HOW WOULD YOU PAINT YOUR MOTHER?

Despite my longtime love affair with words we’re now having a tug of war.  I am seriously considering a divorce.  Yes, my mother was patient, understanding, and loving.  But, those don’t adequately describe all and who she was. The words sound flat even to my own ears and don’t touch any part of my soul.  She deserves better than that.

 My memories of her are as vivid as the colors on a palette.  Oh, If only I were an artist.  But, I’ve been told I’m lethal with a brush.  I get paint in my hair and in-between my toes.  Worse, I go outside the lines.  I blame everything on my “free spirit”.
  

Determined, I envision a blank canvas.  I close my eyes and see an explosion of colors. That’s what my momma was, spontaneous and electric.  My fingers twitch as I see splashes of reds and burnt oranges across a magnificent blue sky.  It mirrors her bold and beautiful spirit. Her gift in understanding people made her appear more streetwise than what she was and it hid her innocence and vulnerability.

  I’ve sheathed her frame in a shimmering light green for her ability to put herself in other people’s shoes and having a compassionate and forgiving heart.   Her presence offered tranquility and peace; Courage and strength.  I feather a touch of gold to her aura for her unwavering faith.  The sun glows on her raven hair, softening her features. Her eyes the color of a midnight sky sparkle with intelligence and humor.  

 My excitement builds as I discover the textures and the layers that compose her identity and her true essence.   She looked like a goddess, but had physical flaws and human imperfections.  There’s a beauty mark on her chin and eye teeth that were never straightened.  The swirl of her sarcastic tongue could slice the air once her Italian temper flared.  But no matter what I may have done to cause her anger, she was quick to offer me a kiss of forgiveness to replace it.  Her devotion and her desire to protect made it difficult for me to explore independence until my rebellion in my early twenties.   Her fear of my getting hurt compounded my own insecurities until I was able to recognize and feel comfortable with who I was and who I wanted to be.   Ironically, I raised both my children the same way.  I suppose in the end, I trusted her judgment more than my own which says a lot about her influence on my life. Good, bad, or indifferent, her heart and her motives were always in the right place. She could dance around most with her wit and charm, but truth and integrity molded her life.  Her daily challenges were given to God and she embraced Him with humble gratitude for the blessings in her life.

Throughout her journey, stars were always in her eyes, but there was also a touch of sadness in them too.  The songs she wrote remained hidden in a dusty closet never to be heard; there were words unspoken of dreams that were never fulfilled and loves that were lost.  Yet, there was always laughter in her humble home.  My children and I could tell you quite a few stories but two will have to suffice.

My mother did not mix well in a kitchen although when she was in the right mood she loved baking cakes.  But, no matter what kind of a cake she made, they all tasted the same in the end. She solved the issue by using food coloring.  She called them her rainbow cakes.   

Although she was blessed in having many friends, she created one of her own and when she’d visit, she’d tell us stories about what Sarafina did that day. She’d roar with laughter and if anyone else would have heard her they would have insisted she be put away.  Being a little off-center myself and guilty of creating my own characters, I thought her to be quite normal if not a little eccentric.

She didn’t want me to worry about her in her later years; she insisted she was happy and content, though I felt she deserved so much more.   I wish I had the power to go back and change some things and my heart cries out, “I didn’t have a magic brush. “ 

Now, as I add the final touches to her painting, I feel compelled to sprinkle it with Angel dust.  My tears involuntarily spill on her canvas because I still miss her so much. I watch transfixed as my tears merge and melt on a mouth that suddenly explodes into a megawatt smile.  She offers me a sly wink, shakes her shoulders and flutters her new found wings.  She turns her head and blows me a kiss before flying away.  In the distance, her sweet voice echoes my name:  “Jeanette…Jeanette, I’m Home.”

Harvesting Kindness

     As Halloween approaches, I fondly remember my cousin.  She had dark curly hair cropped short,very close to her head, in a feeble attempt to style her hair like her favorite movie star.  While I had pictures of Elvis Presley in every nook and corner of my bedroom, Doris Day adorned her walls.

     Her prominent features were far too large for anyone to describe her as being pretty.  Tall and big boned, she felt more comfortable wearing dungarees and a shirt than she did in a frilly dress.  On Sundays, it was a Cardinal Rule that she dress up for church.  She'd tug awkwardly on the ribbons of her hat until they looked worn and frayed.  Ineveitably, she'd somehow manage to get a stain on her white dress or dirt on her gloves.  Her mother would take a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh while trying to repair the damages her daughter had incurred before entering the church.  My cousin usually walked fast and I'd have a diffucult time catching up with her long strides.  But, on Sundays, I watched her wobble in her heels taking small baby steps.  I feared for her safety as her ankles twisted and turned walking down the aisle.

