When I was a child, Momma used to sing to me. As sunset petaled the evening sky, she’d gather me in her arms and rock me in my small bedroom with its dormer window and sing Tennyson’s “Sweet and Low” before tucking me into bed. Nestled close to her heart, I loved to feel her calmly inhale before she’d croon the familiar words:
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.
Music and poetry were my nighttime coverlet, and my gentle mother filled my waking hours with beauty. When I was small, she’d recite for me the poetry of Robert Louis Stevenson, Edward Lear, Eugene Field – all the magical poems of childhood. She showered me with words, and my budding heart absorbed them.
From a tender age, I understood that poetry was a powerful vehicle that could spirit my beautiful mother away to a mysterious, tangent plane. As she spoke the words she loved and knew by heart, I’d watch her eyes soften, then fix on a point somewhere beyond my sight. She was with me, yes. But she was also in a faintly wistful, ineffable elsewhere. Not fully comprehending it, I was witnessing her poetic otherness. I called it her “faraway look” or her “faraway place,” and often wondered to myself about it.
Momma was, and will ever be, my muse. She instilled in me a love for all things beautiful – language, music, art, and the whole of creation. An accomplished poet in her own right, she taught me by example: the transcendent words she chose, the exquisite, handmade things she created, the ideals she cherished showed me that poetry is everywhere, in absolutely everything. The name of my blog – My Path with Stars Bestrewn – is a line drawn from one of her lovely poems. Because of her, I go always in search of the beautiful – not to bring her back, because she lives now in all things, but to be with her in her faraway place, a place of beauty, a place where my soul feels at home.
A dreamy, thoughtful child with large, blue-grey eyes and dark, baby fine hair, Momma grew up in Denver, Colorado during the Depression. She had a deep attachment to the mountains, which were visible from her doorstep. She confided to me that she felt most at home wandering the alpine meadow near her family’s summer cabin in the Rockies, where she’d pick wildflower bouquets and make little hideaways for herself among the nodding, sky blue columbines. Even now, when cumulus clouds billow like dreams on the midwestern horizon and form magnificent mountain kingdoms, I envision her, a child once more, traversing an enchanted heaven, clambering up sunlit slopes lighter than air, wandering endless, starry meadows.
Momma remains so vivid, so indelible, so completely alive to me. It doesn’t seem possible that today – February 10th, 2014 – marks the tenth anniversary of her death.
In the first days after Momma died, I’d walk to the mailbox to search the day’s mail with an insistent sense that I should be hearing from her. In all my forty-five years, I had never gone so long without communicating with her. I half expected to find a postcard addressed to me in her elegant hand, detailing her whereabouts, what she had seen thus far, telling me how much she loves me.
Momma was a wise, loving, gifted artist whose creativity touched every facet of her life. Highly attuned to the wonders of the natural world and the creatures who inhabit it, she had a special love for birds.
Her favorite way to begin the day was to slip outdoors at sunrise to hear the chickadees chant their morning praises. Beneath her kitchen window, which looked out over a wooded hill, she supplied a sumptuous, year-round banquet for the birds: black oil sunflower seeds and millet, ears of dried corn and peanuts in the shell, suet cages and stockings filled with thistle. She took delight in watching her feathered throng flutter in throughout the day to feast at her table and sing in her trees.
One December, Momma was seized with an urge to reinvent her Christmas tree. Ornaments from previous Christmases were banished to the basement while she adorned her tree with, as she termed it, “only things that sing, or fly.” From that year on, her tree was an object of delicate beauty. Spare and elegant, its boughs were a shimmer of white lights, an artful scattering of lovely birds, a butterfly or two, and a gorgeous renaissance angel with airy wings and flowing robes.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I had a special date with providence one April Saturday in 2003, less than a year before Momma died. I went to a local garden show and was inexorably drawn to a set of plush Audubon birds created in collaboration with the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Each realistic bird featured a mechanical button that played a recording of its authentic song. Cardinals, robins, bluebirds, and woodpeckers heaped the bin. Intrigued, I sorted through the various birds, testing the song of this one and that, until I unearthed a house finch, whose wild, sweet call embodies the very soul of spring. I purchased the little house finch and brought it home to give to Momma as a simple Easter gift.
