I close eyes and look at this sky so gray and thick. Soon it will fall, my favorite season.
In my hands this extraordinary book I just read a beautiful letter writers to their mothers, Letters to Our Mothers, I've Always Mean to Tell You, An Anthology of Contemporary Women Writers . And it remains a sad thought: What do I write to my mother?
This book is a gem, I bought it eleven years ago in a secondhand bookstore a month of June, in Montreal. This library no longer exists, as there is no Montreal I met. And since these mothers do not exist and even I would say that there are no letters from either of these feelings. Everything passes, everything is gone. It's life.
I wonder: Which is what I wrote to my mother? How to start the letter? "Mother dear? "Mommy? My dear mother? And in response is a vacuum, gray skies and sad as I see, when I open my eyes as if searching for an answer, a hint, a sign ...
These letters speak of two generations, two totally different worlds, speaking of perceptions, symbols, myths, dreams, projections, frustrated love and passion of love, of revenge, rites and traditions. It is also a recipe book: how to love, like hate, like losing and especially like meeting one writing a letter to your dear mother.
And rediscover Mother who was
Who are our mothers? How to understand (And similarly understand) without accepting them in their darkness and their stellar light, accept from the unconditional love them most, we loved? We are our mothers, daughters, and we also are them, and thus enter into the dance, though we refuse, the spiral, the mandala of life. We want it or not, true. And this fate is also our salvation, our way of life we \u200b\u200bchoose but our mothers.
To understand our mothers have to put them in his generation, born in the first 25 years of last century. We must understand and accept the situation of those years, poverty and the situation of women. We must forgive the lovers who were not as hardcore as it should, the errors of education. And forgive, understand our acts of rebellion. They were also rebels, however. They also fought in their own way, to give us an education, a sense of being female.
These letters, in this magnificent book are crying, are laughs, stories shared, simple and meaningful. Also as a final goodbye to them that are no longer the majority. But never too late to communicate what has not been said, the unsaid in a relationship as significant as that of mother and daughter.
Maybe one day write a letter to my dear mother. What say you, dear mother, no longer has told you without telling you? My struggles, my fears, how important you were in my personal growth, how important you were in my fears and my failures. No, no ... Maybe one day write a letter to thank you letter for conmemorarte, a hymn to what you were, and remain so until my death.
