this story

SAN DIEGO -- Has it really been 16 years since you passed through t= he great waters and sailed your little slip of a body through my canal and = onto the shore our lives? Skydiver you might as well have been; or small, s= ea-bird laying bruised and winded from sudden impact with this bright and c= razy world.

Blood clots like berries stuck in your hair.

Emergence. You screamed and cried. You breathed and found my breast= . The San Fransisco Peaks were darkened with late summer monsoons and as= my milk began to flow, the skies themselves let down amidst peals of thund= er and cracks of lightning. Hopi Kachinas danced on Three Mesas and we two = snuggled in bed under the covers in the pines at 7,000 ft., as the rain pou= nded the world. We were suckling and blissful.

The years between that day and this have flown as everyone said the= y would. You have grown into a fine young man. Tall as one of those Norther= n Arizona pine trees. I am now an older woman. Not yet bent but pine cones = drooping. You are golden while I am graying. You are Spring and I am Autumn= . We clash as often as those summer storms of the high desert. We wrestl= e and tumble like cumulus clouds and thunderheads. We race like mustangs an= d fight like Bighorns. More and more you hold your own whichdelights me.

You are now only one year away from the time I left my own mother f= or the rainforests of Costa Rica. Like my mother was then, I will be alone = and nearly 50. I think often now of how hard her years between 50 and 60 mu= st have been and marvel at how little I was aware of her. How I had no capa= city to understand her life. Yet she thought of me constantly. I realize wi= th some foreboding that it will be the same for us. It will be your time to= fly and mine to watch and pray and prepare for you and my grandchildren wi= thin you to return to earth as your own nesting years begin.

Just as I love to tell our birth story I also love to hear my Mothe= r tell birth stories of my brother and I. They are primal and in certain wa= ys silly. Archetypal. Like simple hieroglyphics on the wall of a life. Snap= shots of a far way time and place that are always present tense.

For brother it is the azaleas. She'll say to us in a special sing-s= ong voice reserved for the family historian, "The day Jeff was born the Aza= leas were blooming." And for me it's always, "The first time I saw you, you= looked around the room like you'd always been here."

Such birth stories are oral tradition equally as nutritious and for= mative as breast feeding itself. Embarrassingly intimate, entirely predicta= ble, embelllished with idiosycratic cadences and facial dramatics.

Mayb= e all storytelling could be considered breast-feeding for the soul.


Mothers are natural storytellers. Their stories are containers for life = just as they themselves are containers of life. Mothers are weavers of word= s and worlds. It is one of the high priestly duties of motherhood, this tel= ling of stories. No less than the shaping of family mythology, they deeply = influence the trajectory of young lives.

We won't be seeing Grandma tomorrow, you and I. Her storytelling wi= ll go on without us. Only my brother and his son will hear about the azalea= s for the billionth time and I will be pensive and peaceful surveying the g= ardens in the afternoon sun four hours to the south ofwhere they are.

You no doubt will be on the greens or biking with friends and all b= ut oblivious to the magnitude of my love for you. That is as it must be. Ma= ny years from now, when you watch your own make their thousand departures f= rom the nest you've lined with the fibers of your own ragged soul, you'll t= hink of me and see more clearly through the lens of the years than you can = how it is that a love that holds close must also let go.

When that time comes, think of me and tell them a story.

Copyright 2006 Joe Shea The American Reporter. All Rights Reserved.

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