When I awoke this past Sunday morning, I heard robins chirping outside my bedroom window. Immediately my eyes followed my ears to the nest they were building on the same beam they’ve built a nest on for at least the past 20 years. My next thought brought me back in time to the birding photo journal my college-aged daughter had created with a nanny when she was about four years old. The journal had become something of a joke between us as I’d always held it up as the hallmark of terrific and creative nannying, whereas my daughter remembered the journal as a chore and the nanny as a taskmaster. In any event, I went off in search of the journal thinking it would amuse my daughter to once again see a photo of it via text message. Alas I couldn’t find the coveted journal, but instead came across the photo you see above, in which I am the toddler in my mother’s arms, surrounded by three of my siblings.
The promotional photo (most likely taken by my dad) is an image from my mom’s first campaign for school committee, an election she won and a position she held for 16 years. We are all positioned around the schoolhouse my dad built and she campaigned with as it trailed behind our Ford Fairlane (I can still hear the music blasting from the speakers “schoolhouse, schoolhouse dear old golden rule house…”).
Later in the day while glancing toward my calendar for the upcoming week, I noted that it’s Women’s History Month. My first thought was that of my Mom in my mind’s eye saying it should be called Women’s Her-story Month… silly to name it something it’s not. She was quietly instructional about herstory, introducing me to strong women role models through biographies of women like Louisa Mae Alcott and Amelia Earhart (favorites I remember reading and re-reading as a young girl).
My mom was clearly ahead of her time in the sense that she loved her life’s work outside of our home, and yet she was of her time, referring to the time she’d taken to be at home raising children as her 25-year vacation. She was a trailblazer in many respects, yet she never identified with the feminist movement (neither Phyllis Schlafly nor Gloria Steinem spoke her language). She was pragmatic, and I’ve often wondered if it was perhaps her having gone to all-girls schools that created in her a sense that she was competent and capable of doing whatever she set her mind to. She didn’t expect to meet barriers, and when she did, she would often say “if you can’t get in through the door, you’ll have to climb in through the window”.
My mom had a quiet presence. She was a great listener, fond of saying that it’s not for no reason we have two ears and one mouth. She chose her words carefully, and when she spoke, she had impact. I thank her for my interest in examining the power of language, particularly when it comes to the language around family law and its influence on families. For instance, I’ve found that almost always the word divorce is in and of itself unhelpful to most clients. Instead, when having initial consultations, I use the word restructuring. Many times, clients harken back to that first conversation when later talking about their evolution through the process. The word divorce is derived from the Latin, divertere, meaning “to divert”. Whereas the word restructuring comes from the Latin structura, “a fitting together, or adjustment” and re means “back again”. Do you, like me, think how we say what we say matters as much as what we say?
Thanks for staying with me on this blog which I realize began with the chirping of a bird, led to the search of a book (not yet found) and the discovery of an old photo, to memories uncovered and long-stored that undergird much of my current thinking.