     On this particular Halloween night, I was crying because all my friends had gone Trick or Treating and my mother wouldn't allow me to go unsupervised. She was sick and couldn't go with me.  When my cousin found out I was crying, she volunteered to take me.  I can't describe the gratitude I felt toward my cousin at that moment. I was thrilled. I put on my costume and she decorated a brown grocery bag with my crayons, punched holes in it for her eyes and mouth and placed it over her head.  I clicked my ruby red shoes together and we were off to see the Wizard.

     Once I became a teenager our paths occasionally crossed, but the visits became less frequent.  One day, two of my relatives were sitting at our kitchen table and I overheard them talking to my mother in hushed whispers.
      "She's disgraced the family." One of the aunts said.
      "We will never forgive her."  The other one vowed, while vehemently shaking her head.
      "Please don't say that."  My mother pleaded.  "I don't understand it either, but it's not for us to judge."

       Later, I discovered that the reason the family was so angry was because my cousin had fallen madly in-love.  Not with a man, but with a woman.

     I must confess that I didn't understand it then any more than I do now.  I can't envision myself or anyone else of the same gender being physically attracted to one another. I tried  placing  myself in her situation and asked myself:  What if society shunned a relationship between a man and a woman?  What if I would be considered abnormal if I weren't attracted to another woman?  What if I were afraid to disclose my attraction to a man?  What if by choosing to come out I would be ridiculed and humiliated?  How would I feel if I were shunned and condemned by my church? How brave would I be if I were the one confronted with this kind of hatred?

     I can't honestly call myself a gay advocate because I seem to teeter on the fence.  I don't belong on one side or the other.  I balance myself in the center so I don't fall from grace.  I can't condone, but neither can I condemn.

     I had an exemplary role model in my mother who never placed any conditions on showing another person basic human kindness.  I have done my best to follow in her footsteps.

     As more teenagers continue to commit sucide as a result of bullying, I feel  like we have tragically failed them.  Whether you feel they are right or wrong, the bullying needs to stop  This kind of viscious cruelty should not be tolerated and I stand firm in passing a law to prohibit this kind of behavior.

     Ask yourselves:  How do you feel Jesus would treat a homosexual or a lesbian?  What do you believe Jesus would do?  How would He react to them?  What would He say?  Would He be cruel or unkind?  Would He make them feel unworthy of His love?  Would He forgive or cast them all into Hell? You may answer these questions differently than I would. You have the right and I respect it, but I feel  that we should all  harvest a little kindness. We may need it one day ourselves.

     I have personally found consolation in the belief that when my cousin reached Heaven's Door, Jesus was there to greet her with outstretched arms and welcomed her into Paradise.

Dancing With A Star

I've heard people say that the best years of their lives were in high school.  I cringe at my own memories during most of that time.

Maybe it was fun for THEM because they were the jocks and cheerleaders; the popular kids; the ones who wore designer clothes and drove convertible sports cars.  I was never one of them.  My mother drove me to school in an outdated monstrous Buick.  It actually had wings and I wanted to fly away into oblivion.  I remember hiding in the back seat on the floor so one one would see me in it.  Oh, how I would appreciate and love driving around in it now.

If you remember the movie Never Been Kissed, you may be able to relate to this kind of peer pressure.  I made myself as invisible as possible to ensure I'd be spared any possible ridicule.  So, I chose not to date anyone from my own high school.  There were a few boys I had crushes on, but I would never dream of letting anyone know about it. I was happy with my own group of friends, many of which I still have today.  It's just that I felt more comfortable in being their "buddy" than on their list as their "latest flame".

One night, I spotted a boy at one of the school dances held at the gym.  He was tall with Elvis hair and blue eyes.  He had all the right moves. I had never seen anyone dance with such natural rhythm.  Oh, how I wanted to dance like that. So, I just admired him from afar.  Then I saw him walking toward me.  I thought he was looking for the punch bowl, so I looked behind me and saw nothing but my own shadow.  Would you believe he asked ME to dance? I merely shrugged my shoulders in defeat,
     "Sorry, but I don't know how to fast dance."
     "I'll teach you right now."  He offered.
     "I can't dance with you in front of all these people. Everyone will laugh at me."
     "Who cares? We're not hurting anybody. Do you like music?"
     "Oh, I love music."  I practically swooned.
     "Well, just follow me.  Feel the beat.  Don't think about anything else.  Don't care about anyone watching."

For some unexplainable reason, I believed him.  He took me to a far corner of the gym and he danced with me for the rest of the night.  There wasn't a song too fast or too slow for us. I was floating on a cloud dancing with a star.  As I spread my wings, I discovered I could fly by just moving to the rhythm of my own heart.  It was a delirious experience.  Did anyone else care or notice us?  Did anyone laugh at me struggling to keep up with him? For the first time in my life, it didn't matter and I realized that I had wasted precious time because I was too afraid to be my own person.

It taught me an invaluable lesson.  I don't give anyone the power to take away my spirit.