On This Day, O Beautiful Mother

Yoko Ono transformed one of her artworks into an online format called My Mommy is Beautiful. She encourages each of us to post a picture of our mother and give tribute to her in words or other creative expression. My beautiful mother died two weeks ago after a long and full life. Until now, I could not find the words to describe the exquisite and complex beauty of my mother. I still can't do her justice, but here is my noble effort.

My mommy was beautiful.

Mom was an educator. When I was little, Mom always sang as she worked around the house. She had a clear, sweet voice, and I loved to sing along with her as she explained our world through song. She was a marvelous storyteller, and described her childhood, especially memories of her beloved father who died when I was still a toddler, with spellbinding detail. She played games with me so that I’d learn language, math, and logic, and taught me to read so early on that I don’t remember ever not being able to read. Mom had been a teacher before I was born, while she was raising my older siblings, and her passion for teaching was in her very marrow.

Mom was busy and energetic. She drank a lot of coffee, ate very little, never touched alcohol, and smoked a half pack of cigarettes a week, because that’s what women of her generation did. She preferred walking to driving. She hated driving, actually. Yet, she would never let her fears keep her from doing what she wanted. She’d white-knuckle the steering wheel as we drove through the park’s dreaded fiords to visit her widowed younger sister in a neighboring community. In nice weather, she'd happily leave the car in the garage, put my baby sister in the stroller, and walk us to the store. She helped out elderly neighbors, driving them to doctor’s appointments or running errands for them. She visited anyone she remotely knew in the hospital. She sent greeting cards signed with her perfect, schoolteacher handwriting. She volunteered at school and church.

Mom was the queen of frugality. She economized with unfathomable skill, balanced her checkbook to the last penny, probably saved billions through her legendary use of coupons, but still always had a nickel to buy me a pretzel rod from the big jar on the counter of the store at the corner. She’d always buy me and my sister sensible, sturdy, out-of-style shoes for school because they needed to last the whole year. Yet, on my birthday, I’d always receive a tastefully fashionable outfit that made me feel like a princess.

Mom was a woman of faith. I often saw her lips moving ever so slightly as I heard the almost imperceptible click of rosary beads slipping through her fingers in her pocket. She went to mass each morning, especially enjoying school masses, which reminded her of her teaching days. On Sunday, we were all expected to dress up and be on our best behavior for mass, which was always followed by Mom’s wonderful Sunday brunch.

Mom took her career as homemaker seriously. Dad is soft spoken and all heart; Mom was small of stature but powerful in spirit. Dad was the provider, but there was no doubt that Mom was always in charge, the unchallenged organizer of the household. She labeled and filed everything and kept us on track by a system of refrigerator notes. The house was always tidy, clothes were always clean, and the refrigerator was always stocked. Her cooking was simple, but the food was delicious and plentiful. Being of Sicilian descent, she made fantastic pizza and lasagna, and there were always meatballs in the refrigerator, up until the week she died. She loved it when anyone entering the house went straight to the refrigerator and helped himself; to Mom, that was the ultimate compliment.

Mom and Dad were a sharp couple. Mom was slim and shapely, and Dad is classically dapper. On Monday nights, she and Dad went bowling, and Mom would dance around the house all day in jubilant anticipation. On special dressy occasions, when Mom and Dad would hire a babysitter for a big night out, Mom would put on her black pumps, red lipstick, and pearls that Dad gave her on their wedding day, and with a crowning dab of Chanel No. 5, she'd transform into a glamour girl who I thought looked and smelled like a movie star. The smell of her perfume would linger in the air all evening and make me drift off to sleep dreaming of my beautiful mother. In the morning, Mom always had a little surprise for me—a piece of cake wrapped in a napkin, or, if I were very lucky, her corsage from the previous evening. She'd pin the flower on my shoulder and let me wear it all day so that a little of her sparkle dusted over me, too.

