I have many of my mother’s letter, including letters written to and from lovers she had after she divorced my father. I’ve chosen not to read all of her letters as it feels too intrusive. My mother was so public in her life story, that currently I feel she deserves her privacy and finding out something unknown may upend the fragile peace I’ve made about our relationship.
I wonder about these things too, Elissa, about how much information is too much. My mother was a secretive person and I often feel like I’m still hungry for details and threads I can pull on, but sometimes the places they lead end up hurting. Like your letter in the box.
I packed up my mother’s apartment in March, and was hunting everywhere for the photo album with my baby pictures and childhood photos. We’d had a huge drama the year before she died, and then she got sick and I went into advocacy mode. Took care of everything. We did a tremendous amount of healing at the end of her life. But then I found my photo albums in the basement, in a bag with things it looked like she really didn’t care about. Random things. The bag could so easily have been misplaced or discarded and it really hurt. So, yeah. Gardening. This is exactly everything. Sending you a lot of love.
The timing of this essay is nothing short of a miracle for me. The details of my life story are complex and - one day - may become a memoir.
Yesterday I discovered through a hint about my father (adopted father) on Ancestry something so horrific that the only person I have and likely ever will share it with is my husband. I’m still reeling from what I found and am contemplating further investigating the event to confirm what the outcome was.
When you asked, “Is it wise to go searching…” I caught my breath.
There is much to process about this ahead. I am grateful for a supportive spouse in these moments. He has stood by my side through innumerable pains, and trauma recovery. Next month will be 44 years of marriage. I am grateful I know he is who he says he is and that our children can trust there are no hidden secrets.
I have nothing from my mother except a few Christmas ornaments and I have my father's slides amd 8MM rolls. I was 19 when they died. I wish I had more. At 73, I barely remember them. My mother loved to garden. Your writing hits my core, Elissa. You are most definitely one of my favorites and I am so grateful for how much you share.
That looks like a secure garden. I have my Mother’s diary when she was 19 . I loved her so much as a young woman after reading it. She was a separate person before she married and so like I was at nineteen.
Nature is so calming and healing, whether we have our hands in the soil or are walking through forest, field or on a beach. I love the way that calm and healing can pass through good writing too: Braiding Sweetgrass took me vivdly into nature with every page turn. A Sand County Almanac, The Comfort of Crows and Finding the Mother Tree did the same. And of course, John Muir, Wendell Berry and Mary Oliver.
When I was in college I gave my mother a ‘memory book’ ( it contained prompts). She wrote in it often until she began to retreat into Alzheimer’s disease at age 90. It is a comfort to read it now, even though some of it can be startling. Your reflections are beautifully written and I hope you can finally find some peace with your mother’s memory.
I grew up terrorized by that kind of “I’ll get you” bullying fury as well. My mother tended flowers too, as did I as an adult, and like me had a soft spot for vulnerable creatures, which were probably a lot less triggering to her own trauma than I was as a vulnerable child. Your words make me feel seen. Thank you. Mother Earth has always been my source of mothering.
I love this post, especially the sections about gardening. I, too, find solace in the garden; that's where I turned during my husband's bout with prostate cancer. When the anxiety became too much, I'd go outside and weed our extensive perennial garden. Back then, we lived in the Mid-Atlantic. Getting my hands in the dirt helped my panic subside and made me believe that I could get through this. We've since moved to New England, and we're building a new garden. I look forward to seeing what it will yield.
Your perennial garden: OMG! Please, will you come to my house and wave your magic gardening wand over my gardens? Haven't read all the mother part yet, as I am staying with the work you two garden mavens have done because it is a much happier topic. Thanks for the photos.
I have many of my mother’s letter, including letters written to and from lovers she had after she divorced my father. I’ve chosen not to read all of her letters as it feels too intrusive. My mother was so public in her life story, that currently I feel she deserves her privacy and finding out something unknown may upend the fragile peace I’ve made about our relationship.
I wonder about these things too, Elissa, about how much information is too much. My mother was a secretive person and I often feel like I’m still hungry for details and threads I can pull on, but sometimes the places they lead end up hurting. Like your letter in the box.
I packed up my mother’s apartment in March, and was hunting everywhere for the photo album with my baby pictures and childhood photos. We’d had a huge drama the year before she died, and then she got sick and I went into advocacy mode. Took care of everything. We did a tremendous amount of healing at the end of her life. But then I found my photo albums in the basement, in a bag with things it looked like she really didn’t care about. Random things. The bag could so easily have been misplaced or discarded and it really hurt. So, yeah. Gardening. This is exactly everything. Sending you a lot of love.
The timing of this essay is nothing short of a miracle for me. The details of my life story are complex and - one day - may become a memoir.
Yesterday I discovered through a hint about my father (adopted father) on Ancestry something so horrific that the only person I have and likely ever will share it with is my husband. I’m still reeling from what I found and am contemplating further investigating the event to confirm what the outcome was.
When you asked, “Is it wise to go searching…” I caught my breath.
There is much to process about this ahead. I am grateful for a supportive spouse in these moments. He has stood by my side through innumerable pains, and trauma recovery. Next month will be 44 years of marriage. I am grateful I know he is who he says he is and that our children can trust there are no hidden secrets.
I have nothing from my mother except a few Christmas ornaments and I have my father's slides amd 8MM rolls. I was 19 when they died. I wish I had more. At 73, I barely remember them. My mother loved to garden. Your writing hits my core, Elissa. You are most definitely one of my favorites and I am so grateful for how much you share.
That looks like a secure garden. I have my Mother’s diary when she was 19 . I loved her so much as a young woman after reading it. She was a separate person before she married and so like I was at nineteen.
Nature is so calming and healing, whether we have our hands in the soil or are walking through forest, field or on a beach. I love the way that calm and healing can pass through good writing too: Braiding Sweetgrass took me vivdly into nature with every page turn. A Sand County Almanac, The Comfort of Crows and Finding the Mother Tree did the same. And of course, John Muir, Wendell Berry and Mary Oliver.
I love the way you lean on gardening so beautifully. It is the only thing, really.
And that new garden is stunning! (Also, love that picture of Petey in the old garden.)
When I was in college I gave my mother a ‘memory book’ ( it contained prompts). She wrote in it often until she began to retreat into Alzheimer’s disease at age 90. It is a comfort to read it now, even though some of it can be startling. Your reflections are beautifully written and I hope you can finally find some peace with your mother’s memory.
Would love to know the source of your new garden frame please? Love it!
Eartheasy based in British Columbia. They have beautiful things.
Thank you! 😊
I grew up terrorized by that kind of “I’ll get you” bullying fury as well. My mother tended flowers too, as did I as an adult, and like me had a soft spot for vulnerable creatures, which were probably a lot less triggering to her own trauma than I was as a vulnerable child. Your words make me feel seen. Thank you. Mother Earth has always been my source of mothering.
I love this post, especially the sections about gardening. I, too, find solace in the garden; that's where I turned during my husband's bout with prostate cancer. When the anxiety became too much, I'd go outside and weed our extensive perennial garden. Back then, we lived in the Mid-Atlantic. Getting my hands in the dirt helped my panic subside and made me believe that I could get through this. We've since moved to New England, and we're building a new garden. I look forward to seeing what it will yield.
Your perennial garden: OMG! Please, will you come to my house and wave your magic gardening wand over my gardens? Haven't read all the mother part yet, as I am staying with the work you two garden mavens have done because it is a much happier topic. Thanks for the photos.