What does Mother mean to you?

The deepest foundations of who I am rest on the bedrock that is my Mother.  All things start from there.

I remember as a little child, sitting on her lap as she sang softly to me.  Or walking around my grandparents’ farm with my sister, as my Mom sang “Oh what a beautiful morning.”  She has a lovely voice still, but as a child the sound of your Mother singing is more beautiful than anything any angel could offer.

My Mother was only twenty years old when I was born.  She was (and still is) a beautiful woman, with long auburn hair and light blue eyes.  Her beauty was never lost on me — in fact it was magnified by my deep awe and love for her.  She is the reason why I worship women in general.

She taught me to love music and literature.  I remember how she used to play the piano for hours:  not only familiar hymns, but also tunes from Il Trovatore and the second movement from Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, arranged for piano — but I didn’t know what it was at the time.

As I grew older, we’d often have long talks together — especially in the morning.  She and I were morning persons — everyone else preferred sleeping in.  She’d be done with her morning chores by the time I was dressed, and we’d sit at the big diningroom table and talk over coffee until it was time to get on with the day.

When I was a junior in college, 1200 miles from home, I bought the complete symphonies of Beethoven on LP.  I was very familiar with the first, third, fifth, and part of the ninth — but the first time I listened to the seventh, the second movement turned me into a child once more.  The tears came freely, and I longed to see my Mother at the keyboard of my grandparents’ old rosewood upright again.

On this Mother’s Day, I’m even farther away.  But I’ll send out this post as a virtual hug across the continent.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!  I love you.