A Cento from the Journals of Susan Jean

On September 26, 2026 By AnemoneLeave a comment

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.

to find my voice in song

On September 26, 2022 By AnemoneLeave a comment

there have been countless moments
like this one
an autumn evening
in the kitchen
roasting tomatoes
blending pesto
when I think of Mother
of her life
her laugh
the softness of her fingertips
her voice calling my name home
the pleasure on her face while dancing
there are countless moments
like this one
when I think of death
in an abundant season of harvest
death
in an abundant season of dying
oh, Mother
38 years and 65 days after
birthing me forth in love
your death taught me
to find my voice
in song

Transplanting

On May 8, 2020May 8, 2020 By AnemoneLeave a comment

For my mother, for your mother, for the mother in me, for the mother in you, and for the Great Mother.

The tender leaves of the brandy-wine have grown cut and distinct

from those of the beefsteak.

They are ready to begin the process of becoming hardened-off

for the world outside.

Moving tomato starts from house to garden,

from perpetual day under ultraviolet light

to cycles of day and night;

exposing them to sun and moon shine,

to rain and wind–

acts of faith.

I blow them kisses,

I pray for their survival.

I remember the careful sowing of seeds–

the tending, the watering, the watching.

In three days, I will gently tease their dense roots.

I will place them in prepared soil.

I will intuit the pleasure of moving

from the boundaries of a small pot into earth expansive.

I wrote this poem as a young mother in a rare and quiet moment with a writer-friend at a local cafe. It first appeared, in an earlier version, in the first edition of Voice Catcher, an Anthology of New Writing by Portland-Area Women,* 2006.

Mother’s Death

On November 10, 2017November 11, 2017 By Anemone2 Comments

DoeB&W

The week my mother’s body began rapidly declining towards death, a doe and her fawn were frequenting my parents’ land. I saw them several times on restorative walks that I took to feel the comfort of the elements. The doe and her fawn would stop and look at me for a moment that felt eternal, then bound away to a safe distance before turning to look back again, as deer do. I was comforted by their presence. My mother’s face became emaciated and her eyes seemed to grow larger. I always admired her green eyes. I find myself now wishing I had spent more time gazing into those green eyes. Her gaze was a present, sometimes piercing one. In her last days, it had a startled quality, a doe-like look. Her gaze seemed to simultaneously see into me and beyond me. She saw visitors invisible to me and acknowledged them with the wave of her hand or the blink of her eyes. There was a luminescence emanating from her shrinking human form. Her soul and spirit and body were in conflict, torn in different directions. She did not want to leave this beloved human body and life, not just yet.

My grief is a richly colored, deeply textured landscape, with mountains that cast tall shadows, that feature treacherous and breathtaking cliffs. With dense forests that extend over rolling hills and through valleys. With winding rivers, salty seas, dark damp caves, sunlit meadows of flowers, muddy bogs and pits of quicksand. I wander through all of it daily, willingly. I don’t want the edges softened for me. I don’t want it made better. I want to experience all of it. I am hungry for the journey. My pain brings insight. I am curious about the depths of my soul. I hold deep gratitude for the love that helps carry me through, that prevents me from getting mired down, from getting too lost for too long. I have been an escort to the threshold and back of both birth and death. I am transformed with new understandings, new appreciations, new awe for the multi-dimensional nature of life and death.

I feel a strong sense of urgency. If I might not be here in this body tomorrow, what am I doing waiting on anything? But then, there are things in life that require my patience and nurturing to grow. How do I know the difference? When to act, when to wait? This liminal space is testing my trust. It is asking me to hold on and to let go at the same time. It is teaching me about the subtleties of separation and loneliness, of solitude and companionship–these may be profound realities of this physical human existence and also tricks of the human mind, for I have felt utterly alone in the midst of company, and yet, I also know that even when I am alone, I am never truly alone.

Spreading her ashes,

in my garden,

along wildlife refuge bluff,

under western red cedar,

into softly burbling creek,

I came upon bone fragments.

Bone and ash of the body,

bone and ash of her body,

bone and ash of your body, Mother.

bone and ash of your body, Mother…

your body that formed my body.

Bone of my bone,

flesh of my flesh,

blood of my blood.

Bone and body that no longer belong, to you,

no longer attached to soul and spirit.

now ash,

now returning.

I once asked,

Where do we begin and end?

We are a continuous, circular flow

of beginnings and endings–

with no beginning and never ending.

I wonder now,

How do soul and spirit unhook from the body beloved?

Everbearing

Tag: mother

A Cento from the Journals of Susan Jean

to find my voice in song

Transplanting

For my mother, for your mother, for the mother in me, for the mother in you, and for the Great Mother.

I wrote this poem as a young mother in a rare and quiet moment with a writer-friend at a local cafe. It first appeared, in an earlier version, in the first edition of Voice Catcher, an Anthology of New Writing by Portland-Area Women,* 2006.

Mother’s Death

Share this:

Share this:

For my mother, for your mother, for the mother in me, for the mother in you, and for the Great Mother.

*I wrote this poem as a young mother in a rare and quiet moment with a writer-friend at a local cafe. It first appeared, in an earlier version, in the first edition of Voice Catcher, an Anthology of New Writing by Portland-Area Women, 2006.

Share this:

Share this:

I wrote this poem as a young mother in a rare and quiet moment with a writer-friend at a local cafe. It first appeared, in an earlier version, in the first edition of Voice Catcher, an Anthology of New Writing by Portland-Area Women,* 2006.