A Letter to my Mom

   May came and went while I was traveling.  While I gained much from my travels, I missed a few things.  I missed my daughters Master’s graduation and her birthday.  I missed a son’s birthday and I missed Mother’s day.  My mother’s day was spent on the island of Skye in Scotland, seeing Dunvegan castle, picnicking on the Quirang, walking up Old Man Storr, overlooking the Kilt Rocks and waterfall, and enjoying a wonderful dinner with new friends.  It was unconventional but lovely, nevertheless.  I did miss my children quite a bit on this day - half a world away.  And I found myself thinking about my own dear mother quite a bit.

  I loved my mom.  She had so many great traits and characteristics.  She always had a ready smile and was a great partner to a little mischief.  She loved a good joke and was quick to laugh.  I loved sitting down to visit with her as she was a wonderful listener.   She was not a perfect mom or grandmother, but who is?  That just didn’t matter as I knew deep down in my heart, that she tried her best and she did the best she knew how or was able.  As I am the age of a grandma (and an empty nester mom) I’ve been doing some deep thinking.   If I could talk to her right now, I’ve got a few things I’d love to say to her.  Since I can’t talk to her, I’m going to write her a letter.

Here’s how it will go:


Dear Mom, 
   You’ve been gone for just over 16 years.  I can’t believe that much time has passed since we last spoke over the phone.  I was impatient with you, and I’m sorry.  You kept repeating things, saying the same thing over and over, and I grew weary of it.  I used my exasperated voice and told you that you’d already told me that several times.  I wish I hadn’t been so in a hurry to get off the phone.  The next phone call I received from Tucson was your grandson telling me that you were gone.  Oh, if I could have those moments back with you.  I would have savored your every word and given you all the time you needed.  And I would tell you some things;
   Mom, thank you for never giving up while raising me.  Thanks for being firm with the things that mattered; things like being a good person, being honest, kind, trustworthy, and to have integrity.  Thanks for making sure I followed through on things.  Thanks for caring enough to make sure I got an education, that I worked hard, that I pursued interests and talents.  Thank you for teaching me about God and His love for me.  Thank you for helping me to be strong when things were tough.


   From you, Mom, I got my love of nature and my intense interest in finding out what things are and their names, like, flowers, trees, birds, and the list goes on.  I remember you telling me about weeds and their roots.  I’m sure you were trying to help me not loathe pulling weeds so much, but the lesson stuck.  I learned to respect nature from you and to leave things better than I had found them. 
 
 You had a big heart Mom.  Even now, I still have friends come to me and tell me how much you influenced them.  You were a girls camp director for years, and the impact you made is still ongoing.  So many young girls lives were changed for the better because of your “never give up” attitude.  Those girls became mothers and grandmothers, and now their progeny is still being affected due to your willingness to love and include these girls even when they were hard to love.


   I loved the way you loved my Dad.  You would tease and flirt and give him a hard time.  But you were always respectful of him and stood beside him.  I loved the way you’d laugh together and go off on little outings together.  When he bought a boat on the sly, you got a new swimsuit and just “jumped on board” by telling us we all needed to get chores done during the week because Saturdays would now be “let’s go to the lake” days.  Those are some great memories, those days spent waterskiing and picnicking at the lake.  They were full of the sound of your laughter and the sight of your happy smiles.

I am so grateful for the love you showed my children.  From sharing wedges of oranges with them when they were little, or taking them to McD’s for fries, or speeding up over the bumps on the road so it would tickle their tummies while they squealed with laughter, to sending them cute postcards of their favorite animal, and to supporting them in college and on missions.  There were so many other things you did for and taught my children.  You gave them a chance to love you and have that love returned.

One of the things I am most grateful for is your love for me.  Sometimes we didn’t get along.
 Usually my fault.  Sometimes we’d get angry with each other.  Again, my immaturity at fault.  Sometimes we did not meet each others expectations, which always led to disappointment and often to unkind words.  But through it all, the good and the not-so-good, I NEVER, EVER, doubted your love for me.  NEVER.  And when you left us and returned to your home in heaven, your perfect love is what I was left with in great abundance.  I was filled with, not only sadness, but with gratitude the day you passed, because I knew you had loved me the very best a mother could.  I was so grateful for the times that even when I let you down, when I was thoughtless and hurt you, when I was much less than perfect, YOU KEPT LOVING ME.  When all is said and done, that is what really matters.

