A small, brown table sat in my parent’s kitchen for most of my adult life; this is where many of my troubles were resolved. I would sit at one end, and my mom would sit on the middle chair (because sometimes, my dad would sit on the other end). I would go there for late afternoon coffee nearly every day when my children were growing up. I was able to sit and drink a full cup of coffee without getting up five times; my mom filled in for me.

Throughout the years, this table and this specific chair was where I went to sometimes share happy news and, sometimes, to untangle many of life’s difficulties; she was always there and always listening. When my mother died, I thought about this special place, those times of complete release, of comfort and wondered how I could lose that, lose her; for in that moment, I did not think it could be possible.

The years have passed and, obviously, I have made it safely to this point, but the little brown table, two chairs, and her warmth are still here with me.

I write this story about the little brown table as a lead into my attempt to write a ‘Mother’s Day’ column, all the while wondering what more can be said about mothers? Beautiful songs have been composed, paintings have been painted, and lovely poems have been written; our mothers are forever in our hearts, two hearts that, once, beat together; our mothers are irreplaceable. My humble words that follow cannot add to anything that has already been said; I can only share part of a sweet piece I wrote many years ago when I was raising my own children …

‘It began with an eerie dream – pieces of my past all tumbled together ending with me standing in the rain with an umbrella trying to get my daughter where she needed to be. I was afraid, but somehow fiercely determined to get her “there”, all the while keeping her dry from the ‘rain’, shielding her with my ‘umbrella”.

The symbolism was uncanny – me, spending much of my life holding ‘umbrellas’ over my children, stepping in puddles, and trying to avoid downpours all the while trying to point them towards the light, to a place where they belong, a place where they would be flooded in sunshine.

I, and all the moms I know, do this, we “stand out in the rain” and are relentless warriors when our kids are involved. We never stop, no matter how many tears are spilled, and disappointments dealt. Frustrations and discouragements converge and sometimes slow us down, but never stop us, only our last breath can do that.

The moment in the dream I describe was so intense, albeit more of a feeling than an actual situation. I felt it was more of a flash of fuel and support –reminding me that I needed to keep the ‘umbrella’ handy and that it was a mother’s purpose to protect them, to guide them, no matter how big the storm or how powerful the resistance. I have the ‘umbrella’ and tired as I might be or doubtful as I might feel, it should be available each day because I know, each day, a little rain may fall somewhere.

This is the essence of my dream, and this is the manifestation of its message. Thankfully, the sun is shining as I write this, but my ‘umbrella’ is still there, by the back door.”

Mother’s Day blessings to all of you, especially the young mothers whose ‘umbrellas’ are nearly always ‘open’.

(You can follow Pam Shensky’s blog, “A View From My Garden” www.pamshenskyart.com)