The Best Thing I Learned From My Mother

by Amy Ruhlin

When I was a young girl my mother would open the front door of our home in the evenings, tilt her head to look at the sky and say, "Look at the moon!" Instead, I would look at her face. And I would see pure joy. At the time, I wasn't aware of what I was seeing; I was a distracted teenager and for the life of me, I could not figure out why the sight of the moon made my mother so happy. I would tilt my head to look at the sky too, and though I saw the same moon, I knew that I was not feeling what she was feeling. I also knew that it was important, this mysterious connection that my mother had that I could not quite yet grasp. I knew that whatever my mother was feeling when she looked at the moon, I wanted to feel it, too.

She loved trees. My aunt once helped her look for a house to rent, and years later, after I was grown, my aunt said to me, "Your mother was going through so much turmoil when I helped her find that rental, but all she cared about was making sure that she found a property that had plenty of trees!”

When I was 12 years old, my mother decided to have a small house built on an acre of land that had once been her father's garden. It was an acre without any trees. Once the house was completed, she spent the next ten years planting and growing trees: crepe myrtles lined the driveway, pin oaks stood in the front yard and cedars edged the sides of the house. She turned the backyard into a field of fruit trees. And she did it all while working full-time and being a single mother.

We spent many days and nights sitting together on her screened porch, surrounded by the beauty of her trees. And I knew that the sight of them brought her comfort.

My mother had a great sense of humor and one of her favorite expressions was: "The world is going to hell in a hand basket!" Whenever she said it, I’d roll my eyes and laugh, thinking she was just overreacting or being funny. But I now know it was her quirky, southern way of expressing concern for the environment – her grief over trees being bulldozed for “progress” and the moon becoming obscured by pollution.  In fact, she once gave me the book, “The Sense of Wonder,” by the noted environmental writer, Rachel Carson. It still sits on my bookshelf today.

I currently live in a house with a lot of windows. And through every window, I can see towering trees with thick, green leaves in the summer and beautiful, bare branches in the winter.  Each evening, when the moon shines through the highest window in my family room, I tilt my head to look at the sky and I say to my family, "Look at the moon!” As my chest expands, I feel as if the glow of the moon is coming from inside of me.

My mother showed me that in the midst of life’s pain and turmoil, grief and loss, I can find great comfort in the beauty of a tree, deep joy at the sight of the moon and a sense of wonder by simply noticing the world around me.

 

 

What I Learned On A Weekend Getaway

by Amy Ruhlin                

Sea Oats

My husband and I are crossing a bridge to a resort island for a fall weekend getaway.  It’s just the two of us in the car and we take in the sight of salt marshes stretched out beneath us and sailboats on the horizon.  It is a familiar beauty, this road to the beach; we have taken it before. There were summer family vacations here. There were getaways like this one; weekends without the kids. But this is the first time that we cross this bridge in our fifth decade. It is the first time that we cross it as parents of children who are grown and are no longer at home awaiting our return.  It is an unfamiliar road.

As the bridge ends and connects to the main road that runs through the center of the island, I wonder how the weekend will go. I am surprised at the lump in my throat as we pass the mini golf course  where we spent evenings as a family happily whacking a small ball through plastic windmills and artificial waterfalls. It was only a game, but small pleasures loomed large then; our children made it easy to stay in the moment where the real treasures lie.  The reality that those days are gone hits me hard here in the car on our way to the hotel.

We check in at the front desk and take our luggage to the room.  We buy a newspaper and two coffees and head out to the pool. There are mostly adults here, absorbed in books and distracted by cell phones.  To the left of the pool I see a small grassy area with striped hammocks surrounded by sea oats.

 I sit in a lounge chair and beside me, my husband sits in one too.   We read the newspaper and sip our java.   And then, off in the distance, I see a small boy. He is on the beach with most of his body immersed in sand and he is giggling with delight.

“Let’s go sit in a hammock,” I say to my husband.

“Together?” he asks.

“Well, yeah,” I answer. “We can both fit.  Come on.”

We leave the newspaper on our chairs and walk through the grass.  I am careful to sit  on the hammock first and then my husband joins me; we are afraid it might tip over.  We stretch out on our backs and stare up at the autumn sky.

“Look!” my husband says. “That cloud is a face.”  I can see a silhouette:  crooked nose; sharp chin; white, wispy hair. 

 My husband puts his foot on the ground and gives us a push. The hammock tilts steep to the left and then with a swoosh we bank hard to the right. We are swinging; back and forth we go between the sea oats.  We look for more drawings in the sky. 

The afternoon is hot. I step  out of the hammock and  slip  into the deep end of the pool. Soon, my husband jumps in too. “Race you to the bottom,” he says.

Sunday comes and we are back on the main road heading towards the bridge.  We are driving back to our house where we raised our family; back to a familiar beauty.  And though our children will not be there, we will. And we are able still, my husband and I, to experience real treasures in the moment and  small pleasures that loom large. The reality that those days are not gone gives me comfort  here in the car on our way home. And this road is not so unfamiliar after all.