Just Keep Going

I cannot think of the last time I saw my mother cry. I'm probing my mind, going 5, 10, 20 years back, and I don't remember one instance in which my mother shed a tear. Loved ones have come and gone from our lives, milestones have been reached, and failures have been experienced, but, through it all, I remember my mother being that unsinkable boat that kept us all afloat amidst a tumultuous sea of emotion. One day, I asked my mother why she didn't cry. She sighed, seemed to collect her thoughts, and then explained that she felt she had cried all the tears she could ever hope to cry after my brother was killed. There was a car accident that occurred a few years before I was born, and, I can't say for sure, but can only imagine it was the single most defining point in my mother's life. "Such an event can make or break you," she would say. You can choose to drown in the ocean of overwhelming grief, battered by every single wave sent your way, or you can choose to keep your head up, riding each crest until settling in calm waters for what you hope will be an extended period of time. Every single day of her life, she has chosen to ride. She has chosen to ride for her husband, for her remaining children, and for herself.

My mother is responsible for so many of the wonderful things in my life. She made me take piano. Yes, I said "made." At 6 years old, piano was the farthest thing from my mind. All I wanted to do was watch Power Rangers and play outside, but, flash forward 26 years, and I'm sitting in the room where I teach children how to play piano and all types of instruments. I guess you could say I grew to love it. Music is now my lifeline, and those piano lessons, along with the fact the our family would occasionally burst into four part harmony on any given song at any given moment, helped fuel that passion and the desire to teach it to others.

She taught me how to read. In addition to being a first-rate pianist, she was a first-grade teacher. Reading with her children came as naturally as feeding or bathing them. She expanded my imagination and taught me to think outside the box, to imagine worlds in which the characters that I loved breathed and thought in real time. From there, I learned to empathize with characters and their situations, thereby teaching me the ability to put myself in other people's shoes, both in real and fictional circumstances. She fostered within each one of us a lifelong love of literature, and continues to lend me books today.

She passed on to me a love of all things shiny. Perhaps not as important in the grand scheme of things as literature or music, shiny things still hold a valuable place in my life. Vintage, rainbow-colored Shiny Brite Christmas ornaments; carved and bejeweled wooden boxes; antique trays with mother-of-pearl inlay: all things that represent to me a tiny sparkle of happiness in a world that isn't always so bright. From her, I learned the thrill of the hunt for such treasures, diving through boxes at thrift stores and second-hand shops, and the satisfaction that comes with hooking and reeling in that prize find after an hour or two of feverish work.

She taught and continues to teach me how to help others. One of her many catchphrases is "Kind and gentle," a mantra I've carried with me throughout my life. Because of this attitude, my mother was always a magnet for those less "savory" characters in our small town society. She was a taxi and loan office for those in our community that didn't have the ability to help themselves. She was a craftswoman to those in nursing homes, paying routine visits to deliver handmade goods. She and my father were employers of former convicts from the local halfway house, hiring them to do projects around our house and within my father's company. In everything she does, she practices kindness towards others and is known for her gentle disposition, a disposition that has been tested in every manner possible, but has never wavered.

Perhaps the most important lesson that my mother has taught me circles back to her losing her first child: the ability to just keep going. About 15 years ago, my mother was diagnosed with a rare inflammatory disease called Ankylosing spondylitis. Over the course of a few years, the most "get-up-and-go" woman I'd known became slow and tired, her vertebrae fusing together into an unmoving concrete column, the result of which was extremely limited motion and constant pain. There were weekly hospital visits for intravenous medications, four hour round-trips to see the nearest and most qualified doctor to treat the disease, and, most unfortunately, a sudden halt to a lifestyle in which she was able to do everything for herself. What would you have done? Would you have been able to keep your head up as high as your solid spine would let you? Had my mother's condition not been so visible, the smile on her face and her "God will take care of everything" attitude would have convinced anyone that nothing was out of place. After all, she had lost a child. If she could get through that, she could get through anything. Just keep going. I haven't yet experienced near the emotional and physical trauma that my mother has, but that philosophy still gets me up in the morning. It keeps the smile on my face when a student wets their pants on my carpet. It keeps the pep in my step when I am exhausted after a long day of teaching and rehearsals. It even keeps the love in my heart when I am upset with my husband for some trivial matter.

My mother still shovels dirt in her garden, even though three of her children are now close by to help out. She still drives, even though we will take her wherever she needs to go. She still cooks lunch for us every Sunday, even though we offer to cook or order out. She does all of the aforementioned with a joyous attitude that belies an underlying pain. Her legacy will be a mother, wife, and friend who would have braved the most violent storm if it benefited someone she loved. I hope that ship will stay afloat for many years to come, continuing to develop that legacy and provide me an example of what it means to be kind and gentle, mighty and resilient. For, according to my mother, countless moments of grief and struggle are but holes to be plugged as we tug our halyards and onward sail.