You’re magical. It’s true.
My mom turns 75 next week so this is a letter to her. I thought the rest of you might get a kick out of reading it, too.
Dear Momma…
Happy birthday, you rascal you.
Did you know that—now that I’m 43 and you’re 75—I even love the things about you that used to drive me crazy? I love that you refuse to use a crosswalk or get your hair dyed by a professional. I love that you let my kids watch videos of deer falling into pools on YouTube and that you’ve never written a short email. I love that you find the post office intimidating to the point of absolute avoidance and that you keep more cash stuck in random drawers than the most tipped waitress in history.
I love that you are the most curious person I know—constantly researching—whether it’s about the latest release from a director you love, or a disease you’ve decided is misunderstood by mainstream medicine, or a tree you’ve been wondering about (and probably talking to). Is this the reason you are always way ahead of any cultural curve? I remember when you started using coconut oil like a decade before the rest of California. How did you know?
Speaking of being ahead of the curve, I love that you refuse binaries. Always have. From the time I was little I knew that, in your presence, I would never get away with a one-sided way of seeing a person or a situation. Sometimes it was maddening; I just wanted you to hate on something or someone like the rest of humanity! But no, you constantly flip the script—looking for the paradoxes, hidden dynamics, complexity, neglected stories.
Which is why, for you, there are no bad people or things. You love a weed, a creepy, nocturnal animal, a widely detested food (buttermilk, anyone?). You love the misunderstood child, the brash coworker, the misanthropic neighbor. In other words, if someone is described as an “acquired taste,” you’re in. Remember how dad was so outraged that the attic was being taken over by mice and then you had to admit to him that you were feeding them? They seemed hungry, you said. This made no sense and, yet, it made all the sense in the world to you.
I love that you are delighted, but never cloying. You have even formed a friendship of equals with your granddaughters. You listen to them—I mean really, really listen—and ask them questions and create wild, detailed imaginary worlds with them. And never, not once, does it seem like you are talking down to them or even holding yourself apart from them. I struggle to understand how to wield my power as a parent in a way that you never seem to as a grandmother, and I don’t remember you ever struggling with as a mother yourself.
It’s like you have some intuitive genius for how to be true equals with the world and all the people in it. What a rare gift! The rest of us are in a scrum of power grabs and you’re just in the bathroom painting a fleshy cheek with sparkles and talking about how male seahorses are the ones that carry the babies. Or making some weird found object sculpture in the yard. Or counseling a friend through a crisis while also making them laugh so hard they pee a little.
You’re magical. It’s true. I’ve always known it and everyone else has, too. That’s why you’ve always been surrounded by friends, and even when you move to get away from everyone, they still find you and visit and/or make you hang out on zoom calls with them. You’re warm and alive and surprising. Your magnetic and non-judgmental and fun. You’re—as dad points out daily—wildly beautiful with your huge hands and your kind, green eyes and your country western style.
Most likely anything you like about me is only possible because you made it so. Not because you formed me—you would never do that. But because you made space for me to be myself, even when it was hard and you knew the world was brutal and you (understandably) worried it might destroy me. Even when I threatened to light myself on fire on the White House steps when the Iraq War started, and screamed at you and dad for a having a savings account after I got my first book deal, and came home from college and puked all over the living room carpet after drinking too much Captain Morgans.
You must have known that my righteousness would get dulled by the ravages of living a life and that my sensitivity to suffering wasn’t something you could wish away. You just kept wrapping me in the afghan and making me oxtail soup and showing me all the “programs” you recorded for me. You just kept believing that one day my words would find their audience.
Look Ma, here they are. And now they know how much I love you. How much I admire you. How unreasonably lucky I was to be born your girl.
Happy 75th. May the years ahead be full of laughter, great art, Sea Breezes, and may you never, not once, step foot into a post office. I love you so much that I’ll never stop trying to explain how much.
Love C.
Shout outs to Jere E. Martin welcome in the comments! Or shout out your own weirdo, beautiful mom—dead or alive.
Dear Jere: I count myself among the very lucky folks who’ve enjoyed face-to-face time with you! Sharon and I have such fond memories of meeting you and Ron at the Tea House in Santa Fe, and visiting in your art-filled home. We understood right away why Courtney treasures you, and what an important role you played in giving the world a daughter whom all of us treasure! So we are more than delighted to join in wishing you a very happy 75th birthday, a number that still seems young by my ever-evolving standards! Big, big hugs from your Madison Fan Club, including this guy who’s beyond proud that my name found its way into your family! Lots of love, Parker
i cried just seeing what this was about :)