mom

Celebrating Mother Earth and remembering my mother

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PaMkj4_H8WM

My mother would have been 77 years old today. Her birthday coincides with Earth Day this year, which seems fitting. She derived her greatest joys, it seemed, from nature-related activities: camping alongside a mountain stream; watching a sunset at the beach; and singing about sweet violets and moonbeams, carried home in a jar. I suspect this was also her private torment, given that we spent so much time on the road–endless days and countless miles, blurring past, rarely knowing for sure where we’d eventually land.

She’d stare out the window, wrapped up in her private thoughts as the moon traded places with the sun and the landscape morphed from rocky terrain to desert wasteland. And then suddenly, with a single word, she’d fix our attention on something she’d seen beyond the narrow ribbon of asphalt. “Look!” she’d say, and I’d follow her pointing finger to a lizard, sunbathing on a rock. “Over there!” she’d exclaim, and we’d wish together on a shooting star.

Eva in Kansas City in 1960

My mom (1960, Kansas City, MO)

 

“For the Beauty of the Earth…” It was my mother  who first taught me this song, who also showed me Mother Nature’s bounty. And it was through her eyes (and Nana’s example) that I came to fully appreciate the wondrous beauty of the earth, sea and sky.

Monarch

Her wings shone brilliant in the afternoon sun–like vestments or stained glass windows.

Wind gusts blew through the Mission courtyard, rippling the murky waters in the Fountain of the Four Evangelists. The monarch toppled upside down on her lavender stalk, and when I zoomed closer, I realized that one of her wings was torn. 

She clung to that flower for the longest while, underside showing, as if willing those breezes to either fling her loose or to help set her upright again.

Bells rang. A wedding party streamed out of Serra Chapel, bumping past me as they followed the bride and groom down the sidewalk. I looked away for a moment and the butterfly was gone. I'm sorry I missed her return to the skies, but I'm happy she found her freedom.

For my mother, who would've been 74 years old today. She loved flowers and birds and mountain streams and such, and she taught me to appreciate Mother Nature.

Lessons from our mothers


Eva May Hutchinson, about 5 years before my birth. 

Which lessons from your mother serve a purpose when you’re writing?

I’ve been pondering this question lately, in honor of Mother’s Day. When I posed this question on Facebook, I got some wonderful responses.  I’m reposting them here, with the writers’ permission, and added my answer at the bottom. I hope they’ll inspire you, and that you’ll also chime in!

Jeannine Atkins: Never mind the dirty floors. I bless her whenever I survey the kitchen and decide to write instead of scrub. And my sister feels the same.

Victoria Nimmo-Walters:  Do it right or not at all. (I get to blame her for my strive toward perfectionism…)

Susan Taylor Brown: You can do better than that.

Kim Baccellia: Don’t let others comments get to you.

Wendy Lynn Decker: Never give up.

Gail Goetz: Why ruin a good story with the truth? Ordinary wasn’t in my mother’s vocabulary.

Erin Blakemore: Stop talking, start working! 😀

Sheryll Suva Fong: ‎ Because I said so.

I might answer differently tomorrow (next week, next year…), but for today at least, I’ll go with, “Look!”

My mother was blind to certain circumstances, inscrutable in others. But when it came to Mother Nature, she had a very keen eye. “Look,” she’d say, and in her cornflower blue eyes, I’d see the shimmery reflection of the stars. “Look,” she’d say, and it was only then that I noticed the tiny cluster of purple verbena against a vast expanse of sand. She taught me to pay attention to the smallest details, and to recognize their magic. She filled my soul with a sense of wonder, opened my eyes (and heart) to things I might otherwise have missed.  And in my own writing, I bear witness to what I’ve seen.