  On this belated Mother’s day post, I honor my mother.  She gave me the 2 best gifts in this world.  Life and love.  There is no better.  Thanks Mom. I love you.

Coming Home

(Warning:  Very long post.  My apologies.)

 

 Whenever we leave home and go somewhere, we usually leave something behind and forget to bring it back with us.  Yep, we all do it.  Don’t deny it.  On the other hand, we often bring other things back with us.  Souvenirs, dirty laundry, art, a new t-shirt, a refrigerator magnet, sand between your toes; that sort of thing.  Hopefully we pay for those things, well, except for the sand and the laundry.  But there are other things we bring home.  And I’m not talking bedbugs.  Yucky.  No, I mean intangible things.  Memories.  Friendships.  Impressions.  Experiences.  We come home with these things as well.

We recently returned from 3 weeks in France, Scotland and Ireland.  We accumulated some beautiful memories and some amazing experiences.  Out of  the few tours we took and all our shopping for souvenirs and keepsakes, we found that what left the most lasting impressions were not things bought or tours paid for.  It was  the people we met and the little unusual things we did that were the best experiences, and there were SO many!  Here are just some of my favorites - 2 from each country.  (It was SOO hard to decide on just two!)  That said, here we go!!

Jessica (bun hair) and friends

**Escargot in Paris with 4 young ladies.  While in Paris we met up one evening with our daughter Jessica, our niece Jessica, and 2 of their friends.  (Yes, our daughter was in Paris bombing our vacation.)  Besides being super fun to meet up with our girl and her friends friends halfway across the world, we also got to treat them to a real french dinner - on condition that they try escargot.  (Snails, folks!)

Escargot for dinner anyone?

I have to tell you, it was absolutely hilarious watching 4 squeamish girls tackle some snails!  Dan led the way, downing his little morsel with no problem.  Time for the girls to eat there little slimy things.  Besides “Ewww!” and “Oh gross!”, comments included, “OMG!  I can see it’s antennae!” and “I think I felt it’s head!” and “Where’s the water?!”  Absolutely delightful on every level.  And memorable.  We parted ways a little bit braver with big smiles and a slight aftertaste.

Dan at the Carcassonne train station

**Witnessing my husband’s return to Carcassonne France.   39+ years ago, Dan served a 2 year mission for the church in southern France, his favorite city (and his longest assignment) being Carcassonne or “La Cite”.  Our 2nd morning there, we opened our shutters to a marching band on the cobblestone lane below our apartment. It was thrilling!  But on our first morning there, a Sunday, we went in search of an LDS church meeting to attend.   We found one, now a thriving ward instead of a tiny branch.  This was also thrilling, but in a different way.  Seeing him reconnect with those few individuals whom he had known “way back when” was especially touching.  It was an emotional reunion and I was so grateful to witness it.   I saw Dan in a whole new way that I’d never experienced before.  And it made me love him more.

Isle of Skye

**The Isle of Skye with Harish and Clemencia.   When making our travel plans, we decided to use Airbnb instead of hotels.  We wanted to get to know the real people of each country.  Harish and his wife were an Airbnb couple who hosted us for 2 nights.  Again, tea and cake were served as soon as we got there.  What an amiable tradition, to sit down as new friends and talk about life over a cuppa.  Harish was semi-retired and from South Africa/London, and Clemencia was an artist from Peru.  They had lived many places in the world and had a multi-cultured experience in life.  While Dan and Harish talked about world events, Clemencia and I talked about books and art.  I was inspired by this little woman who was so full of color and life.  

Old man Storr on Skye.  Killer hike!

Although we had such different backgrounds, we found much in common and embraced those commonalities as we visited, as well as appreciating our differences.  Our second and last night there, they invited us to eat a home-cooked dinner with them.  It was one of my most treasured memories, sitting around their kitchen table, in the twilight of evening, talking of this and that.  We were sad to say goodbye and promises were made to visit again, maybe next time we will be the hosts.

