Observations on motherhood & the importance of looking around
I'm sitting in the cafe at Barnes & Noble next to a mom and her two daughters. The girls are young — 16, 18, maybe 20. It's hard to tell. The older of the two is visibly upset. There’s a deep, visceral quality to her pain that looks raw and real and intensely burdensome. It's so gut-wrenching to see I feel it too. My immediate instinct is to ask if they need help, but I think better of it, and just continue to observe.
I hear the sad girl whisper to her sister — what if this pain never goes away — a terrifying prospect that freezes both girls in place. The look on their mom's face, however, suggests something different. Despite absorbing her daughter's torment and feeling deeply burdened by it, her pursed lips, wide open eyes, and the gentle, curious tilt of her head betrays the loving calm of a parent who knows that her daughter will be ok, and probably much sooner than she could ever imagine at the moment. Bearing witness to their deep ties, sweet and easy comfort with one another, and their divergent, age-appropriate perspectives — one fueled by ruptured idealism, the other sturdy, assuring, deeply maternal — takes my breath away.
I watch the mom take hold of her daughter's hands, slowly raise them to her lips, and give them a soft, cottony kiss. After easing them back down to the marbled linoleum table, she gently messages the back of her daughter's hand with an outstretched forefinger. Back and forth, back and forth, slowly, with great care, and an endearing stare. As surely as she does, I can see the tension in the young girl's shoulders slowly melt away. It’s a sight to behold. This is beauty personified.
As the three women sit together in silence for what feels like a protracted period of time, I watch awestruck as their eyes communicate a torrent without a single word passing between them. Mom's eyes saying, I'm here. I know you're hurting. But I'm here. The girl's eyes speak of her desperation, Mom, I'm dying. Please help me. It's true. In that moment, she is dying. Who she was yesterday or last week is not who she is this afternoon, nor whom she's likely to ever be again. As sad as this is, it's also deeply beautiful because what I know, and what I know the girl's mom knows, is that her daughter isn't dying, she won't die, and probably, just few weeks from now, whatever's happened here is likely to already be far in her rearview.
When their silence breaks, I can't make out what the girl says to her mom, but I see her mom respond back with a soft, gentle smile. She grips her daughter's hands more tightly and mouths to her, You look beautiful today. The effect of her mom's words is palpable. At the same time, I watch as her sister gently rubs her back in large, slow circles, stopping every few seconds to flick her ear in that needling way only siblings can get away with, as the sad girl takes delicious comfort in the warm, caring embrace of her family. The depth and meaning of the moment is so intense I feel like I might break in two.
As I come-to from my near-hypnotic state and take broader notice of the cafe and the many people here this afternoon, I'm troubled that no one else seems to notice, or have any awareness whatsoever, about the sad girl, the sister, and the mom. Why? Surely, I understand that people get closed inside their own minds from time to time. I know I do. But, are they really so enraptured by their phones and lattes and chocolate chip cookies to not notice this intensely painful and deeply loving scene unfolding right next to them? Do they not care?
As my compassion for the girl begins to give way to a growing frustration at these people's oblivious disinterest, I notice a young boy sitting a few tables away. His dad has been on a phone call this entire time. He is the only other person here watching the two girls and their mom. He has a concerned, nervous look on his face, his eyes darting this way and that. When finally our eyes meet, when he sees me seeing him seeing them he quickly turns away, embarrassed perhaps, the way young children are want to do when they make eye contact with a stranger. I want to tell the young boy that it's ok to look. That it's ok to feel nervous and sad for the young girl, and to wonder what's happened to her. But I also want to tell him that she'll be ok. That she's not alone, and based on what I've seen here today, she likely never will be. Of course, I don't say anything to the boy. I don't say anything to anyone. I just keep watching.
In a world where beauty and love can be hard to locate, sometimes you find it in the unlikeliest of places, at the strangest of times. Because of this, it's important to pay attention, keep watch, and always look around with a curious eye. Do this long enough, enough times, and eventually you'll see it.