A reflection on a Mother's Day long ago… when my daughters were about five and seven.
I wasn't woken by the dramatic harmonies of the Overture to Mozart's Don Giovanni. No one was clattering around in the kitchen preparing Eggs Florentine with pan-fried potatoes. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was also absent from the morning air on Mother's Day. If I wanted a fancy breakfast, I had to get out of bed and cook it myself. The prognosis for lunch and dinner didn't look any different. My husband, away on an exotic adventure posing as a business trip, couldn't take me out and had been unable to pick up the phone, or maybe he simply forgot. My daughters presented me with beautiful self-made cards they had coloured at midnight and a handful of flowers that I hoped our landlord wouldn't miss from his front garden. They told me they loved me. They hugged me and helped setting the table without complaints.
But after brunch, while I cleared away the dishes, they were ready to move on with their day. They discussed which friends they could call, which movies they might want to see, which games they could play. Did they suddenly notice how I slumped over the sink full of soapy dishes? Did I sigh? Or did I glance at them in a dejected way? I don't know what prompted them to pause in their conversation.
They turned to me and asked: "Mommy, is there something you would like to do today?"
"I'd like to take a walk with you and photograph the skunk cabbage in the little swamp near the bottom of our driveway," I replied without much thought.
Apparently that wasn't too much to ask and it didn't cut into their allowance, so we were off.
The girls skipped ahead with the dog while I picked my way down the slope carefully cradling my husband's new and expensive camera. When I got to the swamp, I found a pile of shoes and sweaters. And I heard peals of laughter, shouts and joyful barking. My daughters had started their adventure, luring the dog into black and gooey mud.
Keeping my shoes on, my range was somewhat limited. I clambered over slippery rocks and got the camera ready. As I started snapping what seemed to become an inventory of every specimen of Symptocarpus foeticus, commonly known as skunk cabbage, in the little patch of wetlands, my daughters discovered the ancient and yet very new art of Hai Hai Hu, a game of muddy fun.
After I had exhausted the available repertoire of skunk cabbages, I moved on to photographing dead logs that resembled devious creatures half-hidden in the murky water. Then the straight cattails caught my attention. There was a multitude of intriguing shapes; and the light gave them edges and depth. The colours were warm and soft. I was so caught up in my mission that I didn't notice anything else until an insistent beeping signaled the limit of my memory card. Reluctantly I put the lens cap on the camera and looked around for my three fellow adventurers. Following the sounds of their merriment, I was surprised to learn that I had finished taking my photos before the girls had run out of patience with their new game.
With a bit of an effort to keep the camera safe, I made my way to the top of a big rock overlooking the swamp. I found it to be cushioned with soft moss, a comfortable perch where I could rest and study Hai Hai Hu myself, if only from a distance. Hai Hai Hu involves standing on a slippery log and swinging a Hai Hai Hu (a dried bulrush-stalk), while rhythmically chanting "Hai Hai Hu". On the first Hai, the stalk swings out to the left, on the second Hai, to the right. On the Hu, however, a still proudly standing cattail is to be hit. Thereby the seeds are scattered and the propagation of cattails advanced. Hai Hai Hu requires a lot of steadiness and concentration. Laughter, for instance, is counterproductive, as it can upset the balance resulting in a dip into the mud. And slippery feet further complicate the whole process. With the help of the dog who busily moved logs into position, my daughters were determined to Hai Hai Hu every available cattail in the swamp.
As I sat on my boulder, caressed by rays of sun, a deep contentment crept up on me. Even the crow flying off with what seemed to be a baby snake couldn't upset my equilibrium. Hai Hai Hu might be forgotten tomorrow and there is a chance that the photos will not turn out so well. But on that rock I made a resolution. I'll try to have this kind of Mother's Day more often.
I wasn't woken by the dramatic harmonies of the Overture to Mozart's Don Giovanni. No one was clattering around in the kitchen preparing Eggs Florentine with pan-fried potatoes. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was also absent from the morning air on Mother's Day. If I wanted a fancy breakfast, I had to get out of bed and cook it myself. The prognosis for lunch and dinner didn't look any different. My husband, away on an exotic adventure posing as a business trip, couldn't take me out and had been unable to pick up the phone, or maybe he simply forgot. My daughters presented me with beautiful self-made cards they had coloured at midnight and a handful of flowers that I hoped our landlord wouldn't miss from his front garden. They told me they loved me. They hugged me and helped setting the table without complaints.
But after brunch, while I cleared away the dishes, they were ready to move on with their day. They discussed which friends they could call, which movies they might want to see, which games they could play. Did they suddenly notice how I slumped over the sink full of soapy dishes? Did I sigh? Or did I glance at them in a dejected way? I don't know what prompted them to pause in their conversation.
They turned to me and asked: "Mommy, is there something you would like to do today?"
"I'd like to take a walk with you and photograph the skunk cabbage in the little swamp near the bottom of our driveway," I replied without much thought.
Apparently that wasn't too much to ask and it didn't cut into their allowance, so we were off.
The girls skipped ahead with the dog while I picked my way down the slope carefully cradling my husband's new and expensive camera. When I got to the swamp, I found a pile of shoes and sweaters. And I heard peals of laughter, shouts and joyful barking. My daughters had started their adventure, luring the dog into black and gooey mud.
Keeping my shoes on, my range was somewhat limited. I clambered over slippery rocks and got the camera ready. As I started snapping what seemed to become an inventory of every specimen of Symptocarpus foeticus, commonly known as skunk cabbage, in the little patch of wetlands, my daughters discovered the ancient and yet very new art of Hai Hai Hu, a game of muddy fun.
After I had exhausted the available repertoire of skunk cabbages, I moved on to photographing dead logs that resembled devious creatures half-hidden in the murky water. Then the straight cattails caught my attention. There was a multitude of intriguing shapes; and the light gave them edges and depth. The colours were warm and soft. I was so caught up in my mission that I didn't notice anything else until an insistent beeping signaled the limit of my memory card. Reluctantly I put the lens cap on the camera and looked around for my three fellow adventurers. Following the sounds of their merriment, I was surprised to learn that I had finished taking my photos before the girls had run out of patience with their new game.
With a bit of an effort to keep the camera safe, I made my way to the top of a big rock overlooking the swamp. I found it to be cushioned with soft moss, a comfortable perch where I could rest and study Hai Hai Hu myself, if only from a distance. Hai Hai Hu involves standing on a slippery log and swinging a Hai Hai Hu (a dried bulrush-stalk), while rhythmically chanting "Hai Hai Hu". On the first Hai, the stalk swings out to the left, on the second Hai, to the right. On the Hu, however, a still proudly standing cattail is to be hit. Thereby the seeds are scattered and the propagation of cattails advanced. Hai Hai Hu requires a lot of steadiness and concentration. Laughter, for instance, is counterproductive, as it can upset the balance resulting in a dip into the mud. And slippery feet further complicate the whole process. With the help of the dog who busily moved logs into position, my daughters were determined to Hai Hai Hu every available cattail in the swamp.
As I sat on my boulder, caressed by rays of sun, a deep contentment crept up on me. Even the crow flying off with what seemed to be a baby snake couldn't upset my equilibrium. Hai Hai Hu might be forgotten tomorrow and there is a chance that the photos will not turn out so well. But on that rock I made a resolution. I'll try to have this kind of Mother's Day more often.
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