One balmy afternoon just before Easter, Momma phoned. “Amy,” she said, “if you’re not busy, will you come over and help me with something? There’s a bird singing in the woods, and I don’t know who it is.” Momma’s home was nearby, and her wish was ever my command. I jumped in my car and drove over.
I found her out on her back deck, gripping her cane, quivering from the effort of moving her frail body through space. Her neck was craned upward, her face filled with joy. “There,” she said, and pointed to the outstretched arms of a budding oak. “Listen! Who is singing?”
I listened for a moment, and then, sure enough, sweet and clear, the ethereal song of a house finch wafted down from a lacework of greening branches. I couldn’t believe my good fortune and secretly rejoiced. She was going to love the little gift I’d just bought for her. We stood there together, Momma and I, listening to the house finch’s ravishing song. Like liquid sunlight, the sublime melody cascaded over us.
The secret underpinning of Momma’s beautiful life, I have come to realize, was that she viewed the world through a rare lens of innocence. Her tender, blue-grey eyes were the eyes of a child. She retained an open-hearted, childlike soul without ever being a childish person. And, oh – how much the child in her adored that little plush house finch I brought to her on Easter, tucked in a nest-like basket.
Patient, brave, and uncomplaining, Momma accepted the illnesses that leached life and mobility from her – chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, painful osteoporosis, rheumatoid arthritis. Discouraged by the ways her world was shrinking and worn from pain, Momma would cry at night. I was helping her with her housework at that time, and, finding wadded tissues scattered around her bed, I’d say to myself, “Momma, don’t cry, don’t cry.” As I straightened her blankets and smoothed her embroidered, lace-edged sheets, the tears I never allowed her to see would drip from my cheeks.
During Momma’s long, wakeful nights, the little house finch kept her company. When I’d come over, I’d find it in her bed, resting among her pillows. She told me she loved to hold it close and press its little button, just to hear it sing the wild, free song she so loved. She played it night after night and month after month until it stopped playing altogether. During Momma’s last days, it sat on her bedside table beside her prayer books. I bless the day I happened upon that little bird – the small house finch that tempered her nights with the beauty of its song.
Which brings me back to those first, tear-spattered days after Momma died. Ten days after she was buried, I was in my bedroom, dressing after a shower. As I sat down on the bed to pull on a pair of socks, I dropped my hands in my lap and felt adrift on a bleak, unknown sea. Silence and emptiness washed over me, and I was capsized by a sudden wave of unreality and disbelief. Surely, this must be some kind of bad dream. I wanted to wake up, to shake away the loneliness. Submerged beneath leagues of loss and sorrow, I felt this heaviness might just crush me. I said aloud to her, as I have always firmly believed that those who no longer live can, somehow, hear us, “Oh, Momma, is this real?”
At the precise moment these words left my lips, something wonderful happened: an unexpected postcard arrived after all. Directly outside my window, sweet and clear, like sunlight refracting through raindrops, a house finch began to sing. I couldn’t believe it. What were the odds? A million to one? I had never heard a house finch’s song from our bedroom before, nor have I since. Nor had I ever heard a house finch sing in winter, in deeply frozen February. In that moment of heaven-sent synchronicity, I understood that while she cannot be with me temporally, Momma is with me spiritually, somewhere just outside of time, yet, somehow, closer than the beating of my heart. No need to search for her a moment longer. She is here with me – always.
In birdsong, in blossoms, in the patter of the rain and the sigh of the wind, in sunlight and in moonbeams, in the changing seasons, in the things she loved, and in love itself, bright and eternal, she lives on.
OMG….this is FABULOUS!!! You made me cry. Now I know why you are so creative, smart, lovely…your mom!!! I totally believe she visited you via the bird outside your window. I have lots of stories about visits from mom and dad I could share someday. It’s cool and crazy!!!
Keep up the good work!! WOW… you are something.
Thank you, Mary. I owe everything to my precious mother. Like you, I am a believer in synchronicities. I have experienced many of them over the years. They are magical and marvelous. I would love to hear your stories. xoxo
Oh, this is so, so lovely. The image of you and your mother, standing on the porch together, listening to birdsong – wow. That takes my breath away. Thank you for rendering so vividly the ways in which the mother-daughter relationship lives on, echoing through our lives even when one of the pair is gone. xox
Lindsey, it was a moment of enchantment that will live with me always. And oh, yes – it’s absolutely true: the love echoes on and on. xoxo
What a lovely tribute to your beautiful mom! You captured her spirit and the love you both had for each other! She is smiling in heaven and the birds are singing of your lovely bond!
