A Motherless Daughter

I've always been a little too serious, even as a kid. My parents tried to get me to skip school when I was in elementary grades but I didn't want to miss anything. Not even the temptation of a whole day of playing outside in the early spring warmth was enough to get me to stay home for the day.

I wasn't a brooding kind of thinker and I'm still not. It was, and is, more along the lines of being quietly reflective about things I don't understand. One of the things that truly bothered me for a very long time when I was young was how adults just seemed to instinctively know how to do things. I worried me that as I grew up I might not know all the things that were necessary for basic survival and I might stand out as being a dummy in the world.

I was, and often still am, afraid of looking the fool.

On the way home from church on a sunny Sunday afternoon in the mid 1970's I clearly remember being in the back seat of the car, winding around the hills of central Kentucky and asking my parents how I could possibly be savvy about all I needed to know when I wouldn't have them to rely on anymore. I know they were trying, but they just didn't understand my question. They tried their best to reassure me and I remember feeling the frustration mixed with fear building in my stomach as I tried to put words to something I was truly anxious about. Finally they asked me to be specific.

After thinking for a few minutes I chose an example of something I had never done before and tried to imagine myself being capable of doing alone.

"What if I have to go someplace far away by myself and I have to ride in an airplane? How will I know how to do that? Will someone be there to tell me what to do? Will they make sure I do it right and don't get lost?"

As often happens when naming fears and making them real, I remember feeling as though I would cry by even saying this out loud.

To my utter relief they finally understood what I was really asking and they spent the next few minutes assuaging my fears and assuring me that no one knows everything. They said that there would always be people to help me and answer my questions and make sure that I got on the right plane and tell me how to get my luggage. I even learned that there were people who's whole job consisted of helping people and answering questions. They also assured me that, no matter where I was in the world, or how old I got to be, they would only ever be a phone call away.

In the car on that warm afternoon I came to believe that even when I was all grown up there would always be someone who could help me with all the things I just didn't know how to do.

For the most part, Mother and Dad were correct. With the help of common sense, the ability to read and many kind strangers I have learned to navigate in this world. I can fly in airplanes, buy a house, keep a job, maintain friendships far and near, care for people I love and tolerate people I don't. I can even find answers to questions like who, what, when, where and how.

But there are still things I don't know how to do.

Last week A. and I were looking through a recipe book that I received for Christmas about 15 years ago. It's a little blue book in my Mother's handwriting of all the recipes I remember from my childhood. Underneath each one, she wrote a little note about how this recipe fit in our life story. The words, "Do you remember Small Fry Playschool. . ." is under the sugar cookie recipe that came from my preschool teacher. Underneath the recipe for Scrapple (which I detested then and now!) are the words, "I just couldn't resist!"

A. slowly read through each recipe and asked me to explain each little story and inscription. After we got through all of them she asked, "How do you feel when you read all these, remember all these stories and cook these things?" I didn't have an answer.

When I sew on my quilt there are these moments that I just want to pick up the phone and tell her what I'm making because she's the one who instilled the love of "making" in me in the first place. When I cook something from my little blue handwritten cookbook sometimes I want to tell her that it's still good. Or that I still don't like scrapple.

And, because I know no other way, I just ignore it and do what I need to do. I carry on as though it doesn't still hurt a little. As though it's the most normal thing in the world for everyone to have a mother but me. . .even though I know everyone doesn't.

I just don't name the fear and that way it's never really real. . .

But, just for the record – Is there anyone out there who can tell me how to be a motherless daughter in the world, even when she's only two hours away?**


(This video is what prompted this whole post. This is one of my very best childhood memories – it seems like we sang this song nearly every night, together. It's before all the hurt and division – before everybody "got religion" and before I "got gay." It's from before we all got broken.)



**Note - There are a few people who will read this and worry. I'm OK. I am mostly strong and independent. But I also recognize the shadows of fear and need to tell their stories too. Besides that, who amongst us isn't composed of both shadow and light?