I am reflecting on my mother, Pauline Church.

This is my mother, Pauline Church, on the right, and her older sister, Virginia, on the left. There is something absolutely breathtaking looking at this photo of them sitting there with the little umbrellas, wearing dresses trimmed at the bodice and sleeves, and wearing socks and shoes. I've had to reflect on my mother this last month, our relationship, and just the general overall dynamics between a mother and her child. We were incredibly close all her life, yet often at odds, I suppose because we were both very independent and not afraid to say exactly what we thought. Today I had to face the reality of how much we were alike but how different our lives were when compared. She dwelt with a lot of indifference in her younger life. She idolized a father who died young and doted on a withdrawn mother who never got over being widowed too young. There were 5 other siblings, all younger. Life was work. Her world was limited and censored and lacked the culture she craved. So she never censored me a day. I was reading by age four. We had books and lived in the library. She read all the time. She was an incredible reader and her memory was unbelievable. She could sew, keep house, and was a great cook. She loved gardening. And traveled all the time. Queen of the Day Trips. But her life was hard. Very hard. And she could not spare me certain traumas. And as a mother she wanted to, though I never quite understood those particulars until now. Both these girls loved their children. Loved their family. All their lives. I think now, I was extremely lucky in the mother I had, and Aunt Virginia was one of the best aunts. All the gifts I possess as a person are due to my mother and father, but they were shaped by my mother and the things she wanted for me, a Catholic education, a childhood uncensored, culture, art, books, conversation, ideas, ideas, ideas. Every day trip was an adventure. I had asthma, she put in the tub and made me breathe like one would be swimming. I learned to swim in my grandmother's bathtub. I had depth perception problems. She told me I could see everything as well as anyone else. I did. She said I was smart, I believed her and I was. Of course, I learned that the world was chaos from her, too. I miss her. If she had lived, she would be a 102 this month. I can't even process that yet. In CBT, I came to the realization that I have no triggers, and try as I might I could not write a single one down in the last month. And believe me, I've had enough trauma to fill a notebook. I think I owe that to my mother, too. Laughing. No matter what happened to her, and a lot happened to her, she just went on until the day her body stopped and even that was in resistance. What a woman! Both of them. (I look like my mother and I have turned out to be as strong as her, too. Who knew?)