I'm Still Here.
There was a poem on the wall of the women’s health office I’ve attended since a teen. Annual visits, pregnancy visits, postpartum visits… and all the things in-between…every time that I’ve waited in that room on that hard little table, in a flimsy gown, restless for the doctor to come in… I’ve read and reread and reread again that poem.
When I was younger, it seemed a little cliche. In my pregnancies, I’ll admit it felt irrelevant. But as I grew older (and perhaps a little wiser), I warmed up to it. And every time I went into the room again, I’d smile at the familiarity of the old poem about a women aging and embracing herself — and something about it welcomed me - all of me.
This week, I gave the office a call, and asked for a photo of that poem. Even though they’ve since redecorated, the receptionist who answered was kind enough to do a little digging, and sure enough she found it and sent it to my phone. [If you’re that woman and you read this: please know that you gave me a great gift in a season of suffering]. As soon as I read it, my eyes welled up with tears. It reads:
“I am becoming the woman I’ve wanted,
grey at the temples,
soft body, delighted,
cracked up by life,
with a laugh that’s known bitter
but, past it, got better,
knows she’s a survivor-
that whatever comes,
she can outlast it.
I am becoming a deep
weathered basket.
I am becoming the woman I’ve longed for,
the motherly lover
with arms strong and tender,
the growing up daughter
who blushes surprises.
I am becoming full moons
and sunrises.
I find her becoming
this woman I’ve wanted,
who knows she’ll encompass,
who knows she’s sufficient,
knows where she’s going
and travels with passion.
Who remembers she’s precious,
But knows she’s not scarce-
who knows she is plenty,
plenty to share.”
- Finding Her Here, by Jayne Relaford Brown
On the week of my birthday, with 36 just around the corner - my first year I’ll begin without my mom - I am struck by the gift of aging and the maternal connection.
How many times before me did my mom sit on the same exam table in the same doctor’s office reading the same poem? (This is the doctor’s office that guided her in my birth, after all).
How many times before me did she resonate with this sentiment and appreciate it for its connection to her own life?
How many times did she, pull herself up from tragedy and bloom again, as a deep, weathered basket - plenty to share with all of us lucky enough to be around her?
I know it is said that wisdom comes with age, but I think it comes faster with weathering.
“Death is the dropping of the flower that the fruit may swell” is what Henry Ward Beecher wrote.
If my mom is the flower, then I am the fruit.
I can’t imagine how I’ll face year 36 without her. I can’t fathom the decades ahead without her guidance — without the basket that so tenderly caught me every time I began to slip. I can’t wrap my head around a future that isn’t lit with the glow of her ember.
And yet…
If my mom is the flower, then I am the fruit.
And swelling is to come. Flourishing is to come. — Not because I’m ready or even willing, to go on without her — breathing doesn’t come easy yet without her — but because she lives on in me.
The maternal connection: as I age, I become more and more like her.
The greatest messages I’ve received since her death: in texts, in cards, in passing — have been to remind me of just how similar my mom and I are. It’s curious that I spent so long resisting resemblance with her — insisting upon our dissimilarities. Somehow the details of our differences spoke louder than the core principles that we agreed upon- were alike in - were passionate about- unrelenting, even.
A great friend sent me this message after the funeral:
“I wanted to tell you that as I listened to you and others talk about your mom today - as a force of generosity, community, and love… if I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought we were talking about you. There’s so much about your mom that will live on in you. You are so much like her… in all the very best ways.”
Don’t underestimate the power of a text - the power of calling out what you see … because this text, has been of greatest comfort to me.
If my mom is the flower, then I am the fruit: and generosity, community, love, and resiliency have found their next iteration in me.
As this birthday week began, I woke up from a dream: a dream that I was at an airport when a plane crashed into it and threatened collapse of the building. I was running to safety, but debris kept falling, and I kept shouting loudly “I am still here” - over, and over, and over again. Angrily, defiantly, out-of-breath, I pushed every piece of debris out of the way and kept on screaming “I’M STILL HERE.”
I don’t want 36 without her. But I am still here.
And in my mom’s death, I will be the fruit that swells — the very best of all inherited to me by DNA, nurture, memory, and legacy.
This is the weaving of grace, of eternity, and of maternal bonds.
I’m still here.