Pride in my mother came pouring out of me last
night. I thought about what home was to
me when I was young.
Home was
where I went to be protected by my mother and my
father;
where dinner was placed on the table.
Where my clothes laid piled in the middle of my
bedroom floor.
Where music came flying from every doorway.
Home where breakfast might be blended in the old Osterizer.
Where I knew how to make it downstairs and avoid the
creaking of the 2nd two steps.
And the dryer tumbled into the night spewing out
that smell of warmed cloth.
My mother was in charge. She was the matriarch, she kept the multiple threads
together in her own hands, braiding our days together
Braiding my hair
like ironing those linen sheets and making sure we
had clothes to wear. And a ride to and
from and she wasn’t late to rehearsal.
Between 12:30 and 1:30, quiet, then give her an hour to practice before
her students began to arrive and wait for their lessons.
One such student was Barli. Years later Geoff confessed his crush on her
and why he walked with us from the bus stop on days she got off with us.
She was reserved, almost shy,
her flute case held close to her body. Did we not all have school bags back
then? Carrying those piles of books in
our arms held to our chests up the long hill and Barli added the rectangular
case with its small plastic handle.
Clumsy.
My mother’s funeral was partially a concert
performed by Barli, another of Mom’s students and son number 2 or child number 3. The concert honored her: the
woman, the friend, the mother and the mentor.
Barli played to her mentor.
It has been 56 years since we came home to the
matriarchal household to change our clothes after school and add more clothes to
that pile on the floor.
It has been 35 years since Barli wrote her
dissertation on the importance of a teacher on music development.
It has been 15 years since that funeral that moved
us all.
Last night I got a message from the ether asking
me if I wanted to befriend this young handsome flutist, out of the blue, who
was he and why did FB think he was connected to me?
I looked at his friends
one was connected to my brother,
number 2,
one was connected to Barli
All were connected to music.
To that beginning home
that beginning pride
a student of, a student of Barli’s, a
student of my mother’s.
I felt home in the background and in
the foreground was my present, my now family, my new place of dirty dishes, small
tea parties, and laughter in the middle of the night.
The new young flutist was my Godchild’s
close friend who I have never met, but his life’s orbit has begun to interact
with mine.
Why is this story so compelling to me?
We talk about the connections, the
energy between us, all the divine that wraps around each of our hearts bringing
us in like a tight knit sweater. What
seems random, is not; there is reason this young man and his flute and I share
a thread, a unique thread woven in and around each of us. Last night I got to see it and follow the
thread back to Signal Hill and the pride I had in my mother as students waited
their turn, while we waited our turn, while the burden of the whole life sat on
her shoulders.
And a half century later one can trace
a line of good back into that music studio, one student at a time, learning
about music and about themselves and to begin to place together the pieces they
will pass on to the next who will pass it on to another.
Home is no longer where my mother and
father care for me
nor do I put dirty laundry on my
bedroom floor. Nor do young kids play
Mozart etudes over and over again in the background.
But it is where that 3rd/4th
generation are sifting garnets from the clay or choosing weeds that benefit.
and it is where a constant line of support for music feeds itself over and over
again.
Life’s purpose
Home’s purpose
to feed, shelter, clothe, me and all
those I’m able to touch with fruit, cotton, heat and hugs.
And music
forever running through my soul.
I love it!
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