The thud clunk, clunk thud of apples
as they hit the ground
on the still warm humid afternoons in late August
presage the return of autumn.
Crisp and cool with fiery hues
of orange, yellow, red in the trees overhead.
Even the air we inhale
into our noses and mouths
evaporates like steam
rising from heating pots of applesauce.
Becoming dry air inside the oven used to
suck every last bit of moisture from the season’s harvest.
It is precisely at this intersection of summer
serenading fall
when my ears, nose, mouth and skin
accommodate to this new, yet oft repeated drama.
When my mind wanders backwards
to see the four of you again at different times and ages.
Frolicking among berries, eggplants, peppers and zucchinis.
Making strawberry mint sandwiches.
Grabbing a tomato to quench a thirst
while on the run.
You four, in synchrony with the seasons,
hummed your songs and lived the stories
of childhood together and apart.
Skipping, jumping, singing, dancing, playing, learning
through the spinning seasons.
Outdoors, indoors, at home, at school.
With friends and without them:
a kaleidoscope of holidays and people.
Grandparents, aunts, uncles,
cousins and more cousins,.
Weddings, births, bar and bat mitzvot,
confirmations, comings, goings.
Camps, schools, plays, chess matches, cross country races,
and linux installations.
It was a story in color and in fast forward.
As you grew, shedding teeth and worn out shoes.
And still you move, evolve and unfold
nourished by the roots you left behind
as you expand your borders, seek your own paths.
Now when I sniff the shift to autumn
or roll a basil leaf on my tongue,
my mind rewinds, and I experience each of you.
How you have invited me to take up the mother arts.
Of course, including the obvious tasks of
organizer, nutritionist, cook, coach, mentor,
listener, limit setter.
More subtle though was nurturing a bond:
the highly synchronized exquisite dance
between a mother and an infant,
child, teen, and young adult.
Taking new twists and turns.
Always needing to be revised and practiced
as time treks forward.
It is that link that draws us together
wherever we may journey;
a fine tuning of the emotions inside my body
as well as on my face.
The short and rapid breaths of excitement in my lungs
when you share good news;
the deep and painful twang in my gut when tidings are sad;
the vibration that shivers in my vagina when there’s danger;
the pleasure in my ear canals
when you speak or sing or dance or run;
the comfort in my nostrils when you are close
enough to give a hug;
the joy in my feet when we take a simple walk together.
You have taught me to honor feelings
that reside and sometimes hide inside me.
To realize that mine and yours
are not the same.
Empathy is an easy lure to blur boundaries
between, for example, your sadness and mine.
It takes practice (and you gave me plenty!) to be empathic,
maintain the boundary,
and gently offer you my hands.
To pull you from the depths of desolation
to a place where you can recover.
Put the pieces of your life together again.
You have instructed me in patience,
to know when to wait until you’re ready
and when to nudge you forward.
The art, I learned, is in the timing.
Your trust in me imbued me with self-trust.
Your responsiveness to my overtures inspired confidence.
Your raw feelings reminded me of the vulnerabilities in us all.
Your awe at everything new granted me a second chance at childhood.
Your creativity kindled my own.
Your presence in my life has urged me to expand beyond myself.
So, my four– my rose, sunflower, lion and wolf–
you have been my wisest teachers.
Encouraging me to learn.
To revel in the art of motherhood.
Love,
Your mother
(Lynn Benjamin, September 1, 2003)