Irked & Unknown

I have a cyber request. That is, 'For the Love of Mother' has been taken by another blogger and, while this is totally irksome, it is not unexpected. Who are you, I would like to know, and can I have your (my) title? 'For the Love of Mothers' is a yucky second choice and I will have to settle, but if you're out there and would like to trade with me, I'm in. You see, this blog is about one mother - not yours or anyone else's - and that mother is mine. I want to be found in this other world by the right title and that title must not be plural! Ergo, my title-snatching mystery blogger, I need your title.

Think about that irksome 's' at the end of 'Mother' and you'll get my point. Syntactically, that 's' directly implies (can implication be direct?) that this blogger's intent is to write about motherhood. And sure, I have thought about just that. You know, writing meaningful stuff about mothers and all that they do for us; searching essays and poetry and one-liners about mothers for reflection; even hiding out for a year - to hunker down and write about mothers - just to see what might come of the exercise. But all I really want is to exorcise (think mind-weeding) some psychic debris and satisfy a secret curiosity (Can I write?).

Indeed, this blog began because of one mother and, as it sits, my title misrepresents my purpose. 'For the Love of Mothers' is off colour, I fear, and rings a little sharp. Hence, I need your title, my cyber-partner in 'For the Love of Mother' blogging. For now, I know I must limp along with my 's', but maybe some day in this weird world of anonymous cyber networking, you will find me and I can have my swap. To be true, I have not yet found you and may one day discover that your are long gone from this alternate universe; that your efforts to blog have long been abandoned; that the original 'For the Love of Mother' blog is dead and my title forever taken. After all, this blogosphere is rife with the detritus (a.k.a. krippy-krap) of dead projects and half-assed attempts at putting-IT-out-there. It occurs to me that I may never get my title; it also occurs to me that I, too, may never be found.

As far as I can tell, I may never gain followers in this mission. The only person to view me so far is myself - and one other anonymous blogger (who had specific instructions to find me - right here). After some effort and dialogue, I was found and followed. Once. Actually, this fellow-blogger is not unkown to me in my human world, and little effort was taken to click in to their cyberspace. But that's because I knew where to look - knew enough about the human behind the posts to search for and I.D. the writer. Come to think of it, I like knowing the writer behind the blog. I like having contact with the real person - the one who might also be a follower of my words. There is comfort in knowing I am not alone, not the only hopeful cyber-scriber awaiting my first real follower (the rest will follow the first, right?).

Therefore, 'For the Love of Mother' #1, I forgive you if you never turn up. I know it's hard to get noticed in these here parts, and I understand the attachment one can have to a name or a title. With some regret, I may even concede my (your) title and accept my 's'. One letter, I recognize, may not be the difference in this blog being discovered. As it turns out, I am quickly discovering that blogging days are slogging days and, if you are still out there blogging your stuff #1, good luck and Blog On! Writing is not for sissies and we are all alone in this crowded cyber-room. Can anyone out there help me find some followers?

One into Another

There she sits, all stiff
and rigid in her finery;
She does not look up,
will not give you a glance.
God forbid,
forbidden fruit;
you are her nemesis,
the threat to her throne -
built of ice -
frozen.

But you are just as cold.
Frozen in your secrets
locked out of this queen's castle.
If you think for a second
she will let you in,
beware.
Beware the cold stare, the
hard heart and your part.
You are the unwanted one.
Not a friend.
Just an extra.
Sometimes worthy,
usually not.

You made it out
to be this way.
Once a friend,
now an extra.
Always looking for
the way to her heart,
to melt her stare
into liquid -
the liquid of your dreams.

No, this is not about you.

Not My Birthday

What's a girl to do?

Scene 1

For a few groceries and some Advil, I owed my mother 40 bucks. She shunned my offer of a cheque and said, "Don't worry, you can pay me later."

"No, it's okay, I can give this to you now. You're leaving for Arizona and I won't see you for a while."

"No. Don't worry. You can pay me later since you're not feeling well."

"It's okay, really. Here's a cheque."

"No, I don't want you to worry about this now. We'll make it your birthday present - for next year."

