I never recognized it as an intentional choosing, my mother never speaking of dreams to be anywhere else; to go anywhere else. She is complicated, my mother, with layers of complexity, yet never telling her story—none other than than the well-rehearsed bits. Mama seems to live by default and without complaint, determined to overcome and conquer nature. It’s what she’s had the energy to do—that and to keep breathing. And to keep food on the table and the basement shelves stocked, to teach Sunday School and an active Day Care. And now caring full time for her mother.
Mama is creative, adventurous, and mostly silent about all the mysteries on that ten acres.
She painted Italian villas with dark windows and I wondered about them–those windows. There on the canvas are her steps, a fountain and the glider swing that she built. “The world is here,” she seems to say in this ensemble of paintings. “…here in the marvels of the outdoors which I can finally escape into. This is my freedom, my playground, my wilderness. I need no other.”
She belongs there on her ten acres with its beautiful orchard and gardens and rocky hillside. I can’t imagine my mother anywhere else, although she loves to travel and enjoys many new adventures. Still, Mama visits and then returns home.
I have not been so fortunate.