MIRROR, MIRROR (MOTHERING THROUGH A WATERY LENS)

 

All photos in this post are from in or near Acadia National Park, Summer 2025

Everyone has a mother

although not everyone has been mothered

or has had the opportunity to know their mother.

Mother is both a noun and a verb,

a theme and a meme,

a cultural norm,

weaponized aspiration,

and part one of a classic swear.

Everyone,

and I mean EVERYONE

has opinions about mothering that 

they base around their own experience

with one or more people who

mothered (or attempted to mother) them.

Mother.  Momma.  Mom.

It's more than teacher or parent.

Mother is the giver of life, the foundation for

how we learn to be loved and give love,

and for female folks, the first mirror

we hold for what it looks like to be a person.

*****

Last week I was putting on mascara

and

(as one does)

 I stabbed myself accidentally in the eye.

As I reached for a tissue, I happened to glance in the mirror.

For just one brief millisecond

my whole being thought the 

person staring back at me

was my mother,

laughing sarcastically at my clumsiness.

I could almost hear her-

Good one, Grace!

or maybe I said it out loud.

Even all these years later, it can

be difficult to distinguish her echo 

from my own voice in unguarded moments.

For almost two decades, there

was no space between my mother and I-

no (allowable) difference between

what she wanted and what I needed.

My cells were hers and her cells were mine.

It of course began that way in utero

but our interwoven co-dependence

persisted right through early adulthood.

I was at her service, 

laying all my offerings at the altar 

of her care, her pride, her protection.

I could have stayed committed,

to that idol for my entire life if I abided by the tenants 

of my family faith.

But I'm a sinner and so I rebelled.

Somewhere in the shift from girl to woman,

I drew a line between myself

and my mother that meant we each

had to choose how to move forward

as individuals-not as one.

I have learned since that this is a natural part

of growing up-this separation.

But my rebellion was not a partial tear

followed by repair and recriminations, hugs and new understanding.

It was a refusal to bow at an altar of abuse

and dysfunction in service of her title.  

It was an insistence that I was allowed

to exist, separate from her, not a mirror.

I shifted the lens and said

You can have some of me but you cannot have all of me.

I am my own and I get to choose what to give you.

Some of anyone was never going to be 

even close to enough.

She has always demanded all or nothing.

I don't remember the last time my skin touched

my mother's skin.

I expect to never share space or time

with her in this iteration of life.

The last time I shared physical space with my mother

was several years past the original line in the sand.

We had been apart but not completely severed,

I was exiled but not fully shunned.

In just the right light, we could pretend

for brief moments that I was still

primarily a reflection of her.

It was easier on both of us for a while.

Until she asked for a favor that turned into 

another, much deeper crack.

Couldn't my youngest brother go to live with someone else?

Just for a little while until she got out of trouble?

He wasn't safe in the house with her lover.

Nevermind that he'd never been safe with her.

Safety for others only mattered when she could no longer

receive the offering of respectability that mother's a due.

We had always done things in the dark

traded shame like cards.

This time, we did it in the cold afternoon light

of an Alamance County courtroom.

I wrote a letter of support

to explain why I recommended the transfer of custody.

It was barely a page, a clear outline that spared

a lot of detail that even now, no one can bear to claim.

It was filled with lines I

knew I should never cross as her reflection.

I sat in that courtroom while she was led to the front.

The judge asked if she wanted to dispute any of the content.

She declined with hushed honey tones

and then he agreed....that the lines I drew should stand

for more than just me.

We had one brief interaction that day,

intense eye contact that was broken when one of us

(I don't remember which)

looked away.

The last conversation I shared with my mother

was when my son was five and my daughter was an infant.

She had been sending gifts to my children through Andy

and when I found out, 

I popped off at the mouth.

If our mother wanted to talk to me

she should call me herself I said.

What I meant was that she was using him.

What I wanted her to hear was that she should leave me alone

and find someone easier to prey on.

I did not actually mean she should call me but of 

course that is what she did.

She scolded me when I asked who 

was on the other end of the line.

It's your mother for Christ's sake.  Who else would it be?

