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.

 

 

My Son And Me

by Amy Ruhlin

As seen on: LivingBetterat50+

My son has a job as a lifeguard this summer and today, I drove him to work. Though he now has his driver’s license, he does not yet have his own car, so for the time being we must share mine and he is being a good sport about it. I drive slowly; neither of us has an agenda and there are no external distractions. We are simply mother and son, each fully present, as we so often were when he was young, before I became preoccupied with the passing of time and midlife reinvention, and before he became preoccupied with the demands of growing up and teenage activities.

He sits in the passenger seat beside me wearing his uniform: red, knee length swim trunks, a white T-shirt with the word "Lifeguard" spread across the back, a whistle around his neck. I take in the sight, knowing that it will soon be a cherished memory. I remember other uniforms: lime green pajamas with cartoon characters on the front, a black ninja outfit for Halloween, a baggy soccer uniform on his small four-year-old frame. He has a new haircut. I can see his delicate facial features: well defined eyebrows, long, black eyelashes an easy smile.  The features that I appreciated every day when he was young but have often failed to notice since he hit puberty and since I turned 45. He has been busy trying to break away, as he should. I have been busy trying to move on and to hide my heartache, as much as I can.

He talks to me about his job and I listen and I can tell that he still cares that I listen. He tells me about the beginning of his cross country running season and that he will be among the leaders of the team during his senior year. I am impressed and I can tell that it still matters to him that I am. We talk about colleges and I encourage him to follow his deep interest in the one that is half-way across the country, even though the distance is a concern. I see him surprised at my encouragement, but glad that he still has my support. Though he is almost 17 years old and nearly 6 feet tall, I see that he is still vulnerable, still lighthearted, still interested in what his mom thinks of his life. The same son as before, only in a different uniform.

Like so many mothers and sons, my son and I were inseparable when he was small.  He barely left my side; he was my little boy. But as he grew, I was no longer the center of his universe, no longer the only girl in his life, and I knew that I had to begin the process of letting go. I didn't want to do it and it was often scary. I was afraid of losing him.

But today, during a quiet few moments together in my car, I realize that I haven’t lost anything. My little boy has simply grown into a fine young man and we are still mother and son.