Fly High, Fly Low

This post is a bit different than my others, a bit more personal, a bit more nostalgic, and more about

My favorite of my mother

people than plants. But it does concern itself with a very important B in my life- one that has been there before all the others came to be. The woman who made B- my mother- Barbara. My mother is an artist, a writer- and a deep, quiet thinker. I'd like to think I have been graced with some of her talents, and as I look back on photographs, hopefully some of her graceful beauty. This weekend was a very exciting one for me- new business opportunities, marketing myself and a friend's company, and the general busyness that Spring brings to the life of a horticulturist. But as I walked booths at an industry trade show, I was feverishly searching for a book for my mother. I'd been looking for several weeks, and had found many possibilities, but none were the book. It needed to be just right; I hoped I'd know it when I saw it, and it had a lot to hold. She had offered to write me a memory book- to capture all the times she kept as treasured memories, and maybe even reflections on the darker times that wove their way through our lives.

Mom and Joey for his birthday

In my thirty five years of life- my mother and I have gone through many a time together and apart- and for several years- far too many now that they are behind us- times of complete silence. No, silence is the wrong word, for we were both screaming for the other to hear, yet neither could catch a word of understanding. These years of distance were created from a wall built (mostly by me) of misunderstandings, unasked questions, and perceptions that were never challenged. There was a time, not very long ago, that I had determined that no real relationship would ever exist for my mother and me. The chasm was too far to cross, and I was determined to move forward, I told myself- not back. I am so grateful to her for her quiet patience, waiting for her stubborn daughter to question these perceptions, knock down the wall of misunderstanding, and re-learn each other as mother and daughter. I am also so thankful I am writing these words now, while she is alive, and can read them herself, than penning them in anguish and regret after she leaves this earth. I don't want to be comforted by those all too often spoken condolences of- "she knew you loved her" I want to tell her now, and know she knows how grateful I am to have a mother such as her. 

The cover of the journal

As I walked among booths of tempting flowers and garden treasures, I came upon a booth of what looked to be old books. I love old books; I have to crack them open and smell them, look for the loving inscriptions, and find to what page the book's cracked binding sends me. But these were not just old books- they were journals made from the covers and pages of old books- to give the writer inspiration, or a theme- or just add a little whimsy to their personal pages. Here is where I found the book- a children's book- Fly High Fly Low- I knew it the moment I saw the cover- with a seagull soaring above a harbor- this was the book to capture our life memories. 

I don't have the best memory of my childhood or teenage years- there are some years I have absolutely no memory of at all- but I do remember my mother's love for a character named Jonathan Seagull. I grew up near the ocean, and I have memories of my mother and I walking the beaches, riding the train along the shoreline, exploring Mystic Seaport together- the ocean holds our memories. Then there's the title- Fly High, Fly Low. It is a  bittersweet story, of a gull whose wings are entangled in wire and just wants to be free- fleeing from every hand that reaches for it- to finally rest by itself in quiet pain. A boy follows the gull through the story, and after gentle presence- is able to get close enough to free the bird. In any case- while not parallel to us- it was the perfect book for our story. 

Blank pages with the book interspersed

You see, my mother has always believed in my wings, their strength, their purpose, and never lost hope- even though for a time I needed to stay entangled in wire- she was a steady presence- whether I acknowledged her or not. Now, I can feel my wings strengthening with each day, my direction clearing with each mile I travel, and I know I owe the woman of quiet strength, beauty, and patience for the wingspan that lets me fly high, fly low- and have her love and support wherever I go. I look forward to the memories she will capture in this book, things I may have only one view on, or have completely forgotten; I will get to read them through her eyes. Life is getting busy, exciting- there's a great unknown to where all this will take me. But I will make time for quiet moments with this book, to remember just how my wings were made, strengthened, believed in, and freed- and so grateful for her who was there to let me fly.