Mothering

By Katherine Munter

“We are born of love; love is our mother.” -Rumi

The first person who called me “Mom,” was born over half a century before me.

His name was Raymond. Deemed unable to make his own decisions, he became an adult ward of the state after his parents and close relatives passed. Unlike a child who learns whom to call mother, Ray asked my permission. When I paused, he explained with choppy speech and teary eyes that he missed his mom and knew it was pretend.

Every morning when I arrived at work, Ray was waiting for me by the front window. “Mom!” he’d excitedly call with a wave, always bringing a smile to my face as we began our day together. He’d accompany me as I walked through the facility, sharing stories of his life.

Ray grew up on a farm in the 1920s. He was never sent to school, as he was labeled, in his words,“not smart enough.” As he watched his siblings leave with bags of books, he considered himself lucky to be able to stay home and spend time with his mother. Though hands were always needed on the farm, Ray didn’t work in the fields; his father was concerned he might be injured by the heavy equipment. Instead, Ray spent his early days listening to the gentle lowing of the cows and the rustle of wind blowing through the wheat field. He taught me that cows are warm— a soothing warmth that can heat a barn even through the chill of winter.

When it came time to harvest wheat, Ray helped lay the stalks onto a canvas tarp. His mother showed him how to hit the bundles with a stick to separate the tender grains. Together, they’d take the wheat kernels to the grist mill and then return home with bags of precious flour. Ray recalled his mother’s hands as she expertly kneaded the flour into dough, and he’d laugh as he remembered his own sticky fingers. They used a cast iron wood stove, which warmed the entire kitchen. Though there wasn’t a reliable temperature gauge, Ray said they knew the bread was done by the comforting smell that wafted through the space: grainy caramel with just a hint of smoke.

One rainy morning, I arrived at work, and Ray wasn’t waiting at the window. My heart caught in my chest as I rushed to the nurse’s station. With tears welling in her eyes, she told me he had passed suddenly during the night. I returned to his window, almost expecting him to be there. Rather, I found myself drawn to stand in his spot and look out through the water droplets, across the parking lot, to the woods beyond. I was relieved that he no longer felt lonely and yet felt the weight of my own loneliness grow. Open palm and forehead against the cool glass, I silently said goodbye.

Several years ago, I decided to try planting a small plot of wheat. I pressed the seeds into the chilly autumn soil, pondering how each tiny beginning possessed all of the knowledge it needed to thrive. I watched the daily changes as the grasses reached toward the sun. After harvesting and drying the stalks, my daughters and I placed bundles into pillowcases and danced on them to encourage the seeds to separate. A sweet, earthy smell tickled our noses as dust billowed around us. Pouring the grains onto a sheet, we grabbed corners and bounced the wheat berries into the air. The wind grabbed the outer chaff and carried it away.

Some people stick with us, their lessons slowly unfolding over time. In asking me to take care of him, Ray also took care of something in me. I learned to nurture and offer space to grow, both to others as well as to myself. Decades later, when I hear the whispers of wind through tall grass, I remember him, smile, and feel my heart gently warming.

During this month when we honor those who mother, my thoughts are carried to all those who supported me and encouraged me to grow. In what ways can you nurture yourself and others?

Dr. Katherine Munter, clinical psychologist, art therapist, and founder of Creative Life Therapy, an Ann Arbor practice of art therapy and integrative wellbeing. Learn more at www.CreativeLifeTherapy.com.

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