I stopped my planning, put aside my thoughts of reading my book, and came straight to the computer to record the moment that my grandmother just gifted to me. As I stood at the counter reading her poems I laughed a bit for they were about a mother who wanted to do all sorts of things, read poetry, write poetry, take a walk, but was stopped every moment by the needs of her children or the house. I smiled at the poems, but when I read her letter and heard her voice speaking so clearly in my head the tears began to fall.
I talk and talk (oh how I can talk) to friends who are mothers, friends who aren't mothers, strangers in the store, you name it, about the trials of motherhood, the struggle of being a stay at home mom, the sleepless nights, and though many of my fellow mothers can relate to my plight I have yet to feel a level of empathetic understanding anywhere near what I read in my grandmother's letter. What strikes me is that though our lives are so incredibly different and though there are generations between us, there is a commonality that transcends time and circumstance, a bond that is so simple and so strong.
I have always thought of my grandmother as old fashioned. She was born and raised in the mountains of North Carolina and when she came to live with us when I was twelve years old her Southern upbringing still shone brightly in her. She is still a little Southern woman, but she has been changed a bit after more than twenty years living in Ohio with my somewhat eccentric and very liberal family. I still remember when she was searching for a doctor in the phone book and refused to choose anyone with a name that sounded even remotely "ethnic". I was appalled by this and it took me years to understand that she came from a different time and a different place than I did and that she was a product of that just as I am a product of where I come from. She has come a long way since then and I have come a long way, too.
I see now that we are not so different. The image of my beautiful grandmother scrubbing floors and rocking babies all the while composing poetry in her head strikes such a chord within me. I write this blog to fill the void where my intellectual self should be...The last time I took a bath and relaxed for twenty minutes I began to outline the novel I want to write...Sadly, I have yet to put even one of those ideas down on paper.
When I am on my hands and knees scrubbing the toilet or listening to all three children scream at me at the same time I begin to feel like I am lost in this vortex of motherhood that will not release me, and I despair. Yet in the same day I can find myself lying on my bed alone with one of my babies while he nurses and looks up at me with the deepest love and trust that a person can ever know. In those moments I feel my heart about to burst from the overwhelming love and happiness that I feel as a mother. Both of these feelings are my truth.
Perhaps many women have lost this connection with their grandmothers because most of us work outside of the home now, something most of our grandmothers did not do. I will say that I did not feel this so strongly until I became a stay at home mother myself. When I was working it was a different type of struggle, a different flavor of desperation, one that my grandmother could not understand, but my mother could. I suppose I should count myself lucky to have had the opportunity to walk in both of their shoes for awhile so that I can experience and feel what it is to be of the women from whence I came.
My birthday is tomorrow and I think my greatest gift has come today....an understanding and an empathy that spans generations and has now settled deep within my heart.
Here are the poems that my grandmother sent to me:
Trapped
by Mabel Fish Raffield
Today, I wanted to read poetry,
But I had to clean the house,
For I heard a small voice chanting,
"Duty first, or you're a louse!"
Yesterday, I wanted badly
To go watch the setting sun
Go to bed in pink pajamas,
But the dinner wasn't done.
And last week, I ached to wander
Down beneath the apple trees,
Where Spring was giving a garden party,
Scattering blossoms on the breeze.
But I had to wash the dishes,
Mend the clothes and sweep the floor,
Do a washing, rock the baby,
Make the beds and, oh, much more.
Seems my wants are all against me;
Every time I want to play,
Duty's lurking in the foreground,
And always gets in my way.
There's a world, somewhere, I'm missing
Cause I can't get out the door;
Reckon there's a hint of poetry
In a well-turned daily chore?
The Losing Battle
by Mabel Fish Raffield
Ever try to write a poem
By a pile of dirty clothes?
Now, let's see..."The silvery moonbeams"...
Gee! that garbage tries your nose.
"A dreamy waltz and midnight magic"...
Oops, the baby needs a change...
Punkin, please get out of that jelly...
"waves of madness, delightfully strange."
Punkin, please! I'm very busy...
"lilacs by a wishing well,
Pale moonglow and misty stardust"...
Feed teh baby, she's starting to yell.
Dishes piling high and higher
Till they overflow the sink,
Butter's melting on the table...
"Peachy blossoms, downy pink."
Tell a story? No, no more!...
"Dreams fashioned by a bright star, lofty"...
Two big eyes that stare straight through you,
But I'll be darned if I'll be a softy!
"A full moon shines on Lover's Lane"...
Please, now, Punkin, do be still...
"Lips that meet in"--Oh well...
Jack and Jill went up the hill.
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