my mother, Noreen Clemens
Full Circle ~ Over the decades my mother has been following me around, showing up in my stomach, my bones, and my dreams. She used to be a dull ache inside me, but not so much anymore. She wasn’t cruel or abusive—there was no sliver to take out, no bullet to remove, no thorn to pluck. In the five years I lived with her, I wasn’t raised by co-mission, I was raised by omission, by neglect, but neglect doesn’t leave a scar, it leaves a hole. Some say holes are harder to heal.
I’ve spent years trying to fill this hole with sex and recreational drugs (God bless the ’70s!), with work, and now with writing. Much like Mom, I’ve been looking for answers. She went the conventional way of the 1950s, going to doctors up and down the state trying to find out what was wrong with her, getting prescriptions for depression, weight, sleep, and for whatever else possessed her. I’ve gone from A to Z in search of understanding to let go of the resentment and pain I hold in my body. Time and understanding have reshaped me, transforming this hole into a kind of wholeness, and out of this wholeness, a kind of holiness has emerged.
So after all my seeking and searching, hoping for some comprehension, I’ve come full circle back to my mother. “Why?” doesn’t matter nearly as much as I thought. My mother didn’t think about the ripples caused by the rocks she cast in the waters. She wasn’t out to purposely make my life unhappy or irritating, didn’t have me in mind when she made her choices. It wasn’t about me. Somehow I knew that, even as a kid.
I imagine she’d have preferred everything to have turned out some other way, to not have stumbled and tripped through her life leaving a batch of chipped and broken china in her path, waltzing a mindless waltz in endless circles. Don’t you think she would have liked to have held the hemmed edge of her billowing skirt and elegantly danced? I do. Like her, I too can be a little clumsy, but unlike her, I learned to dance, to waltz and twirl and two-step. I love when I float across a shiny wood floor, swirling like a warm breeze on tiptoe; I never dreamed I could be a dancer.
Catherine, 2013
Many of Mother’s belongings found their way back to me. Her heavy pinking shears are now in my sewing box. Her black cast-iron griddle cooks my grilled cheese sandwiches. Her delicate gold watch with the narrow black cloth wristband, her Liberty half-dollar necklace from the 1939 San Francisco World’s Fair, and her silver charm bracelet crowded with mementos from her life all keep my jewelry company. Her pictures are on my wall and in my photo albums. Her mother’s round deco mirror hangs in my bedroom, reflecting all three of our images in my face. I also have her metal meat grinder (the one she tried to run me through when I was not yet two), stored in an old workman’s aluminum lunch pail, way up high on a shelf in my garage where it can’t get me. My sisters and brother must have thought these things important to me, that I should have them. They are. I’m pleased when I use or look at or wear them. They remind me of Mom, remind me of some good parts of her. And they remind me of what I missed.
For years I didn’t think about her at all. For a while, I thought about her more than I needed to. Now, when I think of her, it’s easier, and it feels like we can dance.
The End
Epilogue to follow…
© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
All rights reserved.
Susie Price says
Yes, Amen. A beautiful book that also helped me to go back thru my childhood in Whittier/LaHabra and see it with new, wiser eyes. Can you tell me how I can buy a few copies – what is the name of the Book store in Sonoma where you sometimes present?
Catherine Sevenau says
Hi Susie, as the full memoir is not published other than on-line, the only way to read it is through my blog. I’ll send you some links after I organize part III.
Bonita Gordon says
Dearest Catherine,I don’t read them all but the ones I do read always jump off the page. I too have had the memories of painful neglect and then a joyous memory of the Spanish rice, or something else will appear. My mother had me one week before her 18th birthday. I was number 3. And, I remember the meat grinder as well. Times were different back then and I’m thankful that women in this day and age have so many more options. I’m trying to remember more good memories these days and I too choose to believe that I picked those parents for my life path. I like the way you describe dancing. Oh what a beautiful thing. Much love,
Sarah says
Reading this first thing in the morning and thank you. I will continue to patiently wait until I can freely and lovingly dance with my mother’s memory. Big hugs to you
Catherine Sevenau says
It takes time, and perspective, and art. And you are an artist!
susan Dalberg says
Thank you dear friend for allowing me to join you on this journey. You have blessed my heart in so many ways. It was wonderful to slowly feeling the “I’m the only one” slip away. Yes, you are so right. It “wasn’t” singled out for us. Had nothing to do with us–who we are or were. We just happened to be on that same track accidentally in the cross hairs. Could have been anybody, and apparently it was from the remarks I’ve read. Seems there were enough of us, we could at least line dance!! Blessings, dear heart!
Catherine Sevenau says
Or maybe we chose our mothers to be given the lessons we needed to learn this time around. Actually, I’d prefer to think I was confused and got in the wrong line. I never did learn how to line dance; I was always facing the wrong direction. Oh well, I can waltz. And thanks for being on this with me. If enough of us can heal at the same time, it will create a leap in our consciousness. Goodness knows we need that right now. Blessings in return.
Sarah says
Yes I firmly agree with this…we choose are Mothers, and they choose us. I certainly would not have wanted another as I learned a massive amount thru our relationship and grateful for every struggle. 🙂
Mari baughman says
Thank you! It’s been an amazing way to get to know you better. Your writing is brilliant, your word pictures fill me. I am in awe…
Catherine Sevenau says
I knew I liked you! Thank you.
Cheryl W. says
Thank you for allowing us to follow your path in life. It has been a wonderful read with all of the ups and downs. You are such a vivid story teller that I could see all that you described in my head and heart. May there be many blessings on you for your path to the rest of your life. Thank You.
Catherine Sevenau says
You are welcome, and I appreciate having had you on this journey with me.
Barbara says
Perfect ending. What a great ride. Thanks for the memories, old friend!
Tom Sours says
Cathy, This has been a great ride. Thanks for taking me along. Bless you.
Catherine Sevenau says
MWUAH! That’s the sound of a kiss…
Richard Sinay says
It’s gratifying to put it all in perspective despite the years of searching. Writing has a way of healing, putting it out there, distancing oneself from it, and seeing the reality of what one has experienced.
Kay says
You have given a voice to the voiceless and made them believe that they aren’t, in fact, alone. Seeing, reading, knowing about a similar experience helps us process our own dysfunction. At least I wasn’t alone. Much thanks to Larry’s diary which caught my imagination and the honesty of your writing. Thank you very much.
Catherine Sevenau says
We are all standing side-by-side. I wasn’t sure if Facebook was the place to post the whole memoir, but it appears to have worked. I reached an audience I may not have otherwise, and I thank you for being part of that. A book needs a reader, and a reader needs a book, so I thank you in return.
Judith Hunt says
Amen, sister!