[Seriously. She said it. Out loud. My birthday for this year had just expired. Read my internal monologue: Take the freaking money before I pound you one!]

"I'm fine. Take the cheque."

Cheque in hand, mother, father and sister left to celebrate my nephew's birthday.

Scene 2

Two days later, mother sent dad back to pick up an old set of golf clubs I was giving her to play with in Arizona.

"Please, take them. They haven't been used for four years. I'm happy to see them used."

"Are you sure? What if you decide you need them? I don't want to take your clubs."

"Go ahead. I haven't golfed in four years, so take them and enjoy."

"Okay, but we can ship them back if you want them."

"Sure."

[Whatever. Two hours later, my mother had an idea and called to tell me about it.]

"I just wanted to let you know I've decided not to cash your cheque."

"Why?"

"Consider it rent for your clubs."

"That's not necessary, but thanks."

"I just feel so guilty taking your clubs."

[Yeah. I think I'll reach for a kitchen knife and cut this one off.]

Scene 3

"Hey, dad. How's Arizona?"

"Great. We've setteld in. Had a lot of work to do at first, but the new retirement condo in Leisure World is looking good."

"That's nice. What have you been doing to relax?"

"Oh, well, I should tell you that your clubs never made it to Arizona."

"Oh really? How come?"

"Well, they are big and bulky and it was just too much to ship. Would've been at least 50 bucks."

[No shit, Sherlock. I'm the one who spent an hour rearranging my storage room to dig the suckers out of their cave before loading them into your filthy over-filled bumble-bee yellow Mazda.]

"Hm. To bad. Well, next time?"

"Actually, we went to an orphanage and they were having a fundraiser. Turns out we were able to buy a set of clubs for 10 bucks. Can't beat that, eh?"

"Nope. Can't beat that." For the love of...

Looks like I may take up golfing again, 'cause that 40 bucks I saved will be just enough to cover the greens fees. Thanks for the round, Mom.

Birthdays Are Bloodbaths

My mother turned 60 in Iceland . Big birthday aside, the location for the occasion raised the bar of expectation for an already important event. We travelled as a family (minus one sister & two grandchildren) to the great land of our ancestry. Well, not my father's, but he came along for the ride, leaving all Icelander jokes at home. We would embrace the hardfiskur and the lamb, fork over nine bucks (all figures Canadian) for a stinking head of broccoli, and learn that, yes, corn is indeed a pizza topping. This little island, after all, is another world - a crust of lava and ice where nature's power rumbles steadily - and we were togther, our first family trip in a very long time.

So here's the deal: when your mother's 60th approaches, have a freaking plan. And, when you will be spending the occasion in Iceland, the place of your mother's heritage, make The Plan a good one - a Plan you can be sure to execute, flawlessly, without a hint of 'we-will-pull-this-together-when-we-get-there'. Scheduled to land a day before The Day, we thought, why not make it an all Icelandic affair? Artsy gifts would be bought from local shops, dinner would be eaten in Rekjavik, and the day would end with a family walk under the bright night sky. But retrospect gives me this: we had no hard-core Plan. Our Plan, my cyberfriend, was a pipe dream - a dream full of vapid, misty smoke that went puff, puff, poof. Trust this post and do not follow where we went (unless you have a thing for cold winds and driving rain).

Here's the thing. On arrival to Iceland (from Toronto to Boston to Keflavik to Rekjavik), we were very tired and my mother was suffering serious nicotine withdrawl. No patch feeds enough poison for this blogger's mother's habit. Every transfer along the way had a smoke-break factored in, and now that we are all kicked to the curb to smoke, this meant we made more than one shuttle-bus mistake in Boston. The only time I ever saw my mother move faster to get somewhere was when my sister - about 6 at the time - floated face down into the middle of Crystal Lake, Saskatchewan. But we made it to our apartment in Rekjavik, fell into bed and napped for a few hours. It was July in the land of fire and ice, the sun would be up forever, so what did it matter when we slept? We had time.

