For Mum

[Strawberry ice cream, April 2008.]

The first fall after I graduated college, I went to hear a lecture by Isabel Allende, who was speaking to a packed crowd at a book signing in downtown DC. The summer before, on my first trip to Greece, I’d picked up “Daughter of Fortune” at a little Athens English bookstore two floors above a dirty side street, and read it on my various train trips as I criss-crossed Europe. I’d come to her late — the first time I tried to read “The House of the Spirits” I didn’t like it, but on the second attempt I fell in completely and read it in a few days — but once I did, she became a staple.

One of the things that most struck me when listening to her that afternoon, in addition to all of the writing-talk, was that she wrote her mother a letter a day. A letter a day. She also said she had her mother read all her first drafts of her novels and they would write back and forth about them; Allende said she was terrified of her mother growing older, because at some point she wouldn’t be there to read her work and give her the feedback she so valued (besides the obvious other things, of course). I loved the idea of this, and thought that if I ever got my act together to pursue a writing life, I might like to do the same (some day …).

Allende surely is not the first writer to have such a close relationship with her mother — the poet Edna St. Vincent Millary wrote to her mother, Cora, when she was concerned about her health: “I think about you all the time in the daytime, and lately I dream about you at night. There is nothing in all the world I love so much as you.” The two kept a close relationship — fraught, at times, with the usual drama that crops up between mothers and daughters — throughout their lives.

I am thinking of mothers, and daughters, and writing, and family today, of course, because it is mother’s day, and I just spent a good portion of it with my own mother. We went to see the Annie Lebovitz exhibit (her portrait of her mother, by the way, is outstanding) at the Palace of the Legion of Honor, and then sat outside in the sun and ate a small picnic I’d brought (seeded baguette, egg salad with radishes and spring onions, hummus, ginger snaps, strawberries) and then wandered around the rest of the museum until it closed. I gave out a few little gifts and we had quite a lovely day all told, which ended up in the Marina, for dinner and attempting to stay warm against the chilly San Francisco breeze that is rumored finally to be on the outs; this next week is supposed to be very hot.

[Books for mom, May 2008.]

This morning in my yoga class my teacher encouraged us to offer up our practice to our mothers, wherever they might be, whatever our relationships with them, and I thought that was a particularly sweet thing to suggest. If Oscar Wilde, in The Importance of Being Earnest, claimed cynically that “All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his,” I would argue that sometimes it’s not so bad to be like your mother — especially when she’s the kind of person who sends you home (on mother’s day!) with a bag filled with things like cranberry juice, olive oil, home made vegetable soup, coupons for stuff you might need, and pistachio nuts.

So today, on this day to celebrate the ones who created us, I give thanks for my mom: my first editor, biggest fan, gardener of flowers, and favorite person with whom to go shopping. She can throw a mean dinner party and go root for the Giants with me, all in the same weekend. We annoy my brother in exactly the same way (by asking too many questions and unnecessary fussing), which strangely comforts. We both like to take care of , and we might stay up reading later than we ‘should’ because the book is impossible to put down. We’re both powerless in the face of an endearing cat and feel the same way about Yosemite. She bakes me cupcakes just because, and never fails to read any of my stories, whether or not they’re any good. Thanks, mum. This one’s for you (ps: loved today’s outfit, btw).