Prompt: Story of core family and acceptance

My mother is a Poem, I will Never be able to Write, through everything I write, is a poem to my mother.   Sharon Dubiago

I have poems but none about my mother and me. It seems to be elusive as a subject; maybe because poems are not seen as having value by her. That should not be the measure but it is likely the impasse.

Gertrude is her given name. I know she dislikes it.  My uncles and extended family call her Gertie. I always felt relieved to have no need to call Mom by her 1st name. It was not until I helped with various social welfare forms that her name now nearing eighty years owned was once again on my brow of awareness. Her hand shakes. I get to print her full name inclusive of the middle, Irene, and my father’s name that she did not give up after giving up on her 37 years of marriage with him.

I fill out descriptive forms with lists of ailments and meds and realize that my knowledge about my Mom is awkward and very incomplete; yet I have no questions.

We are not close. I do try to attend to RESPONSIBILITIES in the manner of my father. Maybe I am too much like him. My relationship is within the shadows of my brothers who are nearby and nearer to her heart.  She has told me “Your brothers need me more than you do.” I accept this without any out loud question.
When I was a teen I think she tried to live vicariously through my adolescent adventures. She remembers boys and names and dates much better than I. She had her favorites; they were not the same as mine.

While living with her as an adult and tending to the day to day of both of our overhead needs; I discovered Gertrude was a Saint – I attended a Church by that name wondering if it would bring me closer to my Mom.  It was an awkward stretch into an attempt for meaning; which did fail but I did find a Gertrude that connected with souls and words and that was a blessed thing.

A mother of many children will have many relationships and I am ok with mine. Maybe it is an oldest child thing. Upon reflection my core relations are similar to that with my Mom: important but distant. If there is a need I will be there. If there is an event I will attend. When it comes to family I do not find the locus of control within. 

Productivity Day, Solstice, long on light

Just being casual seems an anathema today but I just do not have it in me to 'produce'. 'nough said.

So there could be decades more to do..

A question I ask today is, is this day a cross road or just a new day?  It has rained hard; forcefully at times.   The water pumped off the yet to be opened pool has been replaced with this rain water.  The dog still awaits his walk. The pills scheduled for 4 PM just gets popped into my system 4 hours late.  I have been picking at to do’s refining language and pictures.  I have taken steps to engage in a new endeavor.  It could be transforming.  In the background there is a story playing on the TV that I edited.  It is one in which I take some pride. 

I have connected to some 30 years back a few times today… I had imaged being in so different place now, back then.  For an extended time I have deluded myself with thoughts that I did not have expectations and plans; but I did. I never intended to leave the city.  I expected to have lots of kids and long term relations; to remain physically vibrant and creative. I expected to run for a government office at the state level like Joan H under the mentorship of Irv S.  I was a deacon in my church, a community leader, a foster mom. I was a solid performer in the work place.  But I made one choice both preclusive and precursory about an expected lifetime partnership – that was poor.  I still fail to trust my choices because of this one; however, the best in life thus far is a product of that choice.

I occasionally search to see if he is dead yet. If I find evidence how will I feel?  There were rumors a few years back that it was imminent but I find no evidence of his demise.  It is like closure will not come until he is truly gone. In 2008 his mother passed.  I did comment on the public registry: When memory fails to be a constant reminder of small joys,...  Few others posted comments. They could be counted on one hand. Yet she had been a community matriarch of sorts. I found this fact of so few condolences and stories disturbing.  Did the secrets in her life obliterate much of the essence of her life? Her obituary was an obfuscation stating what would be best in a public statement of a women who was the Nursery School matron of a quaint CT town Above all, she was a devoted wife, mother and grandmother. Contributions were to go to Alzheimer's Association. I remember wondering then and again now if losing touch with the secrets was indeed a release from a purgatory on earth. Am I like her dabbling in words & pictures of distraction.  She created worlds of wonder for 3 and 4 year olds day after day for decades. She did it long into her years but I can not give a breadth of time to the absence of this distraction in her life. It must have been numbing. I do not want this. 

In 110 days I will be 60. Is that old? At one time it was ancient. It might not even be.
Tomorrow I will drive always a risk to my life and others.  I will try to stay open to possibility and create more distance from the secrets that collapsed my confidence and early dreams of having some good effect on the world.  There was a book to write as well. It had a name. Kindle. It had a premise of pass it on. It is now a common technology object and the pseudonym I was to write under is now a popular singer's name.  Nothing is as it seemed possible to be then; so I avoid imagining so as not to be disappointed.  This seems wrong; but inertia wins most often.

As Blue plays; today's random connections to faith

All I really want to do is bring out the best....the road travelled in the pursuit of faith or social networks ... starts with a white New England church on the river.  Here I put poems in the collection basket because it was what I valued and the best I had to give. I imagined that counting of money might be more enchanting with notes of promise. I do not have copies of these offerings. Fitting as they would not be gifts if I kept them.  I wanted the words to be like Joni's ... simple in their universality. I scribbled about the powers of water, the mysteries of gravestones and the wonder of light coming through colored glass, bespeaking more of distraction than talent. Once a month I got to reflect on the blood of the lamb; or the marketing of Welches.

A decade later I was the counter of monies and I wistfully wished for a note of promises but the congregation was thin on youthfulness and numbers in general.  The mysteries were more around the out-of-the box use of the building for non-traditional worshipers: the LBG Community of New Haven and Koreans. 

I do have a great fondness for my time in this community. When I was a new mom; they rallied helping my 1st 10 days to be full of comfort and friendship.  I was the biggest fan of this gathering of strangers that shared pot luck and some need for heaven.  The organ player, a lonely gay man, was like a hero on Sunday mornings taking all our spirits to a place of communion with his music. It was a piece of heaven ... this loose but remarkable connection to human kind.

Today was Same Day Sunday .... the preparation of local Sunday Services for digital sharing for those house bound or not willing to submit to the suffocating heat. Sometimes I want to share the blood; sometimes illusions comfort but on the River, I choose to skate away.  Like Holiday music the air fills sweetly for a season and promises to return again about the same time next year.