Ah, but it did matter. Within hours, we had a guest. A distant, long-in-the-tooth family relative whom we had never met, nor did we have any real ties, apart from our claim that we were somehow legit as Icelanders. With the arrival of our guest, The Plan began - most predictably - to unravel. We were invited to a brunch that would mean July 2, the birthday day, no longer belonged to us. We were going to brunch, which seemed just fine - until my mother had a guilt attack. "You girls do not have to come," she insisted. Knowing the routine, we insisted back, "We don't mind, really, we don't. It's your birthday. We'll come." Truly, we didn't mind. And truly, she pushed and pushed and pushed for us to do something else, to escape the shackles of our parents. "I don't want to ruin your vacation," she said. "You're not ruining our vacation," we said. And on it went for the first bright night in Iceland.

So now, on day 2 (that's July 2), The Plan was this: brunch for the grown-ups, and spa day at The Blue Lagoon for the young'uns. They had no interest, mom said of the spa experience, so why not go while they were at brunch? We would rejoin that evening, and a birthday celebration would follow the day after - July 3rd. Agreeing to this new plan was a big mistake, not smart and poorly played. What the fuck were we thinking? My mother wanted us there, wanted to show us off. She wanted to tell family stories, look at pictures and let people know that "the only daughter making babies for me is at home in New York". It would have been our birthday present to her, she said. To read between the lines, to know what she really meant, and to enjoy the company of bonafide Icelanders would have made her day perfect. And ours, most likely.

How could we have been so daft as to think she really meant it when she sent us on the bus to the spa on her big day? How could I have missed the secret code I know so well? You girls do not have to come does not mean "You girls do not have to come." Of course she doesn't mean what she says! The subtext, screaming in our faces was, "You're a pair of thoughtless meanies if you don't come to brunch on my birthday." And obviously, We have no interest in the spa does not mean, "Go ahead, it's OK. Enjoy." Not at all. It was not OK, we should not have gone ahead, and clearly she meant to say, "Enjoy the spa, but it will cost you." We just weren't listening and I can only blame it on the jetlag. Honestly, we were bagged & confused. Two grown children lost in translation is all we were.

This was check mate. We were eternally screwed for every birthday to follow. Game, set and match. My mom awoke more than a little misty-eyed on her big day. An email from my baby-making sister in NY was pointedly relayed to us: she had remembered, planned ahead, sent an online gift, made a big deal. We had nothing (except our sister's lasting sympathies). We could not go to the spa; we had to go to the spa (we were sent & we went). We could not plan a party; we had to plan a party (we offered gifts & dinner a few days later). As The Day stood, we could not hope for anything more than a quick sunset for that cold & blustery July 2nd (Oh, the irony of where we were).

If I learned anything in Iceland, it is this: there is always a cold, driving wind. You cannot escape the wind, you can only learn to dress for it, preferably in a sporty line of clothing from 66 North or a hand-knit Icelandic Wool sweater. Many Icelanders insisted the days were colder than usual that July (average temp. of 4 degrees and much rain), and while we shopped for the right outerwear/underwear, I never found the right pile of layers to thaw my bones. Whatever the weather, I stayed cold and faced the extremes. I drove steep cliffs, climbed bubbling volcanoes, crossed blue glaciers and watched whales on the North Atlantic (well, no whales were seen, but a puffin or two was sighted while all but a few of us lost their lunch)...

...all this with my mother in tow and, all ranting aside, worth repeating. She bought us bag after bag of salty black toffee and we saw the most amazing things. She told us stories and we ventured almost to the tip of the world together. This was the trip of a lifetime - perhaps our last as a family - and I have vowed to return. Do pass the hardfiskur (it's delicious), but hold the butter. There is no other place I know of where you can eat dried fish like potato chips. Gotta love it. Thanks mom, for the time up north. Really. I mean it.

(Exactly one month later, I found myself in South Korea, in perhaps the hottest dampest mustiest weather I have ever felt. There, my bones melted to mush and I truly marvelled at this place we call earth).

