My Mother

For Martha Jane Vogel 

July 28, 1929- January 19, 2016

My Mother’s Art

She does not compromise what she alone sees.

The generosity of her hands on the canvas or the piano,

the counterpoint of her brushstrokes and her voice,

the walls become a pastiche or hold a rhapsody.

Moving through eras of little expectancy, rising up

out of her service, when her world turned to face 

the sun she did not rebel but floated forward

and now beauty exists where there had been voids.

We are juxtaposed in the choir lofts for decades

and still there are songs we haven’t sung.

When her fingers were on the piano keys for me

my small voice strained to equal the passion,

the music eternally suspended in me.

What my mother can do always has a future

without a murmur of leaving it behind.

So I understand what I can become, what I must become

for the infinity of mothers and daughters

for her mother, for my daughter.

Black Dress

The black dress had a singular sound and feel,
the Audrey Hepburn dress, the clerk said, and it was sold.

A wide décolleté draped with a wavy collar framed my cleavage.
It wrapped around my ribcage like a baby's swaddling

pulled me in tight and feminine, the swishing skirt flared
to my calves with the urgency to twirl.

The rhinestones on the cuffs and swinging from my earlobes
matched the ones on my shoes and around my neck.

I opened my handbag to check on the two cotton handkerchiefs
I had been given, then I momentarily put my carefully made-up face

in my hands, but caught the tears before they marred my visage.
I moved down the aisle in a happy trance and sat down

to watch my son begin the life I had always dreamed for him.

First Swimming Lesson - Tissue Alert!!

Firstborn

I was not too young to be a mother, but
too young to know how to do anything but love.

It was the day earth connected to heaven
by a female thread, and when it detached, she was mine.

Hours old, the kindly nurse said, it's ok, open the blanket,
unwrap your baby, look at your daughter.

I saw the blush of birth on her skin, pearls
in her fingernails, and sapphires in her eyes.

The trees outside were greening while we were away
in that secluded time spent out of time.

Twenty-nine years later I see birth stories on tv
and feel the bulge of my belly, the tenderness of translucent skin,

the tiny burst of blood vessels. I hear a baby cry
and my breasts tingle and pull and expand.

I buried my old life and she grew into my surviving,
and in my oblation I loved her the best I could.

In The Waiting Room

a young couple
re-entered after their visit
with two feet of
black and white shadows
on a strip of paper.
They sat close in chairs,
heads together,
smiling, giggling,
glancing at each other
then back to the
sonogram images,
pointing at their favorites.

Then they sat quietly,
her hand on the
small mound
of her belly,
waiting,
as if they already loved
this baby,
as if they already knew
this child.

My Mother's Art - Harp of Love

Here is my beautiful mother and amazing artist, Martha Vogel with her latest painting entitled "Harp of Love". I am constantly inspired by her originality and awed by her talent. If you want to read a poem about her click HERE.

Mother's Day

Of all the experiences in life I am most grateful for being a mother. My daughter and son have brought more joy to my life than they will ever know - and the big surprise now that they are grown - is that they continue to bring joy and laughter and love. It's an endless gift. The other day I was standing in the hallway at the school where I work. A young teacher I mentored brought her new baby in for all to oooh and ahhh over. Another pregnant teacher looked at the newborn and said "I can't believe something that big is growing inside of me." And I thought to myself - you never actually will quite believe it. It's a great miracle to see the newborn baby arrive, but the miracle doesn't end there - you get to watch her become a person and you get to see what a wonderful man he's turned into - and the gift goes on and on. I've written many poems, but one of my very favorites is called "One Good Thing". It's very personal so I am only going to share part of it here.

Here is a photograph, two decades gone, of me;
a child holding a child, nothing but desirous instinct,
unprepared for the challenges ahead.
I try to remember the ravaged body,
the day it blew, blood vessels bursting,
out of the desert came water,
the fleeting moment when earth connected to heaven
then it detached - and it was mine.

Only the irrevocable opened gift is remembered
my mother told me.
My sphere of consciousness grew
to places unknown, untried in me.
Love was all there was to the day,
each morning illuminated with a sense of rightness.
This must be my life I said to God,
and on my birthday I gave my mother flowers.

I am also grateful for the wonderful woman who taught me how to be a loving mother. She is beautiful and talented and my dear friend and confidant. Happy Mother's Day Mom. I love you.

