(A Belated) Happy Birthday
Dear Mom,
Friday was your birthday. I know I'm late with this, but I did wave and wish you the best as I drove by the Mighty Pacific (where your ashes reside) on that bizzy, bizzy day. It was a day very full of you, even though you weren't there. Our escrow closed and that means our condo (the one I bought with my inheritance) sold and we will move away from L.A (where you brought me when your life fell apart), and onward into a life that includes gardens, and painting, and writing, and all the creative stuff that you so encouraged and enjoyed.
On this birthday, you would have been seventy-eight years old. Wow. I'm not sure how I feel about that. It's hard to guess whether in the past fourteen years you would have become more cantankerous or whether you would have mellowed. Likely you would have stayed an ever swinging pendulum between the fun Marcia and the difficult one.
In fact, your birthdays were always especially tough for you. You were extra demanding which made them hard for me because I could never do enough, be enough, or give enough to make you happy. Which is why I'm surprised how much I missed you on Friday.
A few weeks ago I found this picture of you when I was scanning photos for Dad's 80th birthday. It was taken in 1960 at the beach in Big Sur.
It's a very iconographic shot of you at that time in your life, and I love it. You were just thirty, living in white middle-class tract-house America while slowly shriveling up inside. It caught a moment where your spirit soared in spite of that.
During one of the recent rides up and down California, I realized just how hard it was for you to survive that life in Walnut Creek, and I became overwhelmed with sadness. Maybe it's because I've been looking for a place to thrive, and thinking about where I've lived, but it hit me full force what living in a cookie-cutter community did to you and your creative spirit. I finally understand why your art from that period is scary and terrifying.
It's not that our little Eichler house in Walnut Creek was a bad place. It just wasn't your place. Kinda like how it's been for me here in the condo the last ten years. Only, I didn't have to stay home and survive coffee-klatches and share recipes with the bored, neighborhood housewives while wondering what was wrong with me because I didn't fit in.
You were in dire need of women's liberation before it existed. You needed the affirmation and the courage to know you were okay and it was the rest of the world that was crazy. You did come to understand this later but being a Berkeley beatnik in suburbia really crushed you.
As BigTea and I look for a new home for ourselves, I'm reminded so often of the book you read to me when I was little. It was one of our favorite stories, about a bunny looking for the right home for itself. More than ever, I feel like that bunny.
I've also been thinking how sometimes the home we think we want doesn't end up being the home that's right for us. That's what happened with you and Big Sur. The challenges there were too great. As a city girl, you didn't have the resources to survive that extremely difficult winter.
So you found our home in LA's Beverly Glen canyon. It was woodsy, yet close enough to supermarkets and doctors and all the conveniences of city life so you could devote your energies to being an artist instead of spending all your time taking care of the necessities of life.
While that worked out well, the loss of the dream of Big Sur was a huge disappointment for you. You were ever the idealist. Perhaps that's why I've always been such a pragmatist. I had to create balance somehow.
One of the things I noticed--even at the time--was how soon you got sick after selling Big Sur and moving from Beverly Glen. Probably it has nothing to do with anything. But . . . I do wonder.
At any rate. I decided last year that for each birthday I'd forgive you for something and this year, Mom, I forgive you for being that idealist and for all that entailed, including your frequent disappointments in me for not living up to your ideals.
And I think (when I wasn't looking) I also forgave you for being so difficult on your birthdays.
Happy Birthday,
I love you,
Gina
Friday was your birthday. I know I'm late with this, but I did wave and wish you the best as I drove by the Mighty Pacific (where your ashes reside) on that bizzy, bizzy day. It was a day very full of you, even though you weren't there. Our escrow closed and that means our condo (the one I bought with my inheritance) sold and we will move away from L.A (where you brought me when your life fell apart), and onward into a life that includes gardens, and painting, and writing, and all the creative stuff that you so encouraged and enjoyed.