Tethered to Love

Once upon a time, there was a quiet little girl who had never been to the ocean. In fact, she didn't even know the ocean existed. Until, one day, the moon captured the tide, found the little girl, and tugged and tugged and tugged on her wee little fingers with the most beautiful threads made out of moonbeams. Of course, the moon was gentle and patient and lovely - so lovely that the little girl fell secretly in love. Before long, all the little girl wanted was to follow the moon's threads.

Frightened by the moon - its powerful beauty and long moonbeam threads - the little girl took a deep breath to mettle her nerve. Finally, she reached up high, grasped at one of the threads and gave it a tug. For one blissfully fearful moment, the tide lurched and the threads wobbled, but the girl steadied herself and stood firm (her other secret, you see, was that she had long looked up to the moon and yearned for adventure, for the moon to come and take her away). And so, with her feet newly settled on blank earth, the little girl nudged herself forward. "If I hold on a little tighter," she asked, "where will you take me?" Because the moon was wise and knew that the little girl was timid, the moon simply said, "Have faith, my delicate girl. Come with me and I will show you the most beautiful things."

And so, in time, the moon's beams grew shorter and the tugging stopped. You see, the little girl had fallen into the moon's beams and let them carry her wherever the moon wanted. Together, the moon and the little girl braved the dark forest, moved heaps of dead earth and made the most brilliant new shade of pink to splash through the sky. And the tide grew resentful. After all, the moon had captured the tide, and it was the moon's job to carry the tide in and out, along the shore, in keeping with the ocean's rhythm. Without the tug of the moon's beams, the ocean would lose its sway and the moon would never be able to show the little girl all that the ocean held.

But the moon didn't care. The moon had the little girl in its grasp, riding its beams. They had become a pair, limbs and beams entwined in their limitless potential. Caught in the moon's beams, the little girl couldn't believe all that she had seen - and she couldn't imagine herself without the moon. This is when the moon, gazing at the little girl, forgot the tide and gave all of its beams to the little girl. This is also when the little girl surrendered herself to the moon, opened her wings to the pink sky, and discovered perfect happiness in the waves and light of the moon.

Patient and gentle and lovely as the moon was, however, the moon could not sustain itself against the crashing tide, wild without the moon's beams to steady its flow. What the little girl didn't know (and what the moon didn't tell her until too late), is that the waves did not belong to the moon. They were the tide, captured by the moon, bound to the ocean. The unstoppable, immovable ocean. The ocean that would, with relentless patience, remind the moon that they were forever bound to shift and sway.

Lost in the waves, the little girl could never have predicted that this terrible force, this beautiful ocean, would be the ugly thief of her dreams. And while the moon had not let go, the little girl soon came to know that the moon's beam's were changeable and weak in her grasp, especially against the constant strength and rhythm of the ocean's tide. The moon did not want to be tied to the little girl and she would have to let go.

At first, the little girl thought she would try and try and try to join the shift and sway of the moon. But the moon simply stretched out its beams beyond the little girl, searching and wandering - sometimes wending its way back to the little girl, and sometimes piercing her heart with the most wicked and knowing betrayal. The little girl had to know that the moon would never focus all of its beams in her direction.

Over time, the little girl was able to stretch herself further and further away from the moon. The tide would sometimes draw her back and she would fall back into the waves, but always the moon reminded her - these beams are not for you and they will always reach beyond your body. Gradually, the little girl lost faith in the moon and as the last of the moon's beams slipped out of her fingers, she knew that the moon would never again tug at her fingers. Finally, the little girl could fly.

She is me; I am she

The recent genesis of this project is Christmas '09 and the holiday games my family played (mind-fucks, that is - not the fun & games of a family at Christmas). In other words, this blogspot began long ago with the long-standing, ever-unspoken mother/daughter struggle that I imagine we all endure. I am not special because my mother can be a nut - not at all. We all have a story or two to tell, and mine happen to be rather absurd. So, I will take this cyberspace to tell my tales.

That said, I am no 'writer'. I have yet to discover my voice, and it may be that I utter a hoarse and unharmonious tune. Whatever the result (bitch-fest? mama-rant? psychic purge?), I can only offer myself to the mercy of imperfect words. Something will come of this. Not everything I write will be about Mother - and everything I write is because of Her. She is my mother.