As if we had seen each other just last week

instead of the better part of a decade.

I guess when a god calls you direct, she expects caller ID to be unnecessary.

There was no visual impact but the shape

of her arguments, the cadence of her heartbeat,

and the insistence of her need was loud.

During the next sixty minutes

she tried again to shape me into a something flat and reflective.

The lines I drew had been reinforced though-

by my own blood bound up in other little souls,

by my own rhythm, no longer drowned out by hers,

and by space in which to build that memory.

I am mine (but I am also theirs)

so I cannot ever be only hers again.

In fractured stops and starts

it became clear that 

she wanted something, maybe several somethings.

I wouldn't pretend that we had 

nothing between us that needed repair.

I wouldn't play along with the frame she kept 

trying to wrap around me.

When I put up a clear line of inquiry

What do you want?

She picked up my cadence, direct and clear for once.

Fix this mess-but do it my way.

I declined.

She crescendoed according to all the rules

I remembered from my home training.

Deny, deflect, distract.

And when that fails, threaten.

I said go ahead, bring it.

You only see my surface but

I am water, deep and strong.  

She looked away.

It's been decades

since we've interacted directly.

I know she's still alive because

my siblings occassionally give me reports. 

Sometimes at her direction

(I can still feel the cadence)

and sometimes while they process their own lines

of demarcation or

deconstruct their own altars.

Knowing the tide still pulls is comforting,

catching glimpses of her in the mirror is

reassuring, hearing the timbre of her

voice in my own is a touchstone.

I am so grateful for her.

I love my mother.

I always will.

*******************

Loving her has taught me more about compassion

and grace and redemption than most

of my easier relationships.

Learning to love her as a separate entity,

to forgive her the damage done to her reflection in me

 has given me a deep well

of self-love, regulation and generosity.

My own daughter is a force of living water

sometimes serene on the surface

but also vibrant, alive, and changing.

She's like me but not.

She began in me but she has already

become something unique and beautifully distinct.

One day she'll hear my voice from her own mouth,

see my face in a piece of glass

and I hope feel as much joy

from knowing her mother still lives 

in her as I do when that happens to me.

My mother gave me the experience that I needed to have.

She was a catalyst to get help so that I could create a new story.

I am so grateful for this wisdom.

I love my mother.

I always will.

If you listen to our shared culture,

what I did in breaking that connection was 

terrible, unthinkable-a desecration.

No one asks what made that separation 

the only possible choice.

Most project their own experience with the

deep well of love they tapped into

with their mother

and assume that the child is 

being petty, willful or spiteful.

In cases like mine,

the only way I could continue to love my mother

was to separate, to choose myself.

I had tried (and watched many many other beloved people)

to find a middle ground and failed.

I was almost never a child so I learned at an early age

that I needed to do the work of mothering for her 

and my siblings.

Once I turned those skills on myself, I realized that 

the girl I was needed a mother too.

One who would do the hard thing the child needs

even if the mother will be heartbroken forever because of it.

I thank her every day for teaching me how to be selfish

because it saved my life.

I love my mother.

I always will.

I can't tell you the number of times

someone has said:  Your mom must be so proud of you.

Many people who love me and met me after

dissolution of this core relationship

think that my mother is either deceased

or that she must live

in some remote, exotic location.

It is unthinkable to them that I would be 

so disobedient as to fail to honor my mother

in the way they understand that directive.

I rarely get into this with people

anymore unless we are going to

spend significant time together.  

It's so discordant with what they want to believe

-about mothers, about me, about her.

I don't like to ruin people's world view

or expose them to how fragile their deeply held beliefs are.

There's plenty of overly simplistic examples on 

the 24-hour news cycle of how we continue to 

fail to see each other, love each other,

support each other.

I save the deeper dives for those who reach out

for real connection, not grounded in pride

or fairytales that elevate heroes and burn

villains at the stake.

I've come to learn that there are many of us

that have had to make that decision to separate

and many of us bear the shame of disconnection

from peers, family or community.

If you are one of these children-I mostly want

you to know that you aren't alone.

