iamartofmothering

Songs to My Children: For the Love of Music and Dance

She said: “Because we have no traditions… .” I did not immediately hear her words, nor follow her logic. I couldn’t in an instant process her declaration or validate it. When I could, I was uncertain and silent. I couldn’t decipher if she wanted confirmation or not.

Driving home, her words repeated like a refrain searching chords for the precise blue melody. I followed the strings to identify the source and tone of the lyrics. Upon reflection, I discovered my daughter — a raphsody in g minor. Her scathing indictment was a familiar hum — repeated in different ways on different days in different conversations.

In traffic, I peered through my windshield; daydreaming — hypnotized by thoughts and invading intermittent headlights from the passing cars. Momentarily, I paused the memory of her statement to play-it-back and hear it again. I heard a chord replay the same bitter notes. I didn’t want to hear the tune again — it punished me and kept repeating — “Because we have no traditions…”. My soul exploded into silver floaters blinding my purview and crushing me — her mother.

Frantically, I tried to change the melody into one more compatible with my soul. I wanted to move around — get up and sit down to transfer the surges between reality, rejection, and acceptance. I finally understood what my daughter meant. Stressed, my body stiffened. I wanted a drink of water, a distraction — a different thought to deter my disappointment. Her five words words toppled my hopes, questioned my dreams, and fractured my vision of the future.

The recollection blurred my vision. The heartache settled into my shoulders and tightened my neck; the volume rose, the sound increased; my thoughts resounded intensity. Prohibited by driving, I needed a safe release. I thought to play a familiar song, listen to a scholarly lecture, or review a Sura I was memorizing. I glanced at my phone then glanced back at the road… the cars then the road… while the wind between speeds hummed a chorus behind the echoes in my head. I calculated the danger of trying to manipulate my cell phone, look at the road, and tap text against the quiet rhythm of road and car and my thoughts. I chose the ride and my thoughts aside the recollection and stress.

I calmed down to experience a balm of energy between stress and relief: a whisper of relaxation soothed me. I looked forward, twisted left to right, then rested grasping the steering wheel and focused on the road. I tried to keep that inner peace — the slight solace. Without tilting the balance between belief and disbelief, I knew I would have to answer my daughter’s claim. This was her unspoken (until now) dilemma. It would fester without redress. I had to relieve her.

(That night a mischievous pixie juxtaposed 5-words into our discourse to cause discord. The little demon rose inside the mouth of my daughter for her anger.)

The expletive questioned our relationship from the past into the present discontentment. Her affront needed to be addressed. Our relationship needed to reconcile. Her note of dissension inferred a cry for salvation.

Inside the blue melody of the words spoken, I whispered retort: “The salvation you were for me must become the salvation I am for you with much more love.”

I will tell her on a different day.