This past week, we saw this public art installation on the fence of the basketball court near Mayo Beach parking lot in Wellfleet, MA.
How would you fill in this blank?
Pick up a piece of chalk today and write it on your sidewalk.
Or, if you are in any of these cities, go find one of the installations to add your thoughts to this growing global list.
Share your photo in the comments section here. The Disqus comments allow you to share photos with me in the comment field below.
I wrote mine in pink chalk:
Trust that I am leaving this Planet better than I found it.
How is your summer going so far?
Mine is full and delicious, like the black currants which have mostly been savored by
the birds in my yard. Yes, I will be that lady shaking a broom at the birds to keep them off the elderberries when they are ripe.
I am preparing for the Giving Motherhood a Voice book tour to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in August and preparing to pack my son off to college this week.
This is the spot where I say something hopeful and positive to manage my sadness and excitement, my anticipation and sweet ache over his arrival home, our blustery fine times together, his packing effort along with dreams of cedar and birch, the waves of Lake Superior and the places we will be visiting on the tour.
I do have this poem I wrote about my son, which seems appropriate (again), since my husband and I just celebrated our 21st wedding anniversary.
This Beautiful Upheaval
After Anniversary, by Davi Walders
That you and I, I and you,
this twentieth year after
you tipped up your chin to
curb the tears falling onto the
cream linen suit I’d sewn for you,
as our best friend sang in his recently
cracking Broadway’s best voice, a song
he’d written about love for us, our parents,
half my set now gone, your mother, single then and
gone now, they tipped up their chins, wiped eyes with
significant hankies which now line my jewelry drawers,
as if all those tears and wet noses and lipstick stains could
comfort a woman and a man who have become, oddly and now
the matriarch and patriarch of our families of birth. Odder still,
our house has gained a tidiness not known for the nineteen years
of our son’s life. He, who rode in to the
world just off the Taconic and fifteen minutes
in to checking in at St. Vincent’s on Seventh Avenue,
where the long dead nuns murmured morning prayers
over the PA system, which no one uses anymore, except in
cloisters where the audio will never be upgraded, but there,
on the ninth floor, maternity wing, he arrived, just barely on the
delivery bed, our midwife arriving in time to scrub and curse you
for keeping me upstate instead of here in the Village, where my loins
parted easily, hips made for birthing, could deliver this bonny lad into the
whirling green cracked open world, where he would change our lives forever.
He, whose head and chest floated before us last night on my laptop,
he, whose voice cracked only a little and once, when I told him
I missed him, showed us his room, his mess, which seems
to follow him everywhere, like our love
sung in that high voice of Danny’s
here, is love, in this messy
@Suzi Banks Baum
September 16, 2013
I write from inside motherhood. I write other stuff too, but mostly this, because my life is full of living being a woman who is a mother. Just today, after a bare naked nasty moment with my now 20 year old young man, I stood outside without reaching for my phone to call a friend for comfort. I stood in the gusty moist air and felt it- the beautiful upheaval of mothering. It is a thorny slice of heaven.
I wrote about his birthday here.
And about his broken leg here.
Do you know of an independent bookstore that would like to carry An Anthology of Babes: 36 Women Give Motherhood a Voice?
If so, please leave me a comment below.
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