Mom’s smile was dazzling and her laugh was genuine. A lot of laughing happened when she talked long-distance with her mother every Saturday night or when she got together with her best friend, Dorie. She laughed a lot less, and was silent and contemplative a lot more, after Grandma's mind and health faded and after Dorie died from cancer much too young. Dad’s best friend died young, too, as did Dad’s brother. As my parents’ circle of young friends and relatives tragically dwindled, my parents’ life became considerably more sedate, routine, and focused on us. Dad always worked long hours and Saturdays; Mom, I think, was lonely.

Mom had grit, but suffered great heartaches. Mom experienced an undue share of loss, disappointment, and worry in the years just before I was born and while I was yet a child and ignorant of my parents’ concerns. By the time I was a teenager and young adult, it seemed that the cumulative effect of Mom’s burdens, especially from my perspective of a stereotypically aggrieved teenager, was irrational distrust of of me. Mom's rules seemed unbending and her expectations impossibly high. It was not all unpleasantness—we enjoyed playing games and watching TV together. We went shopping nearly every Saturday afternoon, and Mom would cheerfully watch my younger sister and I model the latest styles. I wondered then why Mom never shopped for herself, but later realized that when her middle-age spread forced her despairing retreat to a uniform of polyester sportswear, Mom, bittersweetly, tranferred her fashion attention to her daughters. Though Mom's attitude distressed me then, I know now that Mom was just in the normal throes of middle age, amplified by too much rapidfire heartache and my somewhat oversensitive youth.  

Mom was a paradox. She and Dad never had resources or time to travel much, but my sister and I developed a serious passion for international travel as younger adults. As we traveled the world, Mom, incongruously with her frugal nature, heartily encouraged us to take every trip, even when funds were low. She seemed proud and fiercely protective of our careers and independence, though she had chosen a different path for herself. She shocked us with unexpected liberal statements, inconsistent with her outward conservativeness. I think she regretted not taking more chances and chasing more dreams before age and health became limiting.

Mom was my greatest champion. When I became a mother, Mom already was both a grandmother and great-grandmother many times over. She held my hand through sorrows, celebrated joys, and, most importantly, walked with me through the unremarkable in-between times. She loved marveling at each loose tooth, hearing the kids learn to read, holding the youngest grandchildren on her lap, feeding the kids all the cookies they would eat, and proudly displaying their artwork and photographs. In recent years, she encouraged me constantly, praised my smallest personal victories, and helped me to forgive myself for my maternal failings. The woman who I had perceived as dominating, distant, and disapproving in my youth, revealed a vulnerable, understanding, supportive nature that hearkened to my early childhood. She tried to guide me through life's overwhelming burdens as I entered middle age, recalling those years when she'd lost so many key people in her own support system. She told me stories about herself that I had never heard with frank descriptions of her feelings, fears, regrets, and joys. I felt the acceptance and unconditional love I’d felt as a child, only with the added richness of a shared bond of womanhood.

Mom was indomitable. The last 6 months of Mom’s life were a shock to my family. The woman who had rarely had a cold, who put a heart attack behind her in a few short weeks so that she could resume mowing the lawn and shoveling snow, the woman who nursed my father through major health issues so that he continues to far outlive all of his relatives, the one we thought would live forever through sheer stubbornness, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Up until the last few days of her life, she was still cooking and sneaking out in her car to go shopping, under my father’s radar, albeit with shuffling feet and a certain unsteadiness. She scolded us all until her last moments, telling me to go home because she didn’t want me to drive in the dark, telling my Dad to stop coddling her, telling all of us that she didn’t want to leave this earth when we said it was okay—she would make that decision. She would not be silenced—even when her tongue was parched and swollen and morphine alone could no longer quell the pain, Mom asked our Holy Mother to pray for her, saying the rosary one last time as my older sister slipped the beads through Mom’s fingers. She orchestrated her final moments, making sure we all fulfilled our roles, as if she were still leaving instructions for us on the refrigerator door.

