TRANSLUCENCY

I wrote the following in September of 2011.  I entered it into a magazine contest.  No, I didn't win but I was pleased that I followed through and entered it on time - smile.  My mother hates being my muse but you tell me... am I wrong?  What a chick she is!  I want to wish you all a wonderful Valentines Day.  Please celebrate the love you have with all that you have. 

A question was posed regarding when one first truly understood love.  I pride myself on being “hip,” up-to-date and able to speak with compassion and conviction on such deep matters as “what is love” and decided the question was one I should be able to answer.  As I began to consider the topic and formalize my response, I very quickly learned that I didn’t have an answer. 

In fact, for weeks (which turned to months), I wrestled over the posed question and actually found myself a bit frightened by the continuing blank I kept drawing.  After all, for years, I’d searched for the elusive, seemingly unattainable romantic “love” to only see it dissipate in the palm of my heart when it showed itself to be anything but love. 

But, “COME ON!” I’m reasonably intelligent, a fast learner, willing to admit the areas I need further growth, kind, caring, giving, compassionate, direct, and capable of loving and deserving love in return.  I just knew I could answer this question! 

However, during the more quiet times, I began to ask myself could it be that I’ve been unable to capture romantic “love” because I didn’t really know what it would be like when I found it?  Honestly, I was feeling mighty defeated by the posed question:  “when did I truly first understand love?”  I got very frustrated with myself!  How complicated could this really be? 

ALL RIGHT!  ALL RIGHT!  ALL RIGHT!

Did I first understand love the day I was told that I was expecting and I felt an immediate connection to my sweet little baby?  Or was it the time my son pulled me to the side, looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Mom, I’m so proud of you” for a community project I’d developed with some friends? 

Perhaps it was the day I watched my beloved Grandmother decide if she would attend the funeral of her youngest child.  I watched her vacillate between going and not going as her health was failing and she was being told it would be too much for her.  I watched her hold her head high and march out of the house in a bright suit to be present at the celebration of her baby’s move to Glory.  

Was it the time my great Aunt turned the layout of her house totally around because it would make things easier for my great Uncle and his many medical needs?  Was it the time, as a child, we all swooped out of state because my cousin was killed in a tragic manner; to include my father who was visiting me in person for the first time I could remember? 

Was it when I watched my firstborn as she got her adult feet planted well beneath herself?  Or the time I thought my heart was going to be pounded to powder as I listened to my son wail through the vents in our home because his heart had been so deeply wounded by his beloved father?

Was it the time that I heard the confession of my great-Auntie about the way she’d treated some of her nephews when they were young; and her dismay that one of those boys – then a man by many decades – embraced her and told her how good it was just to see her?  Or, was it the times I stayed on the phone late into the night with my other great-Auntie as she told me the story of her life one tragedy after the other; and absorbed that her greatest regrets were about her relationships with her children and other relatives; and the existing unwillingness or inability to accept that she’d tried her best? 

Could my first understanding of love have been the day I held my grandbaby for the very first time?  Was it my first look at my 2 month pre-maturely born baby niece in the incubator; and being so sure God had jokes because the little baby smiled at me and I knew I’d have to be actively involved in her life?

I just had never seen such a small human and was worried that she would stop breathing!  I would rush in her room each morning only to find the most beautiful little hand sticking in the air with all five fingers extended to tell me “hold up chick – I’m still sleeping – don’t come in here with all of that noise.” 

Was my first true understanding of love cemented in my anger as I peered into the infant incubator that held my little niece that weighed 3 pounds and 1 ounce; as her parents stood by smelling to high heaven of cigarette smoke?  My anger being further fueled by knowing they’d passed by other babies that too fought for their very lives - increasing those babies breathing difficulties too? 

Was it the day my nephew told me that I got to be his mother for the day?  Or the fact that he cries for me when he feels sick and it twists my heart if I can’t get to him fast enough? 

Maybe it was the time my infant grandson, at the age of five or six months moved his little hand to my eye (I just knew he was going to give me a little punch in it due to lack of coordination) and then rubbed my eyelashes.  I was filled with warmth and amazement because his mother knew and told me he liked eyelashes and the fact that he gained control of that little chubby hand and was so very gentle. 

WHEN DID I FIRST TRULY UNDERSTAND LOVE?!?

I just couldn’t rest until I found an answer to the posed question that made sense to me.  See, I thought I understood the value, taste, texture and power of love.  I certainly have spent a fair amount of time chasing the most elusive romantic “love,” and actively participating in intimate relationships with my children, parents, extended family and circle of dear sister/friends & brother/friends.  SURELY, I CAN ANSWER THIS STUPID QUESTION!

I kept working the issue and then one day, in the midst of a few quiet moments my fogginess cleared and I knew that despite my 46 years of life; I truly hadn’t understood “love” until my 45^th year of life.  The truth of “love” crystallized for me on the day I received an email from my mother.  It was a letter she had begun for her six nieces and nephews regarding “their story” and how they came to be raised by her and my father.

At the tender age of 30, my parents accepted the commitment to raise the five children of my Aunt who suffered with severe mental illness.  One year later, the sixth child born to that Aunt joined the crowd.   

The years were long and they were lean.  My parents, with my grandparents support, had to fight for support and assistance to keep the children together.  All was not perfect, but my parents offered their all. 

The children grew up, graduated from high school and some even went on to earn college degrees.  They began having families of their own and life kept moving.    

Perhaps it is my career field, but I have not encountered many people who didn’t have a complaint (whether considered legitimate or not) about what they thought should or could have been better in their childhoods. Although there were times after the children were grown that a few returned to say “thank-you;” they projected an overall negative feelings about what they felt they didn’t get growing up. 

As I read the letter, I was reminded of the years; how much food cost weekly; spending half a day at the laundry mat doing laundry.  How happy we were when we finally got a washer and dryer!  I remember all that and so much more. 

I’m sure they don’t remember, but I’ve seen my mother shed tears of fear and concern over some of those children when they made decisions that put them at risk as teenagers.  I’ve seen my mother shed tears in anger and frustration with her sister; but not once tell her that she couldn’t come to our house to see her children. 

I also know that even now, whenever my Aunt needs things, she contacts my mother.  When it’s possible, my mother helps her sister; and when not - my Aunt hurls hateful, angry words and accusations at my mother. 

And do you know my mother has never once reminded her sister that she gave over twenty years to raise her children because my Aunt wasn’t able to do it?   My parents did this because they loved them and it was important that the children stayed together and in our family.

I asked her why she didn’t remind her sister of this true fact and her response was very simple and yet profound at the same time; she said, “I forgot.” 

And then I understood love is translucent.