Look!

Dear Readers, 26th November would have been my Mum’s 84th birthday, had she not died in December last year. These firsts are hard, as people who have trodden this path before warned me: on Tuesday I went into work, did fancy things with spreadsheets, cried in the toilets intermittently and went home. And then, when I started to prepare the cabbage for dinner, I heard her voice in my head.

‘Look!’ it said.

And so I did. If Mum had still been alive, she would have called to me from the kitchen, and wouldn’t have given up until I came to see what was interesting. I can remember her in the days when she could still walk, hunched over with scoliosis and poised over a chopping board.

Maybe she’d found a carrot shaped like a pair of crossed legs, or something ruder.

Maybe she was entranced by the glistening magenta seeds inside a pomegranate.

Maybe there was a five-pointed star in the middle of a potato.

Or maybe it was the way that water drops form pure, translucent pearls amongst the indentations and veins of a Savoy cabbage.

She would have gestured at the vegetable with her (always blunt) knife.

‘Can you see it?’ she’d ask.

‘Can I see what?’ I’d say, with a greater or lesser degree of exasperation.

She’d smile enigmatically and wait for me to get it.

And then, like one of those optical-illusion puzzles that change suddenly, I’d see what she saw.

‘There’s a tormented demon in your cabbage’, I’d say, and she’d laugh. She saw characters everywhere – in wallpaper, in the grain of wood, in clouds, in the upturned faces of the pansies in the garden. She would have loved the fuse box that I spotted at Walthamstow Wetlands the other week.

For Mum, the world was full of people that went unnoticed, both in terms of images, and in terms of real folk who are often passed by. It was not unusual for me to meet her somewhere, only to find her sharing a cigarette with a homeless person that she’d made friends with outside the tube station, or ‘chatting’ with a lost tourist who spoke not a word of English. She reached beyond speech to find the common language that we all share:  a need for connection, empathy, and beauty. She would compliment a complete stranger if she liked their dress, and once told a very well-dressed young man that the newspaper he was carrying had left a big print smudge on his face.

‘I could tell that he was going to an interview because he looked very nervous and kept checking his A to Z’, she said, ‘and he was very grateful when I told him. And I was right, he was going to an interview!’

Once, in Finsbury Square, Mum noticed a pigeon with its feet wrapped in string much like the one at Waterloo Station above. She had a pair of scissors in her bag, and, with some trepidation, approached a besuited chap at the next bench.

‘Excuse me’, she said, ‘but if you could just get hold of that poor pigeon, I’m sure I could cut it free’.

The guy looked at her with complete incredulity.

‘Madam’, he said, ‘you must be completely mad’.

And so the pigeon remained entangled, and Mum went back to work, sad and exasperated.

‘All he had to do was grab it!’ she told me that evening.

I should add that Mum also brought home many of the house plants from work that the company who looked after them deemed too tatty to grace the office. She would nurse them back to health with great satisfaction.

‘All they needed was a bit of TLC’, she’d say. People, animals and plants flourished under her kind attention, and she taught me that no living thing should ever be treated without respect, or written off. Her passion for the underdog was the thing that I loved most about her, and it was that that propelled me into so many of my own choices in life. She believed that that a community is only strong when there is room for everyone, and so do I.

But truly, Mum saw beauty everywhere. She loved the night sky, and I remember us standing at the back of the bungalow one night, not long before she died. It is very dark in the village, and we stood there, holding hands and looking up. Suddenly, there was a shooting star.

‘Quick, Mum, make a wish!’ I said, and she closed her eyes, and so did I. I wished for her to have better health, and to find peace, and one of those wishes was granted, though not in the way I wanted.

And so, I go on, as we do. But I often find myself trying to get complete strangers to pay attention to what’s around them. I point out a red moon, a flock of waxwings, a pied wagtail trying to find food outside Kentucky Fried Chicken, a robin singing at first light, and when I do I know it’s Mum speaking through me, still.

‘Look’.

Waxwing (Bombycilla garrulus)

 

 

21 thoughts on “Look!

  1. sllgatsby

    This is just the BEST. I love your mom, even though I never met her. I too am a “noticer,” always pointing out all the little amazing details around us. I hope that influences my son in the same way your mother influenced you. Thank you for writing the way you do and sharing these intimate moments of loss and joy.

    Reply
  2. Julia

    Beautiful. It reminds me of what you said about how we’re all a bit like Russian dolls and the layers we have inside us. I love your mum too – she’s definitely a kindred spirit and I think her way of viewing life is just perfect and I’d be so happy if I was the same at her age. In the words of my favourite coaster ‘Enjoy the little things as one day you will look back and realise they were the big things’

    Reply
  3. jentsplace

    Beautifully written! While I wouldn’t dare compare myself with your dear Mum, I am also blest with pareidolia & can empathise with her view of the world. Huge hugs.

    Reply
  4. trailriderincentraloregon

    Recently, I lost my big sister, and although the process was slow and not surprising, the impact of her now not-being continues to be significant. Appreciating your reflections and associations, Bug Woman, I’m tracking with you.

    Reply
  5. ravenhare

    This is so beautiful, and I see a huge reflection of my own mother and of my grandmother in your description. To be kind to everything and everyone is the best way to be …and also to look. I love to look and see things that others rarely do, only the special people. xx

    Reply
    1. Bug Woman Post author

      I can see from your artwork (I still have the postcards that you gave me at Moniack Mhor) that you too see the importance of the small things…xx

      Reply
  6. Sarah

    This was a nice thing to read on the fifth anniversary of my dad’s death.
    And I’d be over the moon if someone pointed out a flock of waxwings to me.

    Reply
  7. Andrea Stephenson

    I read just the other day that there’s a name for seeing faces in things – Pareidolia. I thought everyone did it but apparently some people do more than others. Maybe you do have to be a noticer, it sounds as though your mother was a mistress of noticing and of connecting with others.

    Reply
  8. marla

    My life philosophy exactly…look. Open your eyes to the magic that exists all around us that are unable or unwilling to see.
    Your mum sounds like a fine woman. I might have been great friends with her even across the vast and mysterious Atlantic Ocean.

    Reply
  9. marla

    My life philosophy exactly…look. Open your eyes to the magic that exists all around us that many are unable or unwilling to see.
    Your mum sounds like a fine woman. I might have been great friends with her even across the vast and mysterious Atlantic Ocean.

    Reply
  10. Liz Norbury

    What a comfort for you to hear your mum’s voice in your head on her birthday and remember her ability to see the magical in the everyday. It made me think of Carol Ann Duffy’s poem, Prayer: “…So, a woman will lift her head from the sieve of her hands and stare at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift”. I hope you continue to find solace in your memories of your mum as you approach the anniversary of her death. My dad’s funeral was two years ago yesterday, Advent Sunday, and as I sat in a candlelit church, I thought of him joyfully playing the organ and piano at Christmas services and concerts over so many years.

    Reply
    1. Bug Woman Post author

      I love that Carol Ann Duffy poem, thank you for reminding me of it Liz! I find it’s becoming a little easier to remember the good things, rather than being poleaxed by those last terrible years. It’s good that you have such lovely memories of your Dad.

      Reply

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