My Mother kept a garden,
a garden of the heart,
She planted all the good things
that gave my life it's start.
She turned me to the sunshine
and encouraged me to dream,
Fostering and nurturing
the seeds of self-esteem...
And when the winds and rain came,
she protected me enough--
But not too much because she knew
I'd need to stand up strong and tough.
Her constant good example
always taught me right from wrong--
Markers for my pathway
that will last a lifetime long.
I am my Mother's garden.
I am her legacy-
And I hope today she feels the love
reflected back from me
Author Unknown
This is the poem that my brother Philip read at the memorial service held in my Mom's apartment building in Halifax, NS. I arrived in Halifax a few days after the memorial, but I'm so glad Phil was able to attend. How he got through this poem without crying in front of a room packed with people, I don't know. I read it in the car after my Mom's burial a few days later and I was a snuffling, puffy-eyed mess.
As I flew across the entire country from Victoria to Halifax, I tried to put a bunch of painful things out of my mind. I tried not to think about the fact that my Mom lived in Halifax for years, but by the time I finally made the trip, she was gone. I didn't want to remind myself again that my Mom never met my children. Or that I hadn't seen her since my wedding, over five years ago. To think about these things just brought up the guilt and the futile questions: Why didn't I just make the trip to Halifax happen sooner? Why didn't I just bring her out to visit?
My Mom and her husband Harold lived on small pensions and with the cost of travel in Canada being what it is, there were always life's many expenses to get in the way. After my Mom died, reminding myself of these things did nothing to assuage the agony of knowing that I'd run out of the time I figured I would always have.
I am devastated over my Mom's death. It is a completely destroying feeling knowing that I will never speak with her again; never again hear her voice or laugh with her. But here's the thing... And it's a very unlikely and surprising thing. From the day she died, I have loved myself more. From the moment I learned she'd died, I rediscovered my own face. I've somehow stepped through my own barriers and realized that I am exactly as beautiful as my Mom always told me I was.
And it's not vanity. It's gratitude.
My Mom made me. She carried me in her womb, birthed me, nurtured and cared for me. I am a product of her and I am beautiful, the same way I look at my girls and know down to my bone marrow that they are the most beautiful things on the planet. It dawned on me that when I deny my own beauty, even hate myself and my body (which I know a lot about and I know a lot of other people who do, too), I'm dishonouring my Mom somehow; denying her gift of life to me, or pushing away her love.
And I'm not overly spiritual, but I am positive that the correlation between my Mom's death and this realization is not coincidental. It feels more like one final gift.
I've been very comforted by the knowledge that a few years ago, I thanked my Mom for my life. I actually called her up and thanked her for giving me life and being my Mom. I only wish I'd said it more, but knowing I said it once has been a solace.
____________________________________
I'd like to tell you all about my trip to the Maritimes, but first some back story: My Mom was born and raised in New Brunswick. She married her first husband there and my three brothers were born there. I was born in BC (I have a different father), and we all grew up on the West Coast. All my life, I remember my Mom wanting to move back home and when she finally did, I was happy for her even though I knew it was likely I'd rarely see her. My Mom met and fell in love with Harold and they were married a few years after she moved away. They lived together in the same small apartment all those years, until the day she died.
______________________________________
Arrangements had been made for Mom to be laid to rest in the Anderson-family plot, so Philip and Harold and I drove from Halifax to Norton, NB to bury Mom's ashes beside her father. The entire area around Norton is steeped in the history of my maternal grandparents. Both my grandmother and grandfather were born and raised in this area. Norton is also very close to a place called Darling's Island.
When my brothers and I had the pleasure of visiting our grandparents when we were kids, we got to go to family reunions on Darling's Island. It's an inland island surrounded by rivers and for a very long time, the only way on and off the island was by the covered bridge. That bridge is out of service now and a new, uncovered bridge was built alongside it in 1996. Phil and I knew we wanted to go to Darling's Island; we both have very vivid and happy memories of the time we spent there. After a few missed exits (don't ask), we finally made it.
It was pouring rain. It was incredible.
 |
| Phil, taking photos inside the bridge. |
 |
| My cousin assures me that my name is still carved in here somewhere. |
 |
| I was overwhelmed. Didn't know whether to laugh or cry. |
I remember that during the summer, kids would kick out the boards at the centre point of the bridge and jump into the river. It was a thrilling way to cool off and I'm sure it still happens.
