A conversation with my mother

For Mother’s Day I had the impulse to interview my mother. I did it once before over here. Six years later I am compelled to ask her the same kinds of questions because I am always trying to get inside this woman’s head, and in the process answer the questions in my own life.

My mom and grandmother

I keep telling you to write. How do you feel about that? 

I agree with you. I want to. I need to. I will! I’m trying to understand my hesitancy. Somehow timing has something to do with it. I’m reminded of a poem of Margaret Avison’s that I read with interest a few years ago when I was doing my doctoral studies. At the time I thought it was insightful. Now it feels more profound:

I don’t feel particularly old in the sense of being frail and feeble, but in some strange way I resonate with the “morning heron / on mist-smoking water standing . . . waiting . . .” I don’t have the urgency of the “sandpiper. . . sketching a scalloping path.” Avison’s curious images of both birds fit the writers in two different stages. I’m not pressed with a deadline to produce, so I’m waiting . . .

What’s your favourite piece of art these days? Grey's Anatomy counts!

First, let me go on record: Grey’s Anatomy fits into the same category as watching the Raptors! A cultural oddity that entertains and lets me be slightly frivolous—something I’m not very good at.

My favourite piece of art? That’s a hard one. I was sitting here in my office trying to think and cast my eye on the book I read at the beginning of both retirement and the pandemic (an unhappy combination, I still think): Elizabeth Strout’s My Name Is Lucy Barton. I leafed through it to see why it was so profound for me and immediately started at the beginning, finding it hard to put it down instead of writing for you! . . .

At one point, reflecting on her childhood and her love of reading, Lucy Barton comments, “But the books brought me things. This is my point. They made me feel less alone. This is my point. And I thought: I will write and people will not feel so alone! . . .”

It’s strange, then, that I have not been reading any fascinating new best sellers—a strange fatigue from relationships?

The only real reading I’ve done this year has been reading the Bible through which is surely an antidote to one’s inherent loneliness? The honesty and truthfulness of human frailty articulated in the Old Testament stories side by side with the gentleness of the Gospels of the one who is “full of grace and truth” clarify the news of war and injustice and political upheaval we absorb daily in our romp through our internet collection of news bytes.

So, favourite art? Well, there’s nothing more exquisite than The Gospel of John! And that is where I am this morning.

You surprise me with the funny things you say--that reveal a part of you that is hidden. What’s hidden that could be revealed at 70? 

I don’t know what to say to this one. I can’t be funny on a dime . . . It just has to come. I like irony, I like double meaning in words, I like the New Yorker cartoons—at least I used to—this year’s collection has been disappointing. I think we take ourselves too seriously most of the time, and we really are a strange combination of the absurd. Right now, your father and I are watching Ozark on Netflix in the evening. With supper and dishes done, I cheerfully say on the way to the TV, “Well, who is going to die tonight?” Death is normally serious and mostly tragic, but its repetition in this absurd tale makes me shrug in disbelief and then turn to a “2 to 1” 8th-inning score of the Blue Jays game to wash it away.

Topics that never cease to interest me are grief, loneliness, sadness. I am less interested in joy, elation--or they evade me--and I want to understand that about myself. Does that feel familiar for you? I think we are a lot alike. 

Hence, I love My Name Is Lucy Barton. Again, a quick quote:  “. . .in spite of my plentitude, I was lonely. Lonely was the first flavor I had tasted in my life and it was always there, hidden inside the crevices of my mouth reminding me.”  Doesn’t she nail it?!! In her story, Lucy truly had an isolating and haunting childhood. I did not. Mine was much more prosaic and I was embraced by loving parents and siblings. Nevertheless, the feelings of sadness and insecurity still lurked. Years ago, I remember a favourite book for me was Carson McCullers’ The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. There she tells of four unrelated people with their individual stories confiding in a man who seemed to listen to them and understand them. The end of the story is stunning. (In case you haven’t read it, I’ll not spoil the plot.) 

Loneliness and sadness are probably part of the human condition. Only some of us are better at identifying it than others. We search for soul mates and make mistakes that wound ourselves and alter relationships. Writers like Strout and McCullers in exposing the universal help make the loneliness bearable.

Today you told me that you were never happy as a kid. Was I happy as a kid? 

You know, I’m not sure. You’d have to answer that one. And how we view ourselves retrospectively is perhaps different than the experience at the time. You and Natalie were always pretty close (and my siblings were too much older or younger to provide that link. I was like an only child.) I know I immersed myself in my music to fill up the lonely spaces. I didn’t see you needing to do that. As a parent, I didn’t worry about you being lonely or happy (not sure the two words are synonymous). And there were certainly lots going on around you to keep you busy and creative. As you entered high school I saw emerge some signs of struggle. You chose a hard path when you opted to work in the arts.

I was telling you about the documentary I watched which explored the mother daughter relationship of actress Jane Birking and her daughter Charlotte Gainsbourg. Jane says that “daughters always come back to their mothers?” Do you think that’s true and was that ever a worry for you with us? 

Why would this worry me? “Coming back to their mothers” is a good thing, isn’t it?  I’m delighted with—in fact, I cherish those moments of deep connection with you. The Bolivian picture in our dining room sums up my feelings:  I cradle you and Natalie in my heart and figurative arms, even as I go about my own life and work and watch you do the same. Of course, I grieve when my daughters have to suffer—in any way. The mother can’t prevent the pains of life, but she can still hold you close.

In another life what career would you have done? Would you keep your talents or trade them for others?

My happiest moments—my least self-conscious—were in ensemble performing. Strangely enough, some of my best moments were in the trio with Mike and Sharon or back further, when I was with the SPC Singers – the performing parts, not the relationships!! – but that is not sustainable.

I pretty much am content with what I did in teaching. So, I guess I wouldn’t trade what I finally achieved. Life is not over. So what is still in store?

Speaking of joy...biggest joy of motherhood?

Having daughters to share my ideas and passions with. Two favourite events come to mind: When you and Natalie came to see me in Oxford and we went into London together: We went to two plays Angels in America (very heavy and tragic) and then a lighthearted one. Then walking around London. . . it was so special. My work in Oxford was pretty lonely, when you think of it; and that was a respite that I treasured.

Mom holding Violet

The second one was on my birthday a couple of years ago when we went to a play at the Shaw Theatre in Niagara-on-the-Lake. I was struggling with my hip before the surgery, but you both lovingly helped me enjoy an outing anyway! And now, watching the way you, in turn, love your daughters (and Natalie, Frankie) and do such creative things with them, makes me very happy. It’s a joy to see the love chain continue!

In other news…this week on the podcast we talk to Jen McNeely from She Does the City about Curating a Life. New episodes every Wednesday. I appreciate so much every click, share, subscribe, comment!