In honor of my mother, Susan Jean Williams (1946-2016)
(daughter, sister, friend, mother, partner, wife, grandmother, bird-watcher, gardener, citizen scientist,
philosopher, homemaker, reading tutor, lover of art and literature, family historian, kinkeeper, and more…)
this journal belongs to…
if I can discipline myself to record a few thoughts
perhaps it will provide some comfort
to understand their mother and themselves a little more thoroughly
attempting a winter garden
the ground is still white from the snowfall
sparkling dew drops on withered grape vines
the weather appears to be changing
I decided to accept it and go with FATE!
the mysterious allure of the future
there are so many sides to us all
owl perched on the roof then spread its wings, silently swooped south
awareness of the blessing of having lived long enough to witness three generations
sometimes I wonder, why am I so fortunate?
time will tell
enjoyed a spring-like day here in the upper Willamette Valley
the cedar waxwings are back!
the fawn lily is sending up leaves!
baby robins have flown away
currants in the fields–dancing jewels
chickadees on sunflower and mullein
the U.S. bombed Iraq today
full moon
large noisy pack of coyotes howling and yipping
dark gray clouds hanging low in the sky
awash in memories
standing in the backyard on Lark Street
warm in the early summer sun
aware of occupying a body in transition
the occasional deep black of exposed lava
small rather puffy little clouds hanging over the cascades
we spotted a short-tail weasel cavorting in and out of ponderosa tree wells
Bill Moyers–NOW–NAFTA & Democracy–major repercussions!
kestrel poking head into sparrow’s house
one rough-skinned newt lying on the bottom of the pool
I’ve not done my homework–flashbacks of youthful guilt
preparing for class or the rest of her life?
a humbling, enriching, calming gift–these 61 plus years
my life is good
she races, leaps, almost sails over the sparkling blades
sun low in the sky
the birds know better
a strong empirical reason we should cultivate thoughts that can never be proved:
they are known to be useful
the possibilities are endless
*Postscript*
I was gifted a small collection of my mother’s journals after she died. Her journal entries provided windows into her perspective and little peeks into her vast, mostly private, internal landscape. The process of creating a Cento from her writing helped me feel closer to her, and to appreciate relationship with creativity. Experiencing the world within her words inspired me to remember to relish in the simplicity of living in a body on this planet of abundance. The process evoked many questions that now seem unanswerable. Compiling these lines, leaving them and returning to them, alchemical. Throughout the past year, as the date of what would have been her 80th birthday passed, as the 10th anniversary of her death approaches, I have felt and continue to feel gratitude for her life, for her love, and for my dear living father–for the love he shared with my mother, the love they transmitted and continue to transmit to me, my siblings, and to their grandchildren. I feel waves of grief and longing intermingling with the past and present and future, intergenerational, interdimensional. I am weeping as I type this, words blurring on the screen. Reading this may be stirring or evocative for you too, especially if you knew and loved Susan Jean, especially if you have known the loss of mother. Be gentle with yourself and your loves.
*From the Latin word for “patchwork garment,” a Cento is a literary work collaged entirely from other authors’ poetry or prose. In their earliest forms, centos were often composed as tribute. Contemporary poets now create centos from lines pulled from a multitude of sources.