Crofting huts in Gearrannan

**Gearrannan Blackhouse Village and Andrea.  High on my list was a 2 day visit to the Isles of Harris and Lewis and a few nights at Gearrannan.  The blackhouse village is a group of authentic old crofters huts from the 1800’s that have been renovated for tourists.  They are made of 2 ft thick stone walls and thatched roofs.  They were nicknamed ‘blackhouses’ because they had no windows and the cooking fires inside blackened the walls.  The village is set on the green hills overlooking a small rocky bay by the ocean.  I can’t tell you how healing it was to be there in this ancient place, exposed to the harsh elements of cold wind, rain, and quiet solitude. 

Our last night there, we bundled up and went out
 to a little bench by the stone wall to watch the sun set over the Atlantic.  As we sat there waiting, a small group of women came out of the next hut to take a group picture.  Dan politely offered to take it for them.  There were several young women and one woman in her 40’s.  We took the pictures and the younger women scattered - most going up on the cliffs to witness the setting sun.  The older woman stayed, and for some reason, decided to confide in us.  With the raw emotions of grief, anger, hurt and disappointment, she tearfully told us of her husbands death by suicide just 4 weeks earlier.  At his request, she had come to the westernmost islands of Scotland, with her daughter, to scatter his ashes.  She had lost all her luggage, but not him, which she laughed and then cried about.  She battled with the “why” of it all, while being consumed with missing him, yet being angry at him for leaving her.  In the end, we hugged, and cried, together.  We exchanged addresses.  I pray she will find peace.  We will never forget Andrea from New Zealand.

**Ballymalis Castle and Kerry Woolen Mills.  Just a few days before we were to return to Dublin and fly back to the states, we discovered (thanks to my cousin) that I had ancestral roots in Killarney.  We were staying near there, so after a little research, we made a visit to Ballymalis and the Woolen Mill nearby.  The mill was still in operation after all these years.   Eagar was the last name of these ancestors and the woman at the mill confirmed that it had been owned by him in the late 1600’s and early 1700’s.  We then went about a mile to where the “castle” stood.  It’s really more of a “tower house”, but it was in a ruined state.  (It is being restored at present.)  Ok.  I know you are going to think I’ve lost my crackers, but here’s the part that left a mark on me.  As I stood quietly, contemplating these particular ancestors, who they were and what their life had been like, I wondered ‘what could I take away from this’.

Wicklow Mtns

More accurately, I wondered, “If John Eagar could stand before me right now, as my ‘umpteenth’ great-grandfather, what would he want me to know?”.  Would you think I’m crazy if I told you I got an answer?  Well, I did.  And I don’t care if you think I’m a nutcase, but I did get an answer.  It was a very simple impression, 7 words that came into my mind, and for me, it was profound and personal.  Not really what I would choose to hear, nevertheless, no way am I ever going to forget that one. 

**The Wild Atlantic Way.  In the southwest of Ireland is a little (meaning impossibly narrow) one - or one and a half- lane road that takes the adventurous traveler along the high cliffs and hills on the Atlantic side of the island,

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all the while driving on the WRONG side of the road!  It was exhilarating, frightening at times, and incredibly beautiful.  Never have I seen such a turquoise blue ocean or stood so high above the crashing waves.  At one spot, near the Blasket Isles, there was an old man playing the flute (or a version of a flute) as he sat on the cliff edge.  I was completed enchanted by his ethereal music. 

Sorry for the wind noises.

I decided to go closer, hopefully to talk with him.  I don’t know why I have this weird affinity for talking to strangers, but, there it is.  He was actually quite chatty.  He spoke of his music, his instruments, and his life by the sea.  With his weathered face, graying hair, simple clothes with eyes almost as blue as the sea, I felt like he knew what peace and contentment were.  Just as the wind and rain had scoured the rocks and hills, it had scoured away all that was superfluous in his life and had left him with a lovely simplicity.



I was reminded that we do not journey through this life alone. There are many ports and harbors, many people coming and going.  We are affected by all of it, to some extent.   And by that same token, we affect others, for better or for worse.  Not only do they leave imprints on us, we likewise leave an imprint on those we meet.  I wonder, what kind of imprint have I left?











In coming home, I not only brought a suitcase full of gifts and souvenirs and dirty laundry.  I came home changed, by the friends I met and made, by the little unexpected, but important moments I experienced, by the impressions felt and things learned.  I came home with a heart full of tender and lasting memories.

Coming home, I returned with much more than I left with.  For that I am richer, and so very grateful.