A family resemblance

I spoke to a friend recently and she said that her mother was in town and she had one of the best times with her in her adult life. Six months ago I wouldn't have known what she meant, but after my mother came to visit last October, I think perhaps I do.  Relationships with parents alters as one grows up, as all relationships adjust to time and growth.  My time with my mom last October is gilded in my mind as simply seeing the best of her. A part of her, or perhaps her whole self, I could never see as a child. She had gone shopping for this trip and we pieced together outfits.   We shared lunches at my favorite haunts, and picked up a darling copy of The Pickwick Papers in one of my favorite second-hand book shops.  We went on walks in descending cold. The British gardens had not yet closed up for winter and their lush greenness still lingered.  Walking through a neighborhood, mom would constantly stop me with a "Hey, take a look at this" or "Nat, what do you reckon this is called?" She made me slow down and look at things I had passed by hundreds of times before with pausing to consider them.  Mom considered them. While going out to take a look at Indy and Felix, she noticed one sole rose by the garden wall.  When she pointed this out to me, I realized I was only vaguely aware my garden had roses.

Perhaps it is the innate longer for spring that caused me to stop today.  I walked passed a garden I walk pass every day and noticed these flowers. I had never seen such unassuming flowers.  While I caught them out the corner of my eye, I stopped. Then I walked on, reconsidered and walked back to them. (I must becoming more British because this in itself made me feel foolish, retracing one's steps on the street.) When I wondered what flowers they were, I reminded myself of my mother. Somehow knowledge lessens the desire to attain.

Yesterday, I stopped Fran to admire the sun setting on the steeple of a church.  Each day I nanny I'm struck by how gorgeous the pansies look as I enter the front door.  One of the wonderful things about Britain is their lingering springs. While it may not yet be warm, I think it just might make up for it in its demure, almost bashful  grey beauty. I'm beginning to think things are much better when they're understated.