Always Always Always

Stories take you away. I love stories. Spoken and written, sung or acted out.
Yesterday I spent time with an older woman and this morning read the words of a younger woman. Both mothers, both whole people, both intelligent and talented in their own way.

The older woman talked and I listened. She told me stories of her youth, her family then and now. I know this woman's oldest daughter and was treated to a different perspective on stories mutually told. I heard about her participation in the civil rights movement. How she audaciously plucked daisies from a college administrator's yard and placed them one by one in the guns of the ROTC. She was pregnant during this time and I marveled that to be a part of this movement she rode a bus from the west coast to the east coast.  An uncomfortable ride I'm sure.

I heard about the men she had married. The disappointments and losses. Her experience of being a surprise final baby to an older mother. I saw glimpses of the plucky younger woman she had to have been. I thought how lucky her students must have been to have had as their teacher such a enthusiastic woman. I heard about her travels. I saw the yearning for adventure still in her eyes. I admired the life she carved out despite the limitations of her era.
Over and over I noted the love she had for her children. It presented itself in small and not so small ways. From a sigh when told of her oldest daughter's venture into art, followed by the quiet comment that she didn't know her daughter was artistic. To a discussion of the accomplishments of her second daughter and a story of her youngest child's love of his cats.

I am so glad I got to spend time to know her as herself not just as someone's mother.

This morning I felt privileged to read the words of a young mother. She has recently taken on the full time task of raising her children and making a home for them and her husband. She is a gifted writer so I saw and felt so clearly the stories she told and her feelings about them. I wanted to grasp her hand as she told of the hurt she felt at some unfiltered words of her three year old. My mind immediately went to similar experiences I'd had with my children. The bottomless love you feel for your children leaves you vulnerable in so many ways. I had to smile as she expressed doubt about the path she had chosen in response to the hurt suffered. I hope she knows that her doubts and hurts are echoed infinitely in all her sisters present and gone. Not one of us has missed those feelings. Not one.

I find myself teetering in between where these women are. Hoping that someday someone will admire the life I carved out for myself despite the limitations of my era, that there are those who will wish to know me as myself not just as someone's mother. Yearning, too, for passion and adventure. Suffering hurts and needing someone to grasp my hand. Having doubts about my path. And loving my children. Always. Always. Always.