My Two Lives

The cedar chest sat in the dusty back corner of the crawl space for many years. Nothing in particular brought it to my mind, but after all this time it was unburied, pulled out and set in the light of an eastern window to breathe again. I lovingly wiped off the cobwebs and dust and opened the heavy tapestry-like lid.

One by one I unwrapped the 1996 newspaper from each item. That was the year I left my first life and started my second one. Commemorative glassware from long-ago proms, a family photograph of a now partially intact family, Grandma's figurines, remnants of my multiple craft attempts - needlepoint, cross-stitch, decoupage, my painted wooden plaques. I wound up a music box and it played "My Favorite Things " as I uncovered engraved baby plates for my daughter and my son, and other small mementos I'd made and that had hung in their bedrooms for so long.

I sat in the midst of crumpled newspaper and piles of my old life and wept, overwhelmed at trying to reconcile my two lives with each other. I wept at having no one with which to share these memories. These items, that are without monetary value, I had put away literally and figuratively for far too long.

Robert Shaw Chorale

It is not Christmas morning if I do not hear a certain hymn. "Break Forth O Beauteous Heavenly Light" from "The Many Moods of Christmas" by the Robert Shaw Chorale.

Break forth O beauteous heavenly light
and usher in the morning;
Ye shepherds shrink not with afright,
But hear the angel's warning.
This child now weak in infancy,
Our confidence and joy shall be.
The power of Satan breaking,
Our peace eternal making.

I thought the piece was written by J.S.Bach, but on closer inspection I see that he wrote the harmonies - which are gorgeous. Johann Schop wrote the melody. The song just sounds like Christmas to me, but beyond that I am reminded of singing with the great Robert Shaw in 1990. Robert Shaw is considered to be the most influential choral conductor in American history. I had heard about him all my life from my mother who sang with the Mendelssohn Chorus in Pittsburgh under Shaw's direction. Growing up I heard the music of his chorale and stories about the amazing and charismatic man he was.

In 1990 I was singing in the summer version of the Cleveland Orchestra Chorus - The Blosson Festival Chorus. I actually lost count of how many years I sang with them in the summers. (14-15 I think!) It was a great thrill to sit behind the Cleveland Orchestra, long thought to be one of the greatest in the world, and to sing with many guest conductors. Not only did I meet Mr. Shaw (and get his autograph) that summer we did my favorite choral work with him - Brahm's German Requiem. It was an experience I will never forget. My mother was thrilled that I had the experience as well, of course.

The Many Moods of Christmas is the quintessential Christmas album. It was originally recorded in 1963, but you can still buy it today. Click on both of his names above to learn more.

A Woman I Cannot RelateTo

If nothing else, Sarah Palin has stirred up the decades-old question of whether a woman can "have it all". First, let me say that I am not judging her - but trying to relate to her as a woman, which I think is reasonable. Second, I will say that I certainly have nothing against working mothers. I was one - albeit reluctantly, and I think I did a pretty good job of the balancing act. I am still grateful that I established a career before having children, and I don't think the job of staying home is any easier than of working - they both take patience and dedication.

A woman having presidential ambitions certainly does not surprise me either. A woman wanting to be vice-president with a four-month old baby does. There, I said it.

I think back to the days of having an infant and all I can recall is that infant - nothing else. The baby was all-consuming and all I needed. I indeed, thought I had it all in those precious first years of their lives. Granted, I only did it twice - maybe the thrill and the all-consuming part wears off by the fifth one - I don't know.

I also need to insert here that I do not have any doubts that fathers are capable of raising children and that they are certainly as necessary to bringing up healthy, happy kids. Maybe that's Sarah's deal. But I can't get away from the fact that the baby is four months old! At that age, my children weren't more than a few yards away from one of my breasts at any given time.

Here's the other glitch - this child has Down's Syndrome. I have to be honest and tell you that my very first thought was - why are you having a baby when you're 44 years old? Of course, I know that these things can happen accidently to any of us - coincidently to her teenage daughter as well - I'm wondering if they can't get birth control up in Alaska ? But I digress.

If I was 44 and knew I was having a Down's Syndrome child I would definitely have the child, as most women would. But I would also know that this child would need even more of his parents dedication and attention. If you've ever known a family with a Down's Syndrome child I'm sure you understand. It's a great PRO-LIFE statement to have a disabled child, but it doesn't mean as much unless you hang around to raise it . (Okay, now I 'm just being mean, right?)

