Becoming My Mother

I am turning into my mother.  The woman who, despite my rolling eyes, would tell me to look at a beautiful sunset or a flowering bud.  My mother, who finds supreme joy in naming trees, planting seeds, and weaving wet reed into baskets.  My mom, the Master Gardener and National Park Ranger. . . okay, that I'll never be!  Yesterday, I took a workshop on making live succulent wreaths and thoroughly enjoyed it.  I decided to forego the gloves; getting my hands dirty was just what I needed.  I heard my mother's voice in my head as I tore at hardy roots saying, "You can't hurt them", and kept pulling away.  I remembered her flower gardens which are always unfussy yet full of color, texture, and height, and tried to do the same with my wreath arrangement.  Maybe all the times I wasn't actively listening, I was still internalizing.  I am turning into my mother.  And that is okay with me.

 

    Love you, Mom!