There are even more of us as the tide of MAGA

and MAHA and white supremacy and Christian Nationalism

infect even beautiful souls with something

that is anathema to connection.

And if you're feeling alone, 

I would like to share that there is healing and wholeness

that exists when we remember the living water

that our mothers (even the imperfect or missing or lost ones)

give us as we are born into this iteration.

Our hearts are made to swell, break and then swell again.

It's our super-power and we can find the way back.

Thank goodness for mothers.

I love my mother.

I always will.

WORTH MY SALT (MY FAMILY'S PRIDE AND JOY)

 

The River Basins of North Carolina surrounded by a prayer by Adrienne Maree Brown doodled by me.

Before the car even stops,

they burst out of the back door

arms wide, teeth sparkling.

Love demands we mimic their movements

mirror their joy.

We must transform our anxiety into hospitality,

our lack into abundance,

our vulnerability into armor.

We must welcome the grace dumped on our heads

unless we want to be ungrateful,

cast out, or ugly.

It's a dance we've always done

since birth or maybe before

so with a few cues, we join in.

The crescendo of nicknames pour forth, 

lighting our hearts up,  

pumping our limbs until

we find the familiar rhythm.

There's no room for ambivalence

 in the urgency of right now, 

we are all together,

 once again,

hallelujah.

The jubilation at laying eyes on slight bodies,

wrinkled hands on smooth cheeks,

grips on necks and arms wrapped tight-

it's so much.

Too much too look in the face.

Too much to wrap your lips around.

Your pride and your joy have come home again.

Did anyone ask the prodigal child 

where the hell he'd been 

or what he'd been thinking?

How he could abandon them

to silence and withdrawal?

How he could take all that they loved 

away into the chaos of his whims?

No.

They feasted.

The Bible tells us so.

So we do the Lord's bidding.

With biscuits and black-eyes,

new potatoes and first tomatoes,

some ham, sliced thick and fried.

Fair trade for the gifts she's toted with her.

Whispy blonde heads and swaggering smiles

 cover for lavender shaded eyes and skinny spines.

The questions are begging but there is pound cake

and cool-whip and sugar-laced wild berries, 

steeping in their own blood.

If there are answers to be given, 

I can surely keep them until we're full up.

I am the smartest of us all-

they made sure I know it-

so that I know it is my job to learn and learn well.

I did (I do).

What did I want them to ask her?

The coffee is dripped and the cigarettes are lit.

The ring around the table invites confession.

Now is the time-to see what is real.

To notice what is missing.

To show them who she is when we are apart.

If only I wasn't so heavy.

Weighed down by dust and lard and sour-smelling shame.

If I could take a breath, I might steer them

towards the sickness.

If I could clear my head, I might know how to

explain to them her riddle.

I am almost able to live up to my birth.

Almost worth my salt.

I look at my brother, long eyelashes brushing

freckles as he struggles to lift his lids on Grandma's lap.

Her arm patting his back begs him to rest with her

where the shape of love is a seat at the table.

He will hurt himself to get even one more second.

Me too.

Belonging is the payment for our pain,

gluttony the balance of our sparseness,

rest the cost of mania.

I force myself to forget my queries,

stun my brain until it gives way,

close the door on the scales I just can't

make balance.

No questions tonight.

No righteous judges or hung jury.

Just three generations holding the knife's edge-

shared bread to tide us over.

The breaker masquerading as my mother

will decide to exile us all again.

This tide always turns.

Hissing sands still allow the withdrawal.

I am the smartest of us all-

they made sure I know it-

so that I know it is my job to learn and learn well.

I did (I do).

On reunion nights like these,

I learned to forget the questions

that would lead us dangerously close to the truth.

I learned to forget the bad decisions

and misplaced concern,

forget that it takes (at least) two to tango

but that a whole mob can get away with murder.

Forget the hunger, focus on the weight.

Forget the chill, eyes on the prize.

The big hello, the belonging and smiles.

The pride clutched tightly as if it is an honest reward

 for a job well done.

Those big greetings, bombastic starts, and outsized

moments always felt like the promise of a lifeline.

