Thank full Mother of Men #thanksgiving #wildjoy

Just utterin', mutterin' about motherin' otherin' and gradmotherin' & holidays & stuff: 

I used to write a lot about motherhood. I wrote books for children because I had children who inspired those books. I could squeeze a nonsense poem in between the wash and rinse cycles. Stored those poems in my recipe box.

They-those children and maybe those poems—were my raison d'etre. Then came otherhood. It seemed time to stop writing about them—actually they told me as much—and they like to tease me they left me behind in my Mabel Murple La-La land.

I was no long writing for them, either.

You might say I had to generate my own meaning for the first time. I was a mother before I was an adult. That meant I'd never had to question why I had to get up in the morning. There were two boys who needed me, relied on me.

I found being mother of babies and little boys easy. Well, easy in comparison to what came next.  

Families whose children sail easily into adulthood are fortunate indeed, but I know, in truth, most families have their challenges. The snapshot moments we do not put on Facebook. Those are the journeys. 

My sons' teenage years and manhood taught me more about myself than I probably ever wanted to know. They are 33 and 39 now. These men still occupy most of the depth of the chambers of my whole cracked open heart. I am still learning to be the mother of men. They are still my greatest teachers. And now, I am experencing Oma-hood. Again, in such an unconventional way, I want to change that tired phrase, "It's complicated", to "It's simple—my only job is to love. No matter what."

Simple does not equal easy. Who knew there would always be  more room in a heart to love that much? Worry that much. Watch time tick by that fast... I am so very grateful for the all of it. I am. 

Recently, first born son who lives away came home.  My husband caught this moment.  

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And this reminded us of this :  a life time ago. 

That's it. That's what's on my mind this Thanksgiving.  

I got to hug my sons this year, I got to hug them— knowing how many years I could not, knowing my mother is missing her son and will never be able to hold him again, knowing how many parents today are missing their children. OR grandchildren. For any number of reasons.   

Holidays can be so wonderful. They can be so lonely too. I started to post these photos on facebook but realized, I needed to write: 

Hold whoever is closest to you closer. 

If you are alone, and we all are, even in the midst of clatter and clan, hold your precious self closer, go for a walk in a world of spirits and golden leafed Oneness. 

Find your "wild joy."  A turn of  phrase I heard today.  

Be wild joy. Or not. But be....  

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