Memorial Day: A Moment of Reflection

In 6th grade, I recited In Flanders Fields as part of a student program of words, song, and dance titled "Hands Across the Sea." Major John McCrae's poem remains one of the few poems I can recite without hesitation.


In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset blow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch: be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

My recent genealogy research has focused on my Irish grandfather. Daniel B. O'Connor and his brothers were part of the wave of Fitchburg (MA) men who enlisted to fight in the 'war to end all wars.' Every day, a city's pride in her "sons" - recruitment, departure, stories of the 'boys' and too often, the sad details when one paid the ultimate price - was shared in the local newspaper. For decades, my grandfather placed small flags at the graves of American servicemen to honor their service and dedication. My grandfather's faith in our country and his pride as he raised the American flag at his home are two of the strongest memories I have of him.

Seeking Balance

Mother's Day. For the past 18 years, I try to seek balance on the second Sunday in May between the joy of being a mother and the sadness of missing my own mother.

I remember my first one -- the newness of being someone's mommy and the awe of cuddling my four-month-old son as our family of three walked amidst the beauty of pink and white blooms at the Dogwood Festival - a tradition in our new hometown of Fairfield. Last year, twenty-five years later, I spent the day in Lesotho, in Africa, with my daughter.

Just a few minutes ago, I realized that this is the first year that I do not have at least one of my children with me on Mother's Day. Today, they are located on three different continents - that is 'kind of cool' as one of them said to me earlier. I had a wonderful conversation with each of them, sharing details of our lives. And, yet . . .

Yet, once again, a parenting transition caught me off-guard, unprepared and seeking balance. I didn't realize that I would be without any of my children: here, sharing stories, a meal, laughter and hugs. Sometimes, upon reflection of moments like this, I think, what if I had known the transition was going to happen . . . what would I have done differently? How could I have prepared? I seldom find answers that satisfy me; perhaps it is best that I just go through the transition as it unfolds. Without warning, without planning -- allowing me to fully experience the sense of unbalance, just to be in the moment.

This, after all, is motherhood.

Vessel

Vessel

Seeking escape, I am promiscuous

enduring the man’s hand, touch, tongue -- never uttering a sound.

For him, my body is flawless, my skin incandescent

flushed, warm, alive – as if painted by the master, Rembrandt.

Or perhaps, fashioned by Van Gogh, his vivid colors show

his madness and torment – pummeled upon my torso.

Men, haunted, berserk, dark, without scruples

Devotees of women -- round, soft and supple.

Closing my eyes, opening my being,

like a vessel -- deep, hollow, empty

to hold our shame.