Until my grandparents were planted in

darkness.

Until my brother met them there.

Until the breakers stopped coming back to shore.

Until I was smooth as glass on the surface,

all my waves buffered in my depths

all my salt heavy on the floor.

I am the smartest of us all-

they made sure I know it-

so that I know it is my job to learn and learn well.

I did (I do).

It turns out, we mostly just live up

to the expectations of our origin stories.

Mine had expectations so high

that it destroyed their pride and doused their joy.

I tried several iterations of a life

lived the way I was told it had to be.

Then...almost on accident...but mostly because

I became who they wanted me to be....

 I decided to remember the questions.

To pull it up from the deeps

the things that were heavy and twisted.

I pulled a lot of muck into the light,

spread it around and bleached it in the sun.

I have a lot more answers to some of those questions

and I have been at sea ever since.

Unmoored but not adrift.

Saltier some days than others.

The questions I wanted to ask them then

are the ones I want to ask all of us now.

Are you proud of yourself?

Sorry.  Sorry.

Don't answer that.

 I know you aren't.  

That's not the real question.

I sometimes can't help my home-training.

I'll try again, less directly, more softly.

It's not your fault, it's the ocean we swim in.

We all learn to drown even while 

they say they're teaching us to swim.

Let me come alongside a minute

and say this without even accidental sharpness.

What I really want to know

is whether your pride was worth the price?

Does the reprieve last long enough

to hold the anxiety at bay?

Will you hurt yourself to get one more second

of that beautiful lie?

Or have you found a different way to be free?

This is a message in a bottle.

Some water is living and some water is dead

and the only way to know for sure 

is to taste it.

Well seasoned is well fed.

 

SEVERE REACTIONS (ELECTING TO RECALIBRATE)

 

I'm an external processor, a thinker-out-loud-er,

a person who digs in deep to the emotional pea that is interrupting my flow

and then talks (or writes about) it until I've made sure all my friends know

whatever I just uncovered.

Y'all already know this about me right?

While it may seem like I have great insight into myself

and the things that impact me,

the reality is that I'm still (and always will be)

figuring out new and embarassing things about myself.

Just a few weeks ago, I was answering questions about

my medical history in preparation for a minor procedure.

I told the nice person on the phone about my allergies to

several over the counter medicines.

He asked me to describe my reaction and then was dead silent.

"Wow" he said, followed by more silence.

"We're going to mark that as a severe reaction."

I'd like to say that I knew that paranoia, days without sleep and heart palpitations

were a severe reaction to a drug before he said those words.

But I didn't.

I kind of thought it was normal.

There is only one thing in this photo.  Life.

Why did I think it was normal?

The answer to that is layered but here are a few threads:

Because I'd lived through this reaction several times.

Because I didn't get hospitalized or have any negative consequences

outside of my own body and mind.

Because I had adapted behaviors and strategies

for ways to avoid this kind of reaction in most cases.

Because everyone else can handle these very common drugs.

Because it makes me a little weird.

Because I'm a human and therefor I can normalize any damn thing-

including feeling like I'm about to be attacked by an unknowable monster

in a drug induced panic.

Because some times I don't know how to evaluate something

 until someone helps me place it within a broader context.

Because I just decided it was fine.

I (unintentionally) calibrated this experience as something that was

'not-great' but also 'not as awful as other things'.

The value I assigned to this experience was inaccurate

according to the generally accepted definitions of mild, moderate or severe

that medical professionals use

but since I didn't have anyone outside of my head validating

my rating, I never questioned it.

Humanity's flexible approach to situations

is our super-power and our biggest achilles heal.

We decided (and continue to decide) how to assign meaning and value.

We are making it up as we go along.

And while we can do this activity alone,

when we do it together, the results are different.

Sometimes better, sometimes worse-but always MORE.

These little sample teas from David's Tea could be a whole short story

I'd like to tell you this is the only time this has happened but

I've honestly been recalibrating my understanding of 

'how things are' for most of my adult life.

There are lots of experiences that I originally

thought of as inconsequential or predictable

that I now know are traumatic, abusive or unhealthy.

