Last week’s exercises in my non-fiction creative writing class were 
interesting ones. We were asked to list obsessions and strong memories, then expound on them. A collective sigh came from the four of us until the juices started flowing inspiring each of us to become absorbed in our unique internal lives.
Early on it became clear that this assignment would offer each other glimpses into who we are. We met as strangers from different parts of the area and today we’d share intimacies – because of a writing exercise.
A single woman in her early 30s struggles with a driving desire to find herself, to one-day have the courage to leave her job of 12 years and follow her dream. Trouble is, she can’t identify that dream. Maybe this writing class will coax that passion to the surface. Or maybe writing will help her understand why each new relationship ends up falling apart as she wonders on paper whether this current beau will stand the test of time. She’s plagued by the need to compare herself to peers with husbands and children which feeds a certain panic in her soul. Now we understand her a bit better.
The woman to my right obsesses about her weight and writing and, hopefully, earning money from her prose. She used to be a teacher and grew very frustrated with the politics of education and students’ lack of interest. She yearns for the day when the solitary hours spent putting thoughts on paper will be validated with a check in the mail. She and her husband are retired and she struggles with the balance of taking care of him and the urge to spill herself into her fingers on a keyboard.
Then there’s the woman whose childhood trauma sparked a love for poetry. 
Pouring her tortured heart onto paper somehow eased the pain of losing her mother when she was nine years old. A drunk driver slammed head on into the family car while her mother was at the wheel. While this girl waited outside the car for an ambulance to arrive she remembers hearing her mother gurgling, still trapped behind the steering wheel. Those injuries proved fatal. The father spent days in the ICU recovering from his physical injuries, though his heart never healed. So that nine-year old girl and her siblings were shipped out to be cared for by others. Today this now grown woman has a deep story to tell and skimmed the shallow surface with us.
As for me, I wouldn’t say I have obsessions, per se, what I have are driving passions, one of them is horses. Though I’ve never owned a horse, I usually find a way to be around them; lately it’s volunteering at a horse rescue where we rehabilitate neglected and abused horses. This past week I also attended horse camp where we brushed up on our riding skills mounted on Paso Finos and Tennessee Walking Horses. Their strides are smooth as velvet and much easier on the legs and back.
Image via Wikipedia
They say that horses are windows into your soul and maybe that’s why I’m filled with emotion when grooming them. Watching their powerful, graceful bodies prance around a pasture fills me with awe.
There are a lot more stories inside us waiting to be coaxed to the surface. We humans are fascinating creatures – each with a unique story to tell to the right listener who extends a sincere invitation.
What are some of your stories?
actthreedotnet 
Mothers & Daughters
Posted in childhood, children, family, memories, mid-life, musings, relationships, Uncategorized, tagged commentary, Family, Mother, Parenting, reflection on October 23, 2011| 11 Comments »
My neighbor was walking the neighborhood this morning with her grown daughter, deep in conversation as they passed by Pogo and me. We share the daily ritual most days – usually my neighbor is with her husband and dog. On weekends her daughter joins her. It seems they use the time to catch up on intimacies from the past week as they lead their independent lives.
Watching that close repartee sparked a yearning for the same. I miss that kind of friendship between mother and daughter, a relationship I never actually experienced. I’m not sure how you can miss what you never really had, but somehow I do.
My mother was my biggest supporter as a child; she schlepped me to one audition after another as I chased my dream of being on stage. And after each rejection she comforted my heartbreak by telling me that someday she just knew my time would come. Just persevere.
And when my heart was breaking from a boy I loved who wouldn’t be mine, it was my mother who helped me recognize that life wasn’t over. And it was also she who comforted the boys that loved me but weren’t able to win my heart. She counseled them on the phone and encouraged them to move on.
It was also my mother, and only my mother, who came to my piano recitals, choir performances, plays (as a chorus member), and later – talent shows and performances at college. She rooted for me in everything I did and felt that I could hang the moon if I wanted to.
But she was never my friend. As I grew older we continued to talk, but we grew farther apart never really learning much about what makes the other tick. She was consumed with her frustrations and I with a need to offer her ways out of them, though she never heeded any of my suggestions. She was not a mother who pulled her children close to her, in fact, she looked forward to the days when we’d be out on our own and she could fly solo again.
I have a few women friends who adore their mothers, respect and admire them and spend as much time with them as possible. I’ve always envied them; I wish I’d known that closeness.
What’s your relationship like with your mother? And how has it changed over the years?
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