By the time we arrived at Darling's Island, we only had enough time to take a few photos and hop back in the car to go to Mom's burial service. But this short visit ...it fed my soul in a way I never expected. Later that evening, in the hotel in Fredericton (where my aunt lives and my grandmother lives in a nursing home), Phil and I giggled like kids at the thought that we had actually been on Darling's Island that day. I cannot imagine a more perfect thing to do before Mom's burial. I kept thinking - and saying - that she would have been so pleased.
 |
| I remember sleeping out on the porch of this house on a hot summer night. |
 |
| Two bridges. |
 |
| Family-reunion festivities were held in this hall. |
My Mom's ashes are now buried beside my grandfather in one of the most beautiful cemeteries I've ever seen; on a hillside, with a view of the river. Although, if she could have spoken to us, she most likely would have apologized for the rain and wind; the only lousy weather of my five-day trip.
The service was short, but Mom would have liked the readings and would have loved that her cousin Kathy, an ordained minister, presided over the service. She also would have loved that not only did Philip read that amazing poem at the memorial held in her building, but that I sang at her burial. I sang I'll Fly Away, one of my favourite hymns. The wind was blowing our umbrellas inside out, so I gave up trying to hold mine, handed it off and sang with my eyes closed and the rain bouncing off my face. I didn't know if I'd make it through the whole song, but I'd practised for over a week and I knew I wanted to sing it strongly, just for my Mom. I did and I'm glad.
There is one thing I wish had happened differently at the service. I wish Phil had read the poem while we stood in the lush green grass of the hillside. He gave it to me to read when we were in the car after the service, but I wish he'd read it out loud. I hadn't told anyone but Kathy that I planned to sing; I was afraid I wouldn't be able to do it, so I figured if no one knew and I backed out, I could save face. But I'd hate to think that Phil didn't read the poem because I stole his thunder. If I could go back in time, I would have told him I was planning to sing so that we could better organize and give everyone an opportunity to express themselves.
Life and death. They're a one-time gig.
 |
| Sitting with my Aunt Brenda and cousin Caroline after the service. |
 |
(back) Aunt Patty, Aunt Brenda, Uncle Wayne, Phil
(front) me, Harold |
 |
| Philip. |
I wrote earlier about the revelations I've had since my Mom's death. I think my brain is hardwired to search for the light within darkness and that's something I don't even realize until the darkness is not of my own making; I'm happy enough to bump around in my own blackness, but as soon as I'm forced into the dark, I stretch for lightness until my every fibre is elongated to the search.
And that is why when I think of this trip, it is not at all with sadness. I know the sadness is there and I know I will carry it for a long, long time, but when I think of this trip, all I see it the light.
I got to see family that I haven't seen since I was sixteen; my aunts, uncle, cousins and my ninety-two year old grandmother.
I got to meet my brother Todd, the baby my Mom gave up for adoption in 1963, when she was twenty. It's difficult to describe the feeling of meeting someone for the first time, knowing that you've been walking around, sharing DNA. He's a very nice man with a soft manner and a poet's heart. And an incredible accent I could listen to all day.
I finally got to know my stepfather, Harold. He's a fussy old guy with a heart so big that I don't know how he manages to carry it around in his skinny little body. I now understand why my Mom loved this man so much and I've seen firsthand the love he has and will always have for her.
I spent four days and five nights with my brother, Phil. Just us. Every moment of the day. It was fantastic and the most fun I can remember having with him. And that should sound weird considering we were on this trip to bury our Mother, but it's the truth. He is not just my brother, he's my friend. He's a friend that I am so blessed to have in my life and I'm so, so thankful for the time we spent together. Honestly, I'd love to have the opportunity to travel somewhere with him again; just us. We're pretty good travel partners, I think.
Most of all, this trip reaffirmed my love for my own family and reminded me that as my Mom leaves this life, her memory and legacy is visible everyday in my mirror and is, most importantly, reflected back at me through the eyes of my children. And I will tell them everyday that they are beautiful. Peter and I made them, so they must be.
