It is appropriate that I take this space to say a few words in memory of my mother. She is, afterall, the inspiration for Penelope Road. A woman's journey that wasn't so much about looking for her Odysseus, but about finding her way back home, back to a place of origin. Her peripatetic life, the journeys she embarked upon, the obstacles she encountered, the temptations she faced, the distance she traveled all fly in the face of convention. She did what Penelope could not do. In her journey, as one would expect, she lost, too, as well as gained. She suffered and she celebrated. She sacrificed, she compromised--and not always with desired results. She raged against what life threw at her and she silently, passively accepted when the rage came back an empty echo. And until the very end, she raged against the dying of the light. She did so with a bellowing voice until she figured out how to get off the ride that was tiring her so much.(MPB, high school senior picture, 1951)
It is not her death, however, I wish to remember here. It is her journey--as much as I know of it, anyway. Her life spanned a good amount of geography: Nebraska, Northern California, Alabama, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, back to Northern California, back to Massachusetts, Southern California, Northern California, Southern California, Arizona, Southern California, and, finally, back to Massachusetts. Other than a couple of wild weekends in Tijuana in her early 20s, she never left the country. Her reasons for moving from place to place may not have been always dignified or rational or right. In her flaws, she was, as we all are, a complex person, leaving her life without a real opportunity to resolve or connect or forgive or be forgiven. The walls she constructed around parts of herself will always remain large and impermeable to me. In her brightest qualities, she has left behind a legacy of voice, unconventional choices, self-assertion, independence, rebelliousness, and the firm belief that the world was hers to live in as she chose. This was her estate. This is my inheritance:
She taught me that Janis Joplin, Joan Baez, Puccini, Mozart, and Cole Porter were musical geniuses. She taught me "if you don't ask, you don't get." She taught me I could do anything I wanted, but I should never underestimate the power of work and effort. She taught me that I, and only I, am in control of my life--I determine what happens. And I am responsible for the outcomes, no matter what they should be. She taught me that books matter. That music matters. That art matters. That knowledge matters. That caring matters. That citizenship matters. That the open road is the best gift you can give yourself. She taught me to be fearless when I am afraid, to be undaunted when I am daunted. She taught me what it means to journey. She taught me how to go, how to expand.
She never did find her way home. But this spring, I'll take her there and with a shot of Irish whiskey, I'll make her a part of Nebraska once again and return to the earth what it once gave up, and toast:
May the road rise above you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
May the rain fall softly upon your fields,
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.
Rest,
In Peace,
At last.
Distance traveled: untold, immeasureable miles.
Time: 74 years, 2 weeks, 3 days.
1 comment:
lcr--is the silences wafting across the grand expanses of time and space, I am reminded of YOUR power with words, the ways in which you let yourself show through your written words with cleaner edges and more substance than you do when you are asked a question: how are you?, for example.
I have travelled with you for seventeen years (nine months at a time) on a narrow span of earth in Los Angeles, CA; there are still such grand and sometimes painful stretches of silence across which we watch one another and sometimes smile or walk away puzzled. I honor and respect you for all of your journeys and the ways in which you have cataloged and commemorated your steps in this journey. I find a great solace in your memorial to your mother, especially since my own mother is also walled into her own darkness where she refuses to let any light shine, and even shadows, redolent of lost light, she refuses with gargantuan gestures of bitterness. I fear that I will never know her well enough to write anything eloquent except from an uncomfortable distance. I appreciate the ways you recall your mother's "lessons." Surely all mothers impart lessons to their daughters; I can, when I think of it that way, find many memories suitable for reproduction and not just for howling about in the distant dark.
Thank you, lcr, for your words. They reach across many divides and strike home.
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