This time of year, when the days grow shorter and the light dims to darkness is a time of introspection for me. It comes some years like a curtain falling on a comedy and in other years, like a slow setting of the sun. This year it began early for me and I began to notice that the tug on my soul to reflect inward was very real, only this year was different.
Instead of the usual reflection on what I have done over the last year: good, bad, right, wrong, etc., I began to reflect on who I am, what I represent, what I am supposed to do while I am on this journey. My reflections were coming with pictures in my head of my family…nieces, nephews, siblings. Those pictures, though, were not of these people individually – rather, they were together with a silhouette of my mother behind each face, each pair of blue eyes, green eyes, and a smattering of brown eyes – there she was, my mother, with all of her soul reflected in each of our faces.
Who am I? Was I reflection of my mother? Was I living up to her standards? Would I ever, could I ever, be as great of a humanitarian, human being, mother, sister, aunt, lover as her? Who am I? Am I a piece of her? Broken off…less than she? Diminished by my fraction, made less by my lacking? Am I her shadow…mimicking her? Weak mirror image of darkness – rebellion incarnate? Am I her legacy? A sum total of all she ever was or will be?
Who I am. I am all of the things that my mother ever anticipated. I am all of the things that she wanted for me. I am the culmination of years and years of her struggle, her hardships, her joy and her blessings. I am her daughter. I am her pride. I am who she wanted me to become.
Am I who I am? Am I a facsimile of who I am? Am I capable of living up to the greatest expectations of my mother? Am I?
I am what I am, Sam I am. My introspection is coming, rapidly, to an end and autumn hasn’t even dawned. This new season of darkness will be fraught with reflections of all sorts…this being just one…just the beginning of many…and the end of so much more. It has come to this…my questions were once about what I perceived as my mother’s expectations and her desires for me and my life. I was wrong and flawed in my questioning and, thereby, in my living and thinking. My mother has only one desire and one expectation…for me to be who I am and for me to be happy.
Now…let the fall fall.