another mother's day

Mom and I went to the cemeteries yesterday. Not her usual Sunday activity, but she didn't think she would have time to go today because she planned to go to the temple at 7:00 a.m. to gather up a bunch of "gorgeous" (and free) pansies--pink! purple! and other colors!--that would be dug up and tossed out.

Mom always has a plan for the mum-giving holiday. (If that isn't a bit of commercial genius, I don't know what is. Seriously, don't you think the geranium growers and potted rose growers are beating themselves about the head for not seeing that opportunity before the mum growers? How and when did we decide that the convenience of buying the same mums that everyone else buys--3 for $10 or $12--was better or more acceptable than a bough of lilacs or snowballs or an iris or peony picked from our gardens?)

Mom is not always completely forthcoming with her plans. (Note previous recent post about dad's party that mom scheduled on my calendar from 1:00-4:00 but other people were told anywhere from noon to 6:00.)

Yesterday was no exception to her less-than-full-disclosure rule. I did not know we have family buried in the city cemetery until we got on the freeway and headed north. But when she called to ask if I'd accompany her yesterday, someplace in me decided it was time to go with her flow and enjoy the ride. And I did and she did, all the way from the cemetery on the hill to the other three cemeteries we visited. We were together for hours as she told me stories and histories, and she was in heaven even as she tried to find the final resting places she and dad have chosen.

You know, the older I get, the more I see her in me. Her gestures and glances pop out of me regularly. But yesterday, as she talked and I listened, I was fascinated by the tremendous difference between us in the basic way we view life. She prefers to acknowledge that life is full of all sorts of events, and all events in life are to be endured, accepted, and moved past, because there is no sense in agonizing over that which you cannot change. Her concept of living is foreign to me. I don't know if I feel more deeply, but I certainly agonize over much that I cannot change. I always think I can change events. I think I can control all. Obviously, I cannot control most events and thus circle back to fretting and stewing.

As I type this, I wonder if we are really so different after all. Maybe the thing we both want is to be in control of our feelings and emotions and lives. She finds control in moving past while I find control in lingering. I suspect that neither of us has any too much control over most of the events of life. But we keep trying, we do what we do, and we are different yet the same.