Thank you, dear Susie. The love Momma and I shared runs deep, and I did my best to try to capture her beautiful soul and frame it with words. xoxo
Yesterday my friend showed me a picture of her 104-year-old mother. My reply was I don’t envy anything or anybody because I have been so blessed, but I envy her because she can still spend time with her mother. She can hug her , hold her hand, and hear her voice,listen to her stories and benefit from her wisdom. I myself am not that many years from 80. I wondered if I were a little weird. After reading your tribute to your mother, I feel I am just a member of a blessed and special sorority who had unique relationships with their mothers. Or just maybe we were lucky to have such special mothers. Thanks for your beautiful piece and thanks for letting me know that I am not so different. Best, Joyce Holland
Joyce, I love what you’ve shared here, and I’m grateful for your thoughtful words. If we have a special relationship with our mothers, if we yearn to love, listen to, and learn from them, we are blessed indeed. I recognize that some mothers fail to form a loving bond with their children, just as some children fail to form a loving bond with their mother. But I like to believe the majority of mother-child relationships are strong, beautiful, and unique. Momma adored my grandmother, so perhaps the close mother-daughter relationship they shared had a positive impact on the relationship Momma formed with me. All I know is that she filled my world with love, and I loved her for it. Thank you for taking the time to share your reflections on the ways you still cherish your own beautiful mother. I’m quite certain you take after her. xoxo
Oh, Amy, I feel I have a better understanding of you after reading this. I’ve heard you speak of your mother often, but this explains so much about the wonderful person you are!! I am so glad I know you! Your stories and the way you deliver them make my heart happy and I’m glad you share a talent that not many possess!
Lisa, I’m so glad I know you, too, and it’s wonderful to know my stories bring you happiness. Thank you – for your kind words today, and for the gift of your friendship. xox
this is BEYOND magnificent, draped in the beautiful. i feel as if i’ve just stumbled on the seed to the apple tree that blooms radiant in your orchard: i’ve found the story of where your breathtaking-ness was born. you make me want to run outside to drink in the song of the house finch — except that it’s december in the heartland, so it’s not likely. less than one in a million. and why was i at once stunned yet not surprised to stumble on the date february 10 — the date your mama became among all the things, the date my own beloved papa died. a date that is etched in my soul like no other date. i really must drive across cornfields to meet you in person, in breath, this year. you are so so blessed to have grown up wrapped in a mother who lived and breathed the beautiful…..
Dear, sweet Barbara, my beautiful friend, I’ll tell you a secret: I keep your heart right here next to mine. Although I have not hugged you (yet) in person, I feel the strong sense that somehow, I don’t know how, we’ve known one another always.
I am profoundly touched that you have discovered my love letter to Momma. She is indeed the apple tree that blooms ever-fragrant in my orchard. Thank you for tiptoeing in to join us here in the house of dreams, where the house finch always sings.
I have it on good authority that only the very most beautiful souls gain entrance to heaven on February the tenth. I, too, am stunned but not surprised that you and I have this date etched on our souls. I so long to hear stories of your precious papa…
Yes, we must plan a rendezvous in 2015, where we can continue this lovely conversation en personne. Much love to you, dear one. xoxo
Reblogged this on My Path with Stars Bestrewn and commented:
I’m reposting the love letter I wrote for my mother on this eleventh anniversary of her birth into heaven. She’s the brightest star in my firmament, and my love for her is endless as the sky. . .
If it’s true that “birds of a feather flock together”, than surely your mom and mine are singing a sweet song in heaven. This is so very beautiful. And I love the portrait of your mother. It speaks ~
Jo (that’s what my mom called me <3)
It’s lovely to imagine your mother and mine singing sweet harmonies together, dear Jo. (I love that your mother called you Jo!)
I cherish this portrait, which was painted when I was two. With a pencil and a brush and a palette of soft colors, the artist (Shirley Heysinger) was able to capture Momma’s serene spirit. This is just how I remember her.
Thank you for your kind words today~ ❤
I remember this one! So beautifully put. You made me feel as if I knew her. A lovely tribute for a lovely person–from a lovely person, you:).
Thank you, dear K. How I wish you had known her! Blessings and love to lovely you~ xoxox