For My Mother on Her Birthday
One thing about running is that I can work a lot of things out in my head. Often, I just get some fragment of song or thought stuck in there on repeat because it fits the cadence of my run. That’s how the birthday poem for my brother came about – it just appeared in my head to the rhythm of the run. Now I’m afraid I’ve set the bar in a spot I’ll never be able to get back to, and I have a lot of family birthdays coming up….
So I don’t have poetry in my head this morning, but I am thinking of my mother as it is her birthday today, and no one is more deserving of poetry than she is. She is the embodiment of beauty. From the moment Dana Woodward McGarity appeared on earth, she was spectacular to behold. One would be hard pressed to find a prettier baby girl.
She grew to be a lovely young woman. As I think of the snapshots of her through the years of high school, college, wife and mother, I am reminded of iconic beauties like Elizabeth Taylor and Jackie O.
I don’t know if she really knows how beautiful she was and is, but my mother has never been content to be the object of admiration. She is an author of beauty. It is a running joke between us (well, we are acually really serious about it) that form comes before function. Nothing is too insignificant to benefit from the deliberate application of beauty be it dress, table settings, household organization, special events, flower arrangements, or carefully crafted notes and letters. Go ahead, ask her about the “applique days”.
Lest you think that making things beautiful is a frivolous luxury, understand that my mother taught us that intelligence and compassion and stewardship could be well applied through the redemptive power of beauty. I could go on about how smart and accomplished she is, about all the good work she has done and continues to do, or the spiritual maturity and wisdom she possesses, but I always come back to beauty when I think of my mom. She not only expresses wit and creative talents for their own sake, but she makes people feel precious and of value because she takes the time to care about how they experience this life, and I think that is extraordinary.
It is no wonder then, that her children can thank her for their creative drive, passion, freedom and desire to leave the world better than we found it.
Happy Birthday Mom.
On John’s 39th Birthday
Engine, engine thirty-nine,
Chugging, chugging down the line,
Straining, panting, whistle blowing,
Wonder where this engine’s going?
First stop was in Worchester Mass,
Where he joined a fair young lass,
Who coddled, cooed and made him smile,
Her very first live baby doll!
We watched that baby grow and grow
And wondered, “Is he a little slow?”
Baby Eeyore’s what we called him,
Grumbling, grousing, darkly brooding.
Capes and masks and Spiderman dickies,
Identity shifting so smooth and quick, we
Came to know he must retreat,
Inside his head for what he seeks.
Next stop in the Old Dominion,
Where another sister came in,
Completing sibling trinity,
Molly, John and Anna, three.
Next stop was in Maryland,
Home to crabs and beer and stuffed ham,
Flock of Seagulls aptly teach,
Just how high his hair could reach.
Baby, bully, pushing, pulling
Wonder where this engine’s going
Here is where he came of age,
After school, we turn the page.
To NYC, and many a pub,
Irish brethren, beer and grub ,
Raise a pint and give a cheer,
Slainte! John’s 39th is here.
Loving an artist can be hard,
Knowing that there is only a shard,
Of time with us that they can spend,
Before they must retreat again,
Inside the mind wherein resides,
The truth the outside world may hide,
But love transcends, love transcends.