On this birthday, you would have been seventy-eight years old. Wow. I'm not sure how I feel about that. It's hard to guess whether in the past fourteen years you would have become more cantankerous or whether you would have mellowed. Likely you would have stayed an ever swinging pendulum between the fun Marcia and the difficult one.
In fact, your birthdays were always especially tough for you. You were extra demanding which made them hard for me because I could never do enough, be enough, or give enough to make you happy. Which is why I'm surprised how much I missed you on Friday.
A few weeks ago I found this picture of you when I was scanning photos for Dad's 80th birthday. It was taken in 1960 at the beach in Big Sur.
It's a very iconographic shot of you at that time in your life, and I love it. You were just thirty, living in white middle-class tract-house America while slowly shriveling up inside. It caught a moment where your spirit soared in spite of that.During one of the recent rides up and down California, I realized just how hard it was for you to survive that life in Walnut Creek, and I became overwhelmed with sadness. Maybe it's because I've been looking for a place to thrive, and thinking about where I've lived, but it hit me full force what living in a cookie-cutter community did to you and your creative spirit. I finally understand why your art from that period is scary and terrifying.
It's not that our little Eichler house in Walnut Creek was a bad place. It just wasn't your place. Kinda like how it's been for me here in the condo the last ten years. Only, I didn't have to stay home and survive coffee-klatches and share recipes with the bored, neighborhood housewives while wondering what was wrong with me because I didn't fit in.You were in dire need of women's liberation before it existed. You needed the affirmation and the courage to know you were okay and it was the rest of the world that was crazy. You did come to understand this later but being a Berkeley beatnik in suburbia really crushed you.
As BigTea and I look for a new home for ourselves, I'm reminded so often of the book you read to me when I was little. It was one of our favorite stories, about a bunny looking for the right home for itself. More than ever, I feel like that bunny.I've also been thinking how sometimes the home we think we want doesn't end up being the home that's right for us. That's what happened with you and Big Sur. The challenges there were too great. As a city girl, you didn't have the resources to survive that extremely difficult winter.
So you found our home in LA's Beverly Glen canyon. It was woodsy, yet close enough to supermarkets and doctors and all the conveniences of city life so you could devote your energies to being an artist instead of spending all your time taking care of the necessities of life.
While that worked out well, the loss of the dream of Big Sur was a huge disappointment for you. You were ever the idealist. Perhaps that's why I've always been such a pragmatist. I had to create balance somehow.One of the things I noticed--even at the time--was how soon you got sick after selling Big Sur and moving from Beverly Glen. Probably it has nothing to do with anything. But . . . I do wonder.
At any rate. I decided last year that for each birthday I'd forgive you for something and this year, Mom, I forgive you for being that idealist and for all that entailed, including your frequent disappointments in me for not living up to your ideals.
And I think (when I wasn't looking) I also forgave you for being so difficult on your birthdays.
Happy Birthday,
I love you,
Gina
posted by Gina Black at 7:10 AM
Subscribe to The Gina Channel 
8 Comments:
Lovely post, Gina.
A wonderful tribute to your mother. Since my mother's death eight years ago, I've done similar soul-searching to come to terms with my mother's disappointments in life and their effect on me. I've been able to forgive her; forgiving myself is taking longer.
Being understood is a wonderful gift. I'm sure your mother would love this.
Beautiful. How I feel for both you and your mother.
Knowing your Mom, just a little and being artistic myself, this post speaks to me on so many levels. I am glad you forgive your Mom a bit each year. It's a good thing.
mel--thanks for commenting. i always love it when you stop by.
shauna--i'm learning that forgiveness is powerful stuff.
katie--thank you so much for saying that.
gabrielle--hugs
angel--the forgiveness is coming easier each year. maybe it's time. maybe it's me. whatever it is, it's good. :)
Gina,
This post really moved me. And the picture of your mom really took me back to when I knew her, such a long, time ago. You're so right that she was in real need of women's liberation before it came to be (in the early 1970s).
Love,
Angela
This is so touching, Gina.
Post a Comment
<< Home