MaiLynn worries that she cannot fill the space of a writer’s bio with prestigious alma matters, names of literary publications, forthcoming books, prizes, titles of grandeur. She has only the pieces of her writing: pages made from paragraphs made from sentences made from words made from letters made from memories, all of them crafted like her little baby who started as a single cell and grew and grew and grew until, out of nowhere (out of pain, heartbreak, joy, love, substantial allotments of time), the child was big and strong and ready – maybe a little nervous, maybe a little unsure, but ready – to sail away from her Mother. Oh, Mother, who sometimes embarrasses her, who has not the qualifications nor the education of the parents of her peers, who says silly things from time to time; but Mother, who she knows cares for her so. Mother who had courage to raise her, be her best, speak her truth, and try, with both failure and success, to stand tall among a field of wildflowers. Shouldn’t that be enough?
Beautifully expressed and shared by most if not all of us sometime in our lives. At this point in mine I see that I had a mother’s love despite her fears, her courage, her honesty, and her attempt to make a difference in the space she occupied. And that is not merely enough. It’s a gift.
That’s an absolutely lovely thing to say, Susan. I love writing, but I hate the business of writing – mucking through the hordes of literary journals, trying to find ones to submit to, getting rejected, providing writer’s bios that make me feel inconsequential and inadequate. Hallelujah for blogs. It’s really good to have a space where I can say what I want to say when I want to say it. I’m glad you’ve found a space for yourself too.
That was a touching piece thanks…Tiger, yer Tales are Bomb! 8-)(-8
THANKS Cassie! You’re the funk-ing best