meaningful moments | seeking querencia

Image by freakgirl via Flickr

Today is a special day in our house. Seventy-one years ago, my mother, C., was born to Curry and Inez in New Orleans, Louisiana. For all intents and purposes, she was raised by her grandmother, Irma, and spent time with her father. She was a happy child with numerous cousins to play and hang around with.

When she was a mere 18 years of age, she married. I was the first born child to C. and J., five days before Christmas in New Orleans. I was their first born of three girls. My mother is an amazing woman who single-handedly raised me and my 3 siblings, when my dad made the poor choice to leave our family–on my 5th birthday. Although I didn’t realize it for decades, this incident had a huge influence on my life and the person that I was to become.

After my father left our family, we had to move in with my great-grandmother. My mother, a very beautiful woman, who married young and never had the opportunity to attend college, had few job prospects. She had three children to care for so she soon accepted a job as a cook for the New Orleans Catholic Archdiocese, where she remained for over 40 years. Although we were poor, my mom always worked 2-3 jobs to make sure that we had food on the table and clean clothes to wear. Although she could have easily qualified, she steadfastly refused to apply for or receive any type of government aid. (The exception was the free lunch program that we had to apply for through the schools and were automatically accepted.) She is a proud woman and remains so to this day.

Her life has not been easy. She has seen a sister taken from her by violent means, her mother by a drunk driver, her beloved grandmother by cancer, her son by congestive heart failure following an earlier diagnosis of non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma at the age of 23, and numerous other losses that she has handled with grace. Most recently, Hurricane Katrina, as well as health issues, made it impossible for my mom to return to the only home that she has ever known, the only one that she ever cared to know–New Orleans. Yet, in spite of all of this, she has never lost hope or faith.

My mother came to live with my husband and me because of serious health issues, but I think that I have gained much more from her presence. It is the first time that we have lived under the same roof since I left home the Summer after I graduated high school. I can’t say that I left on great terms, and I certainly did not understand her and what it meant to be a parent; especially, a single parent of four. The passage of time and parenthood have mellowed me and I think that I can say, made me wiser. With that, our relationship has been transformed. It has matured into something that I never thought possible, a friendship, and a close one at that. My mom is my confidant, (okay, there are limits.) friend, and at times, just my mother. For the first time ever, I think that I can say with certainty that, I get my mom and she gets me. Even ten years ago, I never thought that I’d utter those words. I know that I am blessed to still have my mother with me and that is why I couldn’t let this day go by without saying “HAPPY 71st BIRTHDAY” to the very first love of my life, my Mom.

Blessings to you,

Image by Bob AuBuchon via Flickr

Early this morning, as I opened the Harry Potter book that I was re-reading, I discovered two pressed flowers–one a ranunculus and the other, a petite red rose. From their condition, it is obvious, that I’d placed them there some time ago. After appreciating their beauty, I began wracking my brain to recall the circumstances that led me to place these flowers in this book. When? Why?

I have purchased hundreds of flowers over the past years, and there was some reason that I pressed and saved these particular flowers. Perhaps they were especially beautiful; perhaps they held some special meaning to me. What is it? Where is it? I can not remember. Is the memory buried so deep in my subconscious mind that I cannot easily extract it, or is it, as I fear, that the memory is gone, a long, lost memory, never to be remembered, that special meaning forever lost? Gone to rest where all lost memories go.

I was lost in thought thinking about my life and all of the things that I have done, and people that I have met, knowing that some of these memories are forever lost to me. It saddens me to know that there will come a time when my future self may forget the import and significance of any number of today’s meaningful moments. This is further punctuated by the fact that I have holding over my head, testing to determine whether my “memory issues” are due to the medications that I take for my chronic pain condition, or something much more sinister. Although the testing still scares me a bit, my faith allows me to feel somewhat positive about the outcome, whatever that may be.

The happenings of my life, big, small and seemingly insignificant, form my memories. Those memories remind me of the trials, tribulations and circuitous routes that I have taken to become the person that I am now, as well as the person that I will become. They comprise the sum of who I am and I don’t want to forget them. If I do, I lose bits and pieces of me.

Over my lifetime, I have journaled intermittently, but consistently for more than ten years. Within a matter of hours, my journal has grown from one of those things that “I should do” to something that “I must do.” It is now my historical record of the sweet, special and important memories in my life, so that in the future, I won’t be mourning the loss of a long lost memory. It will have to do.

Blessings and peace,