I was five when my parents divorced. My mom left and never returned, running from the past and a life she never wanted which included three children. I know that both my parents are to blame for marrying and a marriage with many flaws. Having lived in Germany, I also understand the culture and context of her childhood and the scars WWII etched unforgivably deep. Although as a child I took on far too much responsibility for her decisions and the aftermath that became my daily reality, as an adult, I can see that my mom needed to rewrite her story.
Being an abandoned daughter is a hallmark of my life, my own story, yet it was rarely discussed in my family. She continued to live in the same city and build a new life for herself, yet she never reached out to reconnect with her offspring. I remember shopping with my aunt in Kmart once, when we ran into my mom with a blue light special flashing in an aisle nearby. My mom and aunt exchanged words, but I was never acknowledged and left reeling by the unexpected encounter. To be honest, I have no other real memories of her, but my older sister and brother do which is why her abandonment hit them even harder than me.
I do believe that while a uterus permits women to have children not every woman has a "mother" instinct, and my mother may have been one of them. As a result, I had plenty of anxiety as I entered motherhood myself nearly 19 years ago now. I wondered whether I would even know how or want to mother a child once he or she arrived. In addition, motherhood is so romanticized in our culture, and the stakes for women as mothers continue to rise. I had plenty of worries. Thankfully, the mothering instinct immediately kicked in, and I learned as I went along not only about how to parent but also about myself as a person.
Marriage and motherhood helped me let go of the pain from childhood, the life I was born into that I could never control anyway. The life my husband and I have built and the addition of our girls have enriched my life with unimaginable challenges and rewards. Still, abandonment is a part of my story, but I no longer see it as a mark of my own failings. Rather, I see its meaning as a mark of my personal strength. I survived and thrived through great loss. I am a strong woman with a strong voice, who strives to advocate for the greater good and the downtrodden.
Now, when the past returns in unexpected ways as was the case yesterday, I remember that everyone has a story that continues to be written until one's last breath. We may never fully understand the story of another, or even our own for that matter as we peel back the layers of meaning over time, but we can cultivate empathy for those who are strangers yet our closest blood relatives as well as those who live on the other side of the planet with experiences eerily similar to our own. The value of the past is in its acknowledgement while letting go at the very same time, granting space within our personhood to go on living fully, authentically, and graciously. May I continue to welcome the past with an eye on the future.
The
Arrival of the Past
Scott
Owens
You wake wanting the dream
you left behind in sleep, water washing through everything, clearing away sediment of years, uncovering the lost and forgotten. You hear the sun breaking on cold grass, on eaves, on stone steps outside. You see light igniting sparks of dust in the air. You feel for the first time in years the world electrified with morning.
You know something has changed
in the night, something you thought
gone from the world has come back:
shooting stars in the pasture,
sleeping beneath a field
of daisies, wisteria climbing
over fences, houses, trees.
This is a place that smells
like childhood and old age.
It is a limb you swung from,
a field you go back to.
It is a part of whatever you do.
you left behind in sleep, water washing through everything, clearing away sediment of years, uncovering the lost and forgotten. You hear the sun breaking on cold grass, on eaves, on stone steps outside. You see light igniting sparks of dust in the air. You feel for the first time in years the world electrified with morning.
You know something has changed
in the night, something you thought
gone from the world has come back:
shooting stars in the pasture,
sleeping beneath a field
of daisies, wisteria climbing
over fences, houses, trees.
This is a place that smells
like childhood and old age.
It is a limb you swung from,
a field you go back to.
It is a part of whatever you do.
