Season 1’s End: A Tribute to My MomMy parents! Now that they’ve passed, I try to surround myself with their pictures because I miss them deeply. Recently, I heard on a podcast that true wisdom comes from forgiving your parents. While I don't claim to be wise, I can say that I've learned a great deal from forgiving my parents for their imperfections, for being human, for their shortcomings and mistakes, for the times they hit me, called me worthless, ugly, and stupid, for not valuing me, and for not standing up for me. It has taken me several decades to reach this realization. Forgiving my parents has been a long and arduous journey, akin to weeding a garden. Happy birthday, Mommy (from Lyon) Hope you liked walking through streets with Eileen and I. You even followed me into that Gallic-Roman museum and watched over my shoulders as I drew ancient Roman artifacts. "All stone," you told me "too much." But we went into that church high on the hill. A long tapered candle I lit in your name for one Euro and you were gone. Guess there was someone calling for you. You went out in a "poof" like when you've made your birthday wish, on your birthday cake. // August 17, 2014, at 7:23 a.m. in Lyon Morning Poem #57 August 17, 1927 I do not know the weather conditions on that day, nor can I recall what day it was that my mother brought me into this world, but it was a force of effort which I would experience myself having brought in about twelve children of my own, but really some not surviving, which always has made me sad. On this day, I'll tell you that my brothers and sisters welcomed me if not, they were perhaps jealous? But I am the last of all my mother's children, so I must be the best and last. I tell my daughter stories because I can't remember details nor can I find the words in her language--English--to describe relationships to people or things the way I can in my language. I know, I've said this before, but in my language we have words for those interrelated things! Maybe I told my youngest daughter how all the doctors: witch doctors, midwives and physicians ran to our home to help my mother in labor: Because I knew, somehow, there was a big, dramatic commotion stirring, then all things stopped the minute I breathed into the air. That was the true story. However, I told my daughter I was born under a lily pad, and was found by my father who discovered me on top of that lily pad and that I was covering myself with the petals of the flower that grew from it, silly me, huh? I also forgot to tell her that I had fairy wings // August 17, 2015 at 8:08 a.m. Morning Poem #372 SYNOPSIS In Season 1, Episode 8 of the Morning Poems Podcast, Tess still talks about Emily Dickinson. She candidly discusses her mission's exhaustion, her COVID bouts, and her reflections on parental forgiveness. Celebrating her mother's birthday, the poet reads two heartfelt poems from 2014 and 2016, reminiscing about a visit to Lyon and embodying her mother's voice in the Lyon poem. Shoutouts to some Substack accounts and a heads-up to listeners about an upcoming poetry series called Witchlore in Season 2. 00:00 Introduction and Host Background 01:32 Housekeeping and Social Media 02:51 Shout Outs and Inspirations 04:08 Episode Recap and Personal Reflections 04:51 Mommy's Birthday and Poetry Reading 13:47 Poem: Happy Birthday Mommy from Lyon 15:03 Poem: August 17, 1927 17:39 Conclusion and Season 2 Teaser Get full access to The MorningPoems Podcast + Morning Poems by Tess McCarthy at tessmccarthy.substack.com/subscribe
