Process
I feel my pores open soaking up particles of light. Above me on the hill, the tiny newly greening leaves are making chlorophyll. Each one, still small and delicate, fluttering, transparent in the slanting afternoon sun. I am pulling nails from boards, my body becoming familiar with the weight of the hammer, the torque of the rusted nails coming out through old holes. For the first time since the house was officially ours, I am here alone, surrounded by calling cardinals, nuthatches, bluebirds, chickadees. The air I full of song and silence. Wind rushes up through the valley, circling the house.
Every time I come here, every single time, my heart sings. I know this sounds cliché, and maybe it is—for don’t all cliché’s originate in some utterly profound truth? My love for this land has saturated my lungs, my muscles, my soul.
Each day is a choreography of patience and longing. Every minute we can get, one of us is at the house, and the push to finish is almost unbearable. Inside our heads the jangle of other desires: to mountain bike with the onset of warmer weather, to lie about on the lawn, soaking up the soporific sunlight, to wake up in our own house. Instead, our small apartment always feels like the walls are folding in on us; the counters in the kitchen too narrow and always full with things that don’t belong there: mail, pens, an odd wrench or screwdriver, a bottle full of bubbles. We wake up at night to the sound of the neighbor going or coming late, crashing up the stairs, her small dog yipping in the shrill way that small dogs do; or to the pulse of red and blue lights of a cop car or ambulance.
As I pull nails, my skin grows hot, and my thoughts wander. I’m still sifting through my impressions from my mother’s visit. Trying to locate the source of my emotions: anger zinging up like a hornet bite, loss, frustration, gladness. Our relationship has never been easy. Always there’s been an undercurrent of some unvocalized tension. When I think back over her days here, my heart fingers moments like Braille, trying to find words for the things that might have occurred, or didn’t.
Here’s the thing: for whatever reason, my mother doesn’t know the language of celebration. She cannot simply say: ‘this is so beautiful!’ or ‘I am so happy you are happy.’ Instead joy is always burried under other words, like a vein of iron running through a in stone. Also: I always feel like there is comparison in her words: “I’d never do it this way,” she said a dozen times; and I’m not sure what to do with this at all.
I make progress with the stack of boards. 150 year old six-inch wide planks, faded to gray, originally from a barn in Addision County. We’re not sure what we’ll do with them—but for now we’re keeping them: removing the nails and stacking them in the garage where they’ll be dry. I try to do the same with the granules of confusion, resentment, frustration that I feel now, a handful of days after my mother left. There were bright moments, and her love is evident, but her pessimism has this way of tangling everything inside me. Her answer: I’ll see it differently when I’m her age. And I’m sure will, but it that doesn’t change how I feel right now.
With each nail I pull, I consciously allow myself to release whatever unnamed, unsaid tumult has been lurking below the surface, and replace it with sunlight.
Mosaics, Homefront, Thoughts & observations |14 Responses to “Process”
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I love the idea of pulling nails and releasing sunlight.
I love how you’ve connected these two processes — of pulling nails and digesting the outcome of your mother’s visit. “my heart fingers moments like Braille” — such a strong image!
I love those old boards; even without seeing them, I love them.
Mothers…..I wish I had the right answers, especially for my own soul that is bruised beyond recognition with my mother’s passing. So much hurt and complication; words never said. Anger and guilt. I hope that my relationship with my own daughter never gets to this point.
I happened to come to your blog.It’s so lucky to see this beautiful “heart-home”of your feel and thoughts.
May I will come here everytime when I be on line.
KA-CHUNK.
That was me, falling over from the beauty and truth you’ve given us. So beautiful.
And we will all dance happily when you leave that apartment behind and move into your true home.
you have such a creative way with words. I love to read your writing.
It’s so wonderful to read — you’re being honest with yourself about your experience and still allowing yourself to process the events. I’m so excited for you and your family to be in your new home. And by the way, my Josh would be absolutely envious of that stack of wood you described.
this post speaks of hope. it speaks of healing. it speaks of that age-old battle between dependence and independence. it’s a beautiful and tiring dance.
Moms and daughters always have such complex relationships, the way we say one thing when we mean another and then disect the whole conversation afterwards. I have three sister and I have always said I would be scared to have a daughter.
What a joy it will be when you are finally moved in
As a mom of 2 grown daughters, I thank you for reminding me of a truth that I know, but forget from time to time - a mother’s words have a power unlike any other…
I will make a remark (casually, thoughtlessly - as though I’m talking to just any other woman or friend - rather than remembering this Mother WordPower) - then I see the look of “What does THAT mean?” come over their face and I cringe inside, remembering how I felt when my mother said things that made me feel that way. (sigh)
Hopefully, each generation gets a little better at circumnavigating this territory of words.
I can’t remember how I found your blog, but I’m always amazed and impressed with your visualizations and descriptions. I look forward to reading each time. DH & I are building a house, but we are lucky to not have a deadline. I wish you smoothness, luck and skill as everything comes together.
As always, a great post, written with heart and openness. Mothers. There was a trace of that stuff in my relationship with my mother, but now that she’s in a nursing home and hardly capable of any communication, I’d gladly have any one of those past uncomfortable and edgy conversations we might have had rather than none. Some people just get in a habit of carrying negativity - finding that pessimistic “but” to put in there, and if you’re out of the habit of being with negative people, (as you may be) it has a worse effect when you come up against it again. You become sensitised to it. I’m just rambling into my headspace here. No idea if it’s relevant to your situation. Sorry!
Hi Christina,
thought provoking…as we all have, had, or are mothers. Someone mentioned the book Mother Daughter Wisdom by Dr. Northrup which I was too busy to read so I got the audio version. Great for driving! Fascinating and healing. Also, a dear friend of 20 years just gave me the book The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz - short and easy to read and absolutely relevant.
I always look forward to your open hearted and beautifully written posts.
great post, christina. it is so nice to be able to work by yourself, using your body to work out the frustrations of the mind - ah, that alone time. moms and daughters… ugh.
barn board is valuable stuff to the right person - absolutely love it. my stepmother and i used to make picture frames, bird houses, anything we could with the stuff and sell it to the consignment/craft shop in town. people would eat that stuff up!