I have a ritual at least four times a week.
I lie on the foot of my mothers bed,where she is to be found from 8pm every night, under her billowing white canopy of gossamer on a bed of antique starched white Victorian bedding.(No i'm not being dramatic, she literally bought the bedding in a small town in France, she had pulled a muscle in her foot, and was lying on the porch of some French villa, fanning herself and cursing the hot weather and the un-walkable foot, her mind shouting 'Your in France for god's sake!pull yourself together woman!' When like a dust tornado from hell, one of the servants came running towards her, breathless, red in the face, gasping for the perfect English amongst her beautiful French ..' Madam!Madam!zer ees a markeet down zee groad where zee are zelling antique Fraaanch beddeeeng!'
To say my mothers foot healed like some ancient miracle by pope John himself is an understatement.
hence we now own three sets of Antique genuine Fraaaanch bedeeeng.
But back to the point i'm trying to make.
During these weekly rituals we lie on her bed and talk. and talk and talk and talk sometimes for hours, My mother is most often surrounded by a mass of books, newspapers, Time magazine, a bowl of grapes and her beloved dachshund Lucy Bella.
She is a phenomenal thinker, a magical creature of words, light, and a true understanding of self.
She is my mother, magnificently so.
I have been wanting to write a post on her since day one of my year of magical thinking.
So here goes. To know me, you must know my mother, though some would say i am my father's child, i am a traveller in the heart of my mother that found its way into a person some 25 years ago.
Great wisdom, fiery frustration, deep respect and fierce loyalty are four ways to aptly describe her.
Her mind is often to fast for her mouth hence her nickname miss malapropism.(or miss dogberry-ism of we realllllly want to get smart)
A floating delight of whispered knowledge to be found in quiet moments, like when she is picking roses, or watering her lavender plants when the sun has cooled and the earth is no longer scorching, for watering in the day has a way of ruining the night time watering magic.. in plainer terms, watering a garden in full sunlight can come of no good, as the water dries up before it reaches the plants roots.
She has taught me to put lemon verbena in my pillow slips, warm a teacup before pouring the tea(It keeps the cup staying warmer for longer, for all you slow tea drinkers out there.)
She has loved the same man, my day dreamer father for the past 36 years, with a deep and unselfish love that see's them sneaking kisses when they think no one can see, and stealing glances at one another like star crossed lovers.
We built fairy houses out of cardboard boxes, left notes for the mermaids on the beach, and when we returned to the sandy spot a few minutes later, there would always be a pearl necklace, or a shell bracelet... how she got them there, i don't want to know, i want to think it was the sea people, its the child within me that longs for the magic to remain.
Thank you mamma, for teaching me about Proust and Simone de Beauvoir, i know i yelled at you and said id rather watch Barney than learn about people who were dead already, but now that i'm a little older and hopefully a little wiser, i am eternally gratful.
Thank you for dragging me to listen to all those piano concerto's they have given me a love for Beethoven that you cannot begin to imagine, for your wealth of knowledge you laid bare for me to gain from, sjoe... its given the me the world and made me dream of Peru.
For the sacrifice, for the laughs, for the dinners, for the hand me down antiques, for your moms brooches, for mismatched broken tea cups, for faith in me.
For being my mother. Your a gift of light.