There are things RIGHT NOW that I don't 

pay attention to because I think they're not that big a deal

but will absolutely be revealed to me as a problem.

Nothing highlights this more than politics.

Don't roll your eyes.  I know that you're thinking of 

US government dynamics and while I know the media shenanigans

are making you want to close your laptop and sage your house,

just hang with me a sec.

 Rob Bell has the best definition of politics I've ever heard:

"Politics is our shared life together"

For it to really be politics, we've got to be present with each

other.

Otherwise, we're just walking around inside our own head

and calibrating things according to our singular understanding.

There's a strong possibility that we don't have all the info in there.

And while I like to believe I can live on my own

without influence or support

that is just plainly false.

big quote from a little book, get it where you get books

And wow have I been wrong about our shared life together.

Ten years ago, I thought our country was well on the way to racial reconcilation.

Five years ago, I thought being mentally fit to hold the office of presidency

was a given requirement.

Three years ago, I watched thousands of people take actions

that they thought lined up with their patriotic duty

but pretty much match my definition of treason.

Back to the two sides of this coin though....

our biggest flaw is also a super-power when we understand

how it works.

I can change my mind, adjust to new information.

I can recalibrate my understanding and move forward

with a different perspective.

This means I can learn to like tomatoes,

you can learn about the real history of the police force,

and we can both make smarter choices when it comes to electing

officials to represent us.

In case you're not getting the full message here

this is an election year and local elections

have significantly more impact on you,

your life, taxes, and community

than federal elections.

If you live in my home state of NC,

our voting laws changed recently-

mostly because the good-ole-boys

are scared shitless that you'll figure out a way to 

cut off their supply of oppression.

Here are some great resources for you just in case you need them:

NC Voter Information

Rural Voters Making a Difference

Important Dates for NC 2023 Elections

Lookup Your Polling Place

We could recalibrate.

Learn something new.

Be something different.

Together.

ARGUMENTS WITH MY BOSS (WORKING FOR KINGDOM)

I was pulling a shift at the coffee shop a few months ago

and one of my best friends came in before she headed to 

her current gig in the corporate world.

I introduced my friend to the manager of the shop 

and the manager laughingly said

"Oh yeah.  I'm her boss!"

We all broke into a chuckle, lauging together

at the ridiculousness of it all 

because according to this world, the capitalistic ideals

and one of my varied paychecks, she's correct.

In the coffee shop, she has final say of processes and procedures,

has to deal with scheduling and is the escalation point for 

any customer needs.

According to the sarcastic, laughing tone

she was using when she was talking,

she knows that she's not my actual authority in anything

past the coffee shop and she's not trying to be.

(I have a whole other thought about the gender differences

between leaders that I need to ruminate on before trying to articulate it).

She's a lovely person, grace-filled, kind and capable.

I appreciate working with her, alongside her in this season.

But she is not really my boss.

the business end of an espresso machine

Have you ever known something 

so true and obvious that you don't think to say it out loud?

And it's not until someone says something that is clearly

counter to everything you understand

that you think...oh, I should say this part out loud

so that we can avoid this kind of misunderstanding later.

Most often, I have these kind of ephiphanies

while I'm coaching someone and it's about them 

and their misalignment.

But every now and then-

like that moment a few months ago-

I can hear the things that need clarifying 

within my own relationships or posture towards things in public.

The thing about these kinds of moments...

they can be profoundly formative but not always in ways

that lead to popularity or comfort.

Sometimes, clarifying your position might get you kicked

out of a place or a group that you lurked secretly within,

seemingly welcome and allowed.

Which is why so many times, we just let the thing pass,

let people think about us what they like, smug in the knowledge

that we know the truth.

That works.

Until it doesn't.

Sometimes, it's important for us to say the thing

that we know to be true or authentic

so that it doesn't become a weird little shame nugget.

I've tried to talk myself out of posting this online

for anyone to read and analyze but 

I need to come clean about something

that might get a little hectic with potential clients or employers

because while it's true for me,

and has been true for decades

it doesn't jive with how the world tells us to live.

an attempt at latte art (by me)

The thing is...GOD is my BOSS.

