Our newest writing group is called the Daffodil Series, in honor of spring and it is an all women group, this time. Our leader predicted it would change the flavor of the group's writing, and it truly has. I am enjoying it immensely and am learning alot about writing styles and most of all LISTENING to others readings and being able to process it and have an intellegent comment, even though sometimes I seem to misunderstand the content, I think, but I am developing my ear.
Last meeting, the topic of "mother" came up several times during the session. I wonder if has to do with Mother's day coming up or we have a pregnant member, or if most of us are mothers. Whatever it is, it started out predictibly enough, with the writing prompt...."mother, is..." and the writings spanned from deep feelings of anger, sadness and joy, appreciation, awe and sorrow. Dr. Freud (or was it Jung?) could have used us as his control group, because "mother" seems to have shaped us in ways unimaginable.
I find that fascinating.
I find that fascinating.
I never gave it much thought, unless I say something that she used to say, or if I find myself interrogating my children, as she used to. She knew what I was going to do before I did. Many times she was already where I was sneaking off to, parked and waiting to tell me to turn my ass around and just go back home. I never knew how she did this. My mom was just my mom. I don't think I ever really saw her as an indivdual, as I insist that my kids view me. I tell them frequently that I have a life and I intend to live it. My mom never said that to me.
I always viewed her as an adversary or something to avoid being like. I really wasn't a nice person growing up, I have discovered. I felt justified at the time, but I was very selfish in retrospect.
Of course, she is dead now, and hind sight is 20/20 as they say. I wish I had more time with her. We were good friends the last few years of her life, I got a small glimmer of the real person she was, not just the mom because, at last, I was paying attention.
Well, anyway...here is what I wrote...
Mother, I wish I had been a better daughter.
Mother, my questions are endless
Not enough knowledge I sought
Not enough answers I heard.
How should I proceed?
Mother, my life is on the edge
Which way should I turn?
Toward comfort and the familiar?
Or the wild and unknown
at this halfway mark,
at this milestone?
Mother, my journey is rocky
So many expectations,
How do I work with this?
Where do I fit in?