A Frizzy Sage

Imagine open arms and wistful, whimsical long hair sending an invitation into your heart. This image is my mother. Wild like the mystical sirens of the sea, or what most people refer to as a mermaid. One's upbringing washes up as a flurry of experiences living in the past. Whether I am reading a book or doodling on sketchbook paper, my mama is responsible for the ways in which I see reading, art, artists, cultural understanding, and acceptance others. A professional artist with children is not a combination most women put on their life wish list. My mother, however, took this combination with an immense integrity and joy. My siblings and I played lookouts on the roadside of the Shenandoah mountains, whilst my mother hunted for the perfect fallen tree trunk. I remember feeling like the protector of my mother's soon-to-be-discovered treasure. After our getaway trunk heist, we were congratulated with a raspberry licorice treat from the health food store. Unlike some artists who had to teach themselves the artistic process, my mother gave us frequent lessons on this tedious, eye-opening journey of the artist with her found and magical materials.

In addition to the lively artistic adventures with my mother, we learned about death through a story of fallen leaves. Who knew a children’s story about leaves falling from a tree would help my eight year old mind understand the differences between life and death? With my newfound knowledge of life’s natural cycle, my siblings and I find ourselves ascending sun-kissed steps, turning a sharp corner with a storybook window, and landing in a sandalwood incensed room of meditation practitioners. In a whispering voice, I ask my mommy, “What are they doing?” In her gentle, soothing response, my mother replies, “Find a pillow and be still for a little while. That is what they are doing.” Being the endlessly curious and sometimes obedient children, we found a sitting pillow and tried our best to be still and quiet. The sound of the gong was a helpful guide in our effort into being still creatures. Observing my mother meditate at home felt entirely opposite to this unusually quiet, dedicated room of strangers who were oddly calm and focused on their breathing, and also the gong chiming away halfway through this unique moment. Now, I feel a deep gratitude to my mother for sparking our young, inquisitive minds with these captivating experiences of the distant past. Ruminating on the etymology of mother, I realize the latin matr in English has several meanings: maternal, matriarch, material, and matter. I wish there was an Oscar for exceptional mothers of matter. By no means is my mother perfect, and even her flaws manifest as mended, copper wings of brevity. Perhaps, I will make a virtual dictionary of exceptional mothers and women for others to add their own women of matter as time passes. Pages upon pages of vividly enrapturing symbols and definitions representing female sages. What defines my mother? Samurai strength, elusive intellect, limitless curiosity for facts within stories of old, an empathetic playground of listening time.

For my mother to reach the top tier of inspirational women, one must acknowledge her unwavering, persevering flame of spirit. Not only is she an artist, but she is also an immigrant, a divorcee with four overtly different children, the oldest sister of five siblings, and a tranquil sage. A researcher of ancient civilizations like the people of Easter Island and the Mayans, whilst mastering the arduous art of stone and wood carving and sculpting via a 1970s pile of books with similar titles. Whenever I need to discuss philosophical views on religion and linguistics, my mother is the first person my thumb scrolls to on the iphone. Caring too much is a flaw, I suppose, living inside the woman whom I refer to as ‘mommy’ or ‘mom’ or ‘mama’ or ‘mother’ on any given day. Beneath a pair of caring eyes lives an ancient high priestess who has an endless period of hours upon hours for her children, and a fierce intellect surpassing any world leader. A boundless curious snake (my mom’s spirit animal) who longs for the most delectable morsels of hidden, encrypted knowledge and deeply stimulating conversational musings on the key aspects of our existence, metaphysical and sentient. All of these unexpected moments originating in the deceptively simple query of Hello, Karen, How are you?