OUR mom is the original storyteller of the family. She is the one who stirred our imagination through stories and an engagement with nature: long walks to the library with our little red wagon to get a “pile of books” to bring home and read all at once; afternoons on the bed recounting fables and nursery rhymes and returning again and again to Beatrix Potter, Fern Hollow and the Hundred Acre Wood; a tumble outside to climb the apple trees and see if we could spot Squirrel Nutkin.

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Thanks to her, our childhood days were spent coming alive, becoming aware of the world, being filled with awe and creating, conjuring, playing, and thinking. Mom has always had the gift of cultivating life in both a seed and a human: she understands the kind of soil, nourishment, and attention each needs to grow and become what it was meant to be.

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Part Mrs. Beaver, part Aragorn, Mom travels with her sword slung over one shoulder and her pots, pans and knitting needles slung over the other. She helps us remain committed to our vision, reminding us who we are and stuffing us with both hope and homemade bread when all hope seems lost.

 

She keeps us moving forward, and whenever the road is damp, cold and dreary – which is often – without fail she manages to pull crispy bacon and a piping hot teapot from her bag, like magic.