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 Daughter:The Same And Different As Me

by Amy Ruhlin

My daughter is home from college for the weekend. I see her walking towards me from across the room and for a moment, I am looking at myself when I was a girl of 20. The sight of her as a young me is so startling that I catch my breath. Since the day that she was born, I have watched in amazement, and often with relief, how different she is from me.

She has her father's eyes and the shape of his face. She has her own upturned nose and perfectly square jaw. She is well-proportioned and I am long-limbed. Her features are subtle and soft while mine are sharp and angular.

She dresses in colorful, flowery prints while I wear dark solids. She paints her nails: light green on her fingers and royal blue on her toes, colors my own hands and feet have never seen. She is sweet-natured and she is a good listener; she gives you her full attention with genuine concern. I am easily rattled and I talk too much, intent on making my point, sometimes failing to hear hers. She is patient and I am not.

She comes closer to me and I wonder if maybe it's the hair that makes her look like me: She wears it long and parted down the middle, as mine was at her age. But her hair is sleek and smooth; mine was coarse and wavy. She smiles at me and I realize that her smile is the same as mine: wide with straight teeth, a subtle similarity that seems to be asking me to take a closer look.

It's been so easy for me to see how my daughter is not like me. Our differences have created healthy boundaries and stark contrasts. They've allowed me to see that she is her own person and not an extension of me. I've seen in her traits that I only wish I had. I've seen in her, a quiet strength that made me question my own strength.

But today, I've seen myself in her and it made me smile. It made me think of ways in which we are alike.

We both move through challenges with fierce determination in the face of persistent self-doubts. We are both conscientious workers but we prefer lazy days. We both enjoy company but crave solitude.

We both love words and we both write and we read books together. We both like yoga and we can strike a pose of downward dog or half moon together. We share an interest in politics and we laugh and cry together during romantic comedies. We both feel a little afraid when the plane takes off and breathe out together when it lands.

She will be 21 soon. And I now see that the old cliché, "a daughter is a little girl who grows up to be a friend," is actually true. And like most friends, my daughter and I are very different, and yet, at the same time, so very much the same.