My mommy was truly beautiful. A couple of weeks before she died, after Mom had stopped coloring her hair in an effort to preserve it through chemotherapy, her hairdresser gave her a tight perm to make Mom’s thin, light hair look fuller. I marveled at her shining, soft, white curls and remarked that her hair was simply gorgeous against the paler, softer skin that was testimony to her 80 years. Her eyes lit up indescribably with the pure joy of feeling loved, beautiful, and happy in her own skin and with her tremendous life. In that moment, I saw a dazzling flash of that stunning, feisty, sweet-smelling woman in black pumps, red lipstick, and pearls, who knew she was a looker, always had a song, a story, a prayer, and a lesson on her lips, and was ready to conquer the world while holding my tiny hand in hers.

I miss you, my beautiful, beautiful mother, so very much.

Technorati tags: My Mommy is Beautiful, mother, Yoko Ono

Give Peace a Chance

Wikimedia Commons photo by Lennyjjk, 2009-05-20
Imagine circle, Strawberry Fields Memorial, Central Park

I recently read an e-book on ImaginePeace.com, Yoko Ono’s web site. And for the first time, I got it.

Of course, everybody knows about John Lennon and Yoko Ono, even if, like me, you are too young to have watched their antics in real time.

I’ve always loved Beatles music and thought John Lennon was an artistic genius. Not only do I enjoy his music, but I also enjoy his published writings and doodles, and old sound bytes of the things he said are greatly amusing and insanely clever. My kids’ bedroom is decorated with a border created from Lennon’s artwork — not in homage to John Lennon, but just because I thought it was joyfully playful when I was selecting decorating items for the nursery.

Then there’s Yoko Ono, also an artistic genius, but much less attainable than pop-icon Lennon. You may love her or not, but she's made her mark on the world every bit as much as her late husband in her unique way and on her own terms. Personally, I like that.

We’ve all seen old video of their honeymoon week in bed and, though amused, puzzled over the point of it.

We’ve all heard old recordings of their rants on peace, rolled our eyes, and thought, “Crazy idealists!”

Right?

I always thought of them as stereotypical celebrity artists — lost in a fantasy world, spewing wonderful thoughts but taking no meaningful action. It’s easy to evangelize and wax poetic about ideals and virtue when you are worshipped by thousands and have absolutely everything you will ever want or need in the physical world and are unencumbered by worries over how to make ends meet.

Of course, we all want peace. Of course, we all need love. Duh. Why on earth did John and Yoko think it was so important to keep telling us to give peace a chance and that all we needed was love? What an inane message. Nice and all. True, of course. But pretty ineffective overall. Insubstantial. Typical of the impotent creative types that operate only in their minds, never translating their lofty ideals into meaningful action. Theory is great, but you’ve got to do something to make it count.

Well, maybe they were — and Yoko still is — doing something.

There will always be a handful of people who do BIG things: Mother Theresa taking care of the poorest of the poor for 40 years in Calcutta; Martin Luther King, Jr. who advocated civil rights; Mohatma Gandhi who nonviolently campaigned for civil rights and whose work helped gain independence for his country. The world was truly blessed by the altruism of these incredible humanitarian heroes.

There are people who are less well known who tirelessly do great work, too. Unsung heroes doing social work, manning local shelters, traveling to forgotten corners of the world with humanitarian aid organizations, rallying neighbors to gather supplies for victims of disasters, raising countless dollars for cancer research and other causes. Those who minister to the downtrodden, feed the hungry, clothe the poor. Amazingly selfless people. Amazingly generous people. Much better people than I will ever be.

Let’s face it, the vast majority of us are not altruistic. Oh, we may make an effort here and there, volunteering and contributing to worthy causes. We have our charitable moments and make our contributions of treasure and time, which is very, very important. But, for most of us, the bulk of our day-to-day effort is not devoted to humanitarian pursuits; it is devoted to muddling through our own lives.

With only minimal persuasion, we may even become sheeple:

Of course the people don't want war. But after all, it's the leaders of the country who determine the policy, and it's always a simple matter to drag the people along whether it's a democracy, a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism, and exposing the country to greater danger.