Don't ask me how I got the job-

I don't even remember the hiring process

so I'm not sure I could get out of it even if I wanted to quit.

It's not a cool kid gig and the pay...

well it's frankly shit.

We talk about it a lot, me and the boss.

There is a lot of swearing on my side

and an abundance of patience and laughter

from GOD's.

Nothing is more infuriating than having

someone laugh at you when you are resistent, angry

and just plain stubborn but my boss apparently feels

that this is the proper way to motivate me.

The fact that it's working is another point of contention

within our relationship.

Quite often, the energy and focus I expend resisting

what GOD wants me to do ends up convincing me that 

I need to do exactly what GOD told me to do in the first place.

attempt number two

Having GOD as a boss is frankly, kind of a bitch.

Not only is GOD infinitely creative but 

THEY leave most of the details around how to execute

my part in THEIR ideas completely and utterly up to me.

When I ask for guidance, I'm often just told

to wade in, one small step at a time with

my broken open heart on full display as if that isn't

the most terrifying action anyone can take.

All the training I've received is on the job

and no matter how much experience I have,

it always feels like I'm completely insufficient for the moment.

Also, we have some real differences in 

what it means to plan for an effective work day.

God puts people on my schedule willy-nilly,

ignoring what I had planned and disrupting 

my comfort in favor of an agenda I barely grasp.

Most of the time, God doesn't even let me know about the appointment.

Someone shows up in front of me at the coffee shop,

finds me on the internet,

or randomly says words to me during planned connection

that land in irritatingly prophetic ways.

I mean-couldn't I get the memo that the conversation

was going to be an important one?

Wouldn't it be better if I could prepare?

My only explanation is that God seems to be

relentless in the use of whatever I have on me in the moment.

Even when I do it wrong or poorly-God seems to be able to use my worst

to help someone else find their best.

I guess it's a good thing that I can't seem to get fired because 

while I'm good at a lot of things the world loves,

I'm barely competent at this job.

I'm can be lazy, argumentative and avoident.

I prefer to do things that pay me in money

even though they are never as rewarding or urgent as what my boss wants.

It's only in the past decade that I've actively decided

to focus on accomplishing some of the deeper work my boss wants

me to take up instead of just grabbing the low hanging fruit.

I thought maybe giving my boss a little more focus

would improve our relationship.

That maybe THEY would back off a bit

and appreciate that I'm finally owning my place in the company,

maturing a little bit as a junior associate.

It hasn't worked out like that though.

We still argue A LOT.

There are things that I know my boss cares about 

that I would prefer to ignore.

My timeline on when I'll get to 

a few of those late night memos is never.

I know GOD uses 'read receipts' on these memos,

I know GOD knows that I hear the message

and I spew 'can'ts' and 'won'ts' in GOD's direction regularly.

Still...some of the memos I thought I'd never actually

act on have proven to be the greatest,

most beautiful assignments I've ever had.

Staying -married, at the table, in the conversation, or with the complicated

Quitting -alcohol, jobs, diet-culture, people-pleasing, driving other people's lives

Refusing -to go along with the easy narrative, the trite labels, or the lies that chip away at authenticity one slice at a time

cup art by a sweet coworker

Which is why I keep at it.

There's a still small voice inside of my soul

that speaks to me with relentless insistence

about a whole host of tasks and opportunities and beautiful

possibility of what WE could be if I just do my damn job.

And of course, all the other employees did theirs too.

I'm not all-in for the church.

I AM all in for us though-

wherever two or more are gathered

I'm open to the fact that my boss sent me and might have sent you.

There is enough work to do in the name of LOVE

and I'll use all the tools available to build a place here on earth

that includes all of the love, acceptance and grace that

exists in the heavens.

Arguing and grumbling and wrestling with my boss the whole way.

If you want to give me feedback,

wrestle around about it in real life

I'm down.

In fact, I'm positive my boss will put you on my calendar

if this is a conversation we need to have.

If you'd rather schedule it yourself, drop me a line.

📷 by my daughter...