Heartstring Treasures for Moms

Daughters and Moms are notorious arbitrators of the common good of man. We know what we want, and we want it right now. Such is the story of this Mother-Daughter tag team… But then I have to determine which one…

You see… I have two daughters.

The oldest dares me on many occasions to look into my past and not see her standing there reminding me of myself in moments of rebellion and independence. A child of my identity, she fled from tradition to become a woman steeped in the challenge of freedom, liberation and achievement. She’s definitely a powerful woman, bound by the aggressive accomplishments of her heart. She’ll go far, even if she never moves again, her vision has been implanted in the sands of time, and she’ll achieve her dreams.

She despised poverty as a child and as an adult, she’s sketched into existence a wealth of gratitude, prosperity and love that comes her way every day. Not the least of which is the love of a daughter who brings her great joy and even greater reminders of accomplishment. Recognition and acclaim follow her.

The youngest threatens often to ripple my personal autonomy in the direct awareness of her likeness to me. Not only does she resemble me physically, but emotionally our attributes run parallel lines. She’s traditional and dedicated. Her challenges lie in another realm, that of relational success where love and commitment meet the rubber on the road of life. She understands the value of family and has dedicated her life to achieving the solid foundational element of a relationship empowered by love.

She tempts fate with an attitude of challenge, greeting the days with unlimited patience, love and dedication to keeping family in tune with success and commitment. Her drive to fulfill her dreams comes from a deep love of all things relative, carefree, and filled with abandon. The love of a family is her goal in life, with that goal comes great success and accomplishment.

Mother-Daughter tag teams don’t always come in a singular version. There are times when they come in doublets, a wealth of love and dedication to family and the future.

In the wee still hours of the night while the rest of the world sleeps, and I sometimes wish I were sleeping too, I find a moment to cherish. My oldest son has often been a challenge because he’s so much like his mother in ways I’d rather not admit. When we clash, it’s usually at high-decibel with tempers flashing.

He’s a good kid. Probably if we weren’t so much alike, and I didn’t have such high expectations of him, we’d get along better than most any other mom/son combo. But the reality here is that I expect a lot from him and in order to get that, and help him to become the man I know he can be, I know we’ll clash – at times frequently.

It isn’t easy.

There have been times when I wanted to simply give up and let him be without making demands on his time, and energies. But the lines have to be drawn at times, and when those lines are drawn, I know I’m going to have conflict, because he doesn’t like being told what to do.

Not so long ago, I’d worked until I was drained. Words weren’t coming to me anymore, the project was as close as I could get it to done, and I’d attempted to rewrite the same sentence three times, only to delete it and start over again. I gave up. Files were saved and I prepared to go to bed.

About the time I toppled onto my pillow, my son strolled into the room. He sat down on the edge of the bed and started talking. I really wanted sleep.

At first he talked about a program he was working online, then an article he was writing, and eventually he got around to asking the question he’d been aiming to ask since he walked in the room. I’d been nodding and moaning in all the right places up until that point. Something stopped me from making a sound when he finished asking the question. I kept my eyes closed against the light and waited.

“Mom, I know I could figure this out myself, but I need your advice.”

The words flowed over me like silk. I let them sink in a moment before I blinked my eyes open. I noticed the light was considerably dimmer than before and looked around the room before I gazed straight at my son.

“Why do you want my advice?” I asked, curious.

“You know,” he rolled his head slightly on his shoulders, allowing his chin to drop to his chest. His eyes focused on my face and he continued, “I really do trust your judgement, Mom.”

I watched him for a long moment before I breathed out and acknowledged his question. I wanted to remember this moment, forever. The words I said afterward didn’t matter so much as the fact that we talked until I could see the light of day glowing in the eastern Sky. No yelling, no harsh words, and no rough moments of misunderstanding each other, just mom and son sharing a moment in time. I had too much to do to just sleep in the next morning. Once he went to bed, I took a short nap and got up to greet the day.

I can tell you I was walking on clouds. That next day went better than any day before, and probably any day since, because my son and I had that talk. Not the talk about girls, not the talk about cars, and not even the chatter about what he would do with his life, but rather those moments of time when we talked, silence surrounded us and I knew that in his world – I matter. But, more importantly, he knew that in my world, he was my top priority, because I listened.

Every mom has them, those treasures she’d find it hard to part with, but… at some point in time, they disappear from her life without a trace. Mine stood on the mantle all year long, in a basket I’d salvaged and covered with a pretty fabric. The basket was attractive, but inside the basket, the treasure was far more important.

Over the years, I’d collected them, one at a time, sometimes two, but never many, and always small. They were all shapes and sizes, round ones, pointed, jagged ones, and a few flat ones. All different collors, some shiny and some not so shiney, they remained in the basket most of the time, unless I needed comfort.

I’d take one out, rub it with scented oil and carry it around for a while, then put it back in the basket and let the heat from the fireplace warm it to spread the aroma around the room. On special occasions, I’d add flowers to the basket,or perhaps cards, but most often it was just a basket of rocks.

When the babies were small, they’d collected them as we took walks along the trail on the Snake River. Later, we collected a few on Lake Michigan. One summer we harvested a bunch from the Arkansas River just west of the Colorado border and dried them on the grass before putting them in the car. Another time we collected them above the head waters of the Colorado. My oldest daughter brought home river stones from the Potomac River, and my son brought a few from Blue Mesa. A friend sent one from Germany, and my cousin sent one from South Africa.

The rocks in that basket came from every corner of the world. Treasures I found comforting when silence of home threatened my sanity. But the summer we moved, my youngest son was just 7. He helped pack the mantle, since nothing there was breakable and he thought the little basket with the soft cotton cover would be better holding small trinkets, than the rocks.

He dumped the basket of rocks in the garden in Chadron, Nebraska and filled the basket with carefully wrapped crystal candle cups. When we unpacked the basket at our new home, almost six months later, I realized the rocks were gone and asked about them. He proudly smiled and told me he’d put them in the garden and packed my precious candle holders in the basket, so they wouldn’t get broken.

I smiled and told him, “Thanks.” But, I never forgot those tiny stones that had slowly filled up the basket. When my granddaughter handed me a stone on our first walk last October, I smiled contentedly, knowing exactly where I’d put it. In the basket on our new mantle with the soft cotton cloth, because my precious treasures get packed there.