What does "having it all" mean? Why do we need to have it all in the first place? Is there something we need to prove? I think most women make hard choices and set priorities about family and career and most are satisfied with their decisions. You choose what is right for you, not someone else. So I am not saying that Sarah Palin cannot be a good mother and hold the second highest position in our government, which always includes the possiblity of moving up to the most important, but as for me, I just can't relate to that.

The Race

When were you a wild horse
racing across my plains,
your spirit untethered,
your limbs loose and long?

Why did you splice yourself
into the stultified world
and sew your edited shirts
back together in conformity?

What made you begin
to hate what you loved,
to unfinish what you started
and dig that moat around your art?

Where did you gallop to,
your white mane stark against the gray,
tattoos bleeding off your skin,
your tender ankle bones almost broken?

Who will wait out the race,
polish your new shoes, cling
to your soft sides, caress your face
like a mother with a lifted heart?

Happy Mother's Day

I can't let Mother's Day go by without saying that I have a wonderful, amazing mother. I cherish our closeness and admiration for each other more than I can say. She is beautiful and talented and has taught me to appreciate so many things in life. She is a consummate artist and musician and I got a little bit of each of those too because of her. During all of my teenage years my mom was my accompanist as I sang my little heart out at church and in competitions. We spent many, many hours at the piano together. (Unfortunately, I did not inherit her piano talents though.) She taught me more about art and beauty and faith than any teacher I ever had. She's always been a loving, concerned grandma to my children.

My mom and I have sat next to each other (or very close by) in a church choir loft for over 30 years! Both sopranos. And today, Mother's Day, we attended the Village pancake breakfast. I don't know how many years we've eaten blueberry pancakes together on this day - but probably close to 30 as well. My mother has been a supportive friend to me my entire life, and if I am a good mother I know it is in great part due to having a role model in her. I could, of course, go on and on - but you get the picture. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you.

Bittersweet

It's sort of a strange experience to call your daughter from Ohio and when she answers the phone you hear a cacophony in the background and she is yelling, "I have to call you back, Mom - we're going to our seats at Yankee Stadium! Look for me on TV!" The game was on in Cleveland because the Yankees were playing the Indians (the Tribe won!) I stared at the television thinking - she's there - right now - in that crowd - under that sky - 400+ miles away.

Another time I had that same sense of weirdness was our first Thanksgiving apart. I was tearfully stuffing the turkey and the phone rang. "Mom!" (in more of an eight-year-old voice out of the past) "I just saw Scooby-Doo!" She was at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. After hanging up the phone I watched the TV, gazing at the New York streets trying to imagine her in that crowd.

I love that she's out in the world experiencing things that I never did - soaking up New York City - living her own unique life - but at the same time it doesn't seem right that she's there and I'm here.

So I think the word BITTERSWEET must have been invented to describe a mother's torn feelings about her children in situations like this.

You bitterly miss them - but feel the sweet pride as they find their place in this world.

You ache for the days when you were needed 24/7 - but their independence and growth bring you joy.

You want them to stay - but you rejoice at their singular flight.

Bitter and sweet.

A Daughter and Son

Beautiful

My girl, a woman.

We talk of love and fights,

work and dreams like girlfriends.

She has infinite patience

with the "when you were little" stories

that are now multiplying, their goodness

and simplicity comforting me

like a soft blanket over a sheet of doubts.

I search for myself in her deep-set eyes

so different from mine, nothing that can be seen

is the same, but maybe our souls.

Where am I in the wondrous thing she's become?

Where did she learn to forgive so well,

to delight in so little,

to love so beautiful,

even though I thought I'd shown her

everything I did not want her to see?

Soon she will fly, her hands

will make beautiful things

and she will be more.

There is no beginning or end to a daughter,

in the endless sychronicity of mothers and daughters

each generation is more and

she will be more than me.

Son

A son makes you laugh

because he is a man

as you never imagined.

You hear manly words

and you giggle with delight

in the surprise of it all.

The joy in the aftermath of anger

is an oracle, its message

is the long-awaited tranquility.

Then the cleaning out of your

overflowing trunk of prayers

is like the ending

of your favorite book.

And when you hear that

manly voice say Mom,

it's the only voice you've ever known.

Blue Skies

This is how I feel right now because my daughter is coming home today. That's all.