The Inheritance

My formation as a person relied heavily on my mom and dad. During my formative years they controlled (for the most part) what I did, where I went, and who I was around. And I was around both of them quite a bit. This was during the 60s and 70s, so you’ll forgive them working with pretty traditional roles. Dad worked. Mom stayed home (mostly). Mom fixed dinner and dad did the bills. Mom did the laundry and dad worked on the house and cars. Over the years those roles became a little more fluid. Mom would occasionally work in the garden and dad became quite handy in the kitchen.

My dad gave me a ton of guidance during my early years. How to shave. How to talk to a lady. How often to shower. Watching him gave me a lot of other things as well. I learned how to be punctual. I learned how to hide my pain and not be a bother to others. I learned how to work hard. He taught me lessons that hold true today. He also taught me some things I’ve had to undo in therapy. That being said, on balance, I’m fortunate. Many of the things I’ve done right in this life were because he showed me how to do them.

But my favorite gift came from my mom.

Remember that song, The River and the Highway? Dad was a highway. Paved. Predictable. Steady. Mom was a rambling river. No apparent logic to the twists and turns. Not a bad idea to grow up with both, right?

From my mom I received a love and appreciation for the arts. Part of that was genetic, as I’ve known for most of my life that my love of art was in my bones. I was shocked when, as an adult, I found out that experiencing goosebumps was a genetic trait. As in, some people will live their lives never experiencing that whole body reaction to something beautiful. I like to think they’re the same people who think cilantro tastes like soap. I don’t know if my dad ever experienced goosebumps. He and I wouldn’t talk about such things.

My mom loved music. She was formally trained. She taught lessons from time to time. She played in the orchestra as an adult. Watching her play music was a treat. But the best was watching her consume art. When mom encountered beautiful art it affected her whole body. You could see it run straight through her.

I think dad might have been a little jealous of that in mom. He learned to play music, enough to get him in the same orchestra as mom. He played a little percussion and a little piano. But it never looked to me like he enjoyed it too much. He didn’t seem to dislike it, he just seemed to be checking a box.

Joining the school band in elementary school wasn’t really an option for me. Mom insisted I start learning the clarinet, but that lasted a week. The band director sent me home with a note one day that informed mom I was now going to be a drummer. Mom relented, as long as it kept me in the arts. I didn’t feel anything from the music for many years after that. It’s hard to leave room for emotion if you’re learning a new skill. Plus, my music didn’t lend itself to emotive expression. But I do remember the first time art moved me.

Mom bought tickets for she and I to attend a play at the University. My memory says she and I were the only ones there, but it’s possible my brothers might have been with me. I know Dad wasn’t. She had me read the book prior to the play so I would be familiar with the story. But the book didn’t do much for me. I agreed to go because it seemed important to her.

The play captivated me. We sat up close in the small theatre. So close I could feel the wind of the actors as they moved through the scenes.

And then it happened. George told Lennie, “I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you.” Mom reached over and squeezed my arm. And I wept. I wasn’t sad. I was full. That’s what I think goosebumps are; when we are so full the emotion starts to leak out, even through the skin.

After the play was over we sat there in silence as others filed out. I remember walking out of the theatre in silence. A novel experience can have that effect on a person. And so it began for me.

It would still be years before I settled into the idea that art and music could be a functional part of my emotional development and expression.

I remember the beauty and simplicity of my baptism. I also remember the feeling of being away on a youth group retreat as we all found a new level of connection with each other and with God. And once I learned how to play the piano I found a regular tool, or conduit, to let that emotive person grow and develop.

Years later, and a ton of life’s waters well under the bridge, and I would find myself in the living room at Severn, the house I grew up in. On the couch were mom and dad. Mom was sick and her body had been rebelling against her for a dozen years. Dad was slowing down as well, his regular caregiving starting to slow a bit.

It was a regular occurrence during that season of life. I would come by their house for a chore or two and then sit at the piano and play some music for mom and dad. Sometimes mom would request a song, other times I just played whatever I felt like. When I’d stop and turn around, mom was usually in tears and dad was smiling. Dad enjoyed my music. Mom felt it. She could leave her broken body, even if briefly, and let the part of her without restrictions enjoy a short respite.

That’s the gift she gave me; the ability to feel what others are feeling. The ability to understand things that aren’t spoken. Dad’s math lessons never seemed to land, despite the hours we put in. But this gift. This gift has been the source of most of my joy and pain in this life. It took me far too long to know you can’t have one without the other.

I wonder if I had never known my mom if this gift would have developed. My guess is it’s equal parts nature and nurture. Regardless, this is my most prized inheritance. It transforms music into medicine, movies into understanding, conversations into encounters. And while I still enjoy this inheritance, almost on a daily basis, I’m aware of a slightly dimmer world around me since my art teacher has taken her leave.