Herman Goering at the Nuremberg trials

John and Yoko understood that. They accepted us (and themselves) for who we are. Flawed. Easily led astray. Scared. Self-involved. Human. And, they didn’t judge. They decided that the biggest impact could be made by addressing the majority exactly as we are and keeping their plan for change so simple that no one would be unable to do what they proposed. Imagine Peace. Just imagine it. Why? Because, while we are imagining peace, cognitive dissonance prevents us from thinking of a way to do harm. While we are actively imagining peace, we can only act in a consistently peaceful way. If everyone did that, all of the evil in the world would disappear — simple in theory, difficult to do. It’s a slow process of conversion.

This world is separated into two industries: one being the war industry and the other being the peace industry. People who are in the war industry are totally unified by their ideas. They want to make war, kill, and make money. There is no argument there. They just get on with their objectives. Therefore, in that sense, they are a tremendously powerful force. But the people in the peace industry are like me: they are idealists and perfectionists. So they cannot agree with each other. They're always arguing in the pursuit of the "perfect idea." They are asking themselves and each other "What is the best way to get peace? Of course, it's MY way. What's wrong with YOUR way is that..." But instead of doing that, if we can only try to accept each other, forgive the differences and appreciate each other...because the fact is that all of us are in the peace industry. We should bless each other for that, and through that togetherness, somehow, we may be able to make the peace industry just as viable as the war industry, or more.

Yoko Ono
Mix A Building
With The Wind, 2002

So, instead of wasting energy on high-profile actions (e.g., protest marches) often resulting more in the participants feeling good about themselves through the affirmation of the group than in actually doing good for others through quiet industry, John and Yoko decided that more impact would result from trying to encourage personal, individual, simple, everyday, common participation of the unambitious masses. Imagine Peace. On your own. For 10 minutes per day. And, in that time, imagine what you can do immediately to start realizing that vision. Simple things. Calling your mother to say, “I love you.” Smiling at someone who looks like they need a smile. Reaching out with your heart.

The thing that bothered most of our revolutionary brothers was the fact that we weren't against anything, just for things, you know, like Peace and Love.

John Lennon
The Ballad of John and Yoko, 1978

Instead of applying money toward treating the symptoms of the problem (e.g., giving money to charity — although I’m sure they did that, too, and certainly would acknowledge that you must also treat the symptoms until the root problem is resolved), they decided to invest in trying to prevent the problem from occurring in the first place, knocking down the root cause of misery in the world. Thus, they began advertising for peace.

The thing is, we have this poster that says War Is Over If You Want It.

The war is here now and there's two ways of looking at it. Some people say, "Why did you spend your money on posters or peace campaigns? Why didn't you give it to the Biafran children, or something like that?"

And we say, "We're trying to prevent cancer, not cure it."

John Lennon, 1970

It took me until well into adulthood, when life becomes so fraught with energy-draining problems and responsibilities that one is forced to adopt a more realistic and forgiving view of human nature (or else, lose your mind), to understand what John and Yoko started advertising 40 years ago. I may not have the commitment and selflessness, time and energy, resources and talents to do the BIG things, but I certainly can, despite all of my shortcomings and humanitarian laziness, simply Imagine Peace for 10 minutes per day. And if I can, so can you. And so can everyone else. And together, we can create what we imagine. Creation trumps destruction, if only we can include more people in the creation process.

It’s already happening.

When I was thinking that world peace was very important, there were only about 20 people thinking that and they were handing out brochures that most people couldn't read!

Now I think that the concept of world peace is a normal one, and likewise, art too.

In the old days when we were artists, we felt pretty special, but now I think most people are participating in some kind of artistic activity and that's very good.

That's how our society's changing in a way. Even with guitars.

When the bands were playing in the 60's, there were very few people who played guitars, and now most children in schools know how to play guitars, so it's a very different society now.

Yoko Ono
Minneapolis,
2001

In my experience, John and Yoko are right. A small, seemingly insignificant kindness that someone extends to me because they have taken a moment to Imagine Peace (whether or not they know it) not only makes me happy, but inspires me to spread the joy. I do better, without even trying. What could have been a few moments of anger, destruction, exclusion, or indifference suddenly is replaced with love, creation, inclusion, and engagement. Peace propagates. The world is a better place.

Damn. That’s brilliant.

Technorati tags: Imagine, Peace, Imagine Peace, John Lennon, Yoko Ono