MY WILD MOTHER

The second weekend of Advent has passed like water through the mossy rocks. I spent the time hunkered down with my Mom in Salem. It is always special. Because her recent memory is most challenged by the aftermath of the fall she took, she really has the most trouble remembering what she's doing right now or today or this weekend. We watched the Andrea Boccelli concert from Central Park on Friday night. I sat in my Dad's old Morris chair...the one that belonged to his Dad. My dad was a passionate fan of the Italian opera composers and especially loved the arias written by Puccini. I remember him sitting in that chair listening to the Sunday afternoon opera and weeping. When I was younger I thought it was kind of funny and didn't at that time, share my Dad's interest at all. While Mom and I listened to the concert, I found myself weeping. She didn't have dry eyes either. My dad's presence was uncanny and throughout the weekend, we spoke aloud to him. We watched that concert Friday night, Saturday night and Sunday night...each time it played it was as fresh as the first time...at least for Mom. She was moved and happily surprised by the song choices as if hearing them all for a first time. She seems to be experiencing the format of the house as it was in the 70s. She stands up and heads for the back hall which before 1976, was a lavatory. But when we look at old photos taken by her father who was a photography enthusiast, she knows just whos who in the college and wedding pictures. I marvel at the human brain, amazed at the phenomenon of memory and how our experience of the present moment can be scrambled while the ancient memories are as clear as photos. All weekend I was reading a book that had as one of its many themes, the idea of genetic memory. The book is called THE WINTER SEA...and it is a historical romance set in Scotland during the first attempts to bring King James back from France. I saw my mother's grandfather's photo for the first time...a William Noble who emigrated to the USA from Glasgow Scotland. The Scottish accent furled around my ears like a sound of water flowing. There seemed to be a gathering of family energies including a cat we had as a young family. Smoky...a grey part angora cat that Mom mentioned a few times. I wonder...could all the dejas vu and familiar feelings that make a person think they may have been here before...could they actually be ancestral memories that hide in our genes? Mom kept talking about the mist and fog of early morning. I didn't experience any, mind you...but I dare not tell her what is or isn't real for who's to say her perception of Now superimposed over Back Then isn't more acurate on some level than my own. Silver fingers of scottish brogue weave through the hairs in my ears...I smell the crystal jar of orange jelly slices...I breathe and feel my father's loving essence moved by the exalted music of love. Somewhere back in time, the roots of my family tree sent forth some seeds to find fertile soil in a new place...so that a new branch of the family would find a haven to call home. The roots were fed by the wild Celtic water of ancient forests and the people farmed for their food. The cold was familiar and the winter snows were as much a part of life as the fog and mists hiding the hills. My family...Stephen, Sam and Will and I are the seeds that found new soil to sink our roots into during the 21st century. Genetics are carried by seed and perhaps the tree remembers feeding its roots in the wild Scottish soil.

When I come home from my visits with Mom in Salem, I am aware of a deep sense of gratitude for being here now...where the air is fresh and scented with evergreens all winter and the mountains greet us with white shawls under bluebird skies. I love the open space and the restful landscapes of unbroken wilderness. After going back to the city, I return home released of any residual regrets for having left. I can sleep again. The night sky is actually dark and the quiet is calming. Mom told me that when she was little, she would hang out her bedroom window and sing at the top of her lungs. She never told me that before. I was surprised and reminded her of how I used to sing Que Sera and assorted other favorite songs at the top of my lungs out the third floor windows and from the tiptop of the pine tree in the front yard. There. Another little memory bubbles up from the far long ago. Like mother, like daughter. We laugh because all my life I worked so hard to not be like my mother. Now, relaxing with her in her twilight years...it seems we are more alike than I ever dreamed. My love and appreciation for my dear Mom in the present, casts a light on my ardent love and need to comfort myself in the breast of the wild mother. The Wild Mother ...she welcomes me home. She is the wild water that feeds the roots of my family tree. She is the angel at the Christmas treetop. She is the artist who decorates with crystaline frost and whimsical cloud formations. She is a most vulnerable and confused elder and she asks for my protection. This Christmas, I give her my Present..my quiet, listening presence. Sssshhh...listen. There is music in the flow of wild water and it feeds my roots.