A Mother’s Story

Some years back, a friend recommended the memoir, When Women Were Birds by Terry Tempest Williams. “It’s poetry,” she said. “You’ll feel her words and understand her voice.”

I wasn’t familiar with Terry Tempest Williams and the title was frankly off-putting (I pictured witches on brooms or raptors with the faces of goddesses), but this friend’s infectious spirit of wonder always delighted me.  I purchased the book and found the small, beautifully printed volume a joy to hold in my hands, and the author’s musings and introspections to alternate between stunning and soothing. Poetry and so much more.

Williams tells the reader that her mother left her journals to her to be opened after her death. Williams found they were all blank.

No matter how many times I read this memoir, I’m stopped short by this mystery. The author goes on, “What my mother wanted to do and what she was able to do remains her secret.”

What do we know of our mothers, let alone of ourselves? How do we convey to our offspring who we are, what our dreams are? Do our actions alone tell our story or do we write it?