None of us can deny the fact that we come from a mother, at least a mother’s egg.  Some broaden their family by magnitudes and claim a mother country, while others open even more to say we’re all children of God (some even claim God as Mother).

Personally, I enjoy my relationship with my mom, though we don’t get to see each other often enough.  What’s more, I love learning about her history since it plays such a role in who I am, issues I have to work through — good and bad.  I love hearing about her mother and grandmother.  These women, too, are part of my being.

While I’d love to know more about my family history, I don’t have the time for genealogy.  What I do have are relatives from whom I can learn.  I loved my grandfathers’ stories that all shared a thread of hard work, simple pleasures, risky adventures and wise advice.  My grandmothers’ stories continue to relay a life of experience, how to make the best of what you have, caring for one’s self yet bestowing upon many others unconditional love.  I listen with fascination and wonder if I will have grandchildren someday attentively listening to my stories.  Will I have obstacles overcome with determination and skill?  Will I have adventure?  What lessons will I have to pass on if they are wise enough to ask and to learn through me?  Only time will tell.

We all have mothers to learn from, even if they’re not biological.  Maternal figures in our lives come in more ways than one.  We have much to learn from them even as we go our own ways, and then another generation awaits, looking to us.

When I stand in my utility room, I see not a curtain in the window but my great-aunt’s apron.  For some reason, it gives me strength and comfort the way the sun shines through the thin fabric made even more thread-bare from years of use.  My daughter knows it’s an apron, too.  Perhaps someday she will feel its strength and comfort, but probably not until she’s learned many stories and consciously tapped into the great maternal connection.