My mother brought me into this world, but the mothering was left to me, to strangers I would meet, to Aunts and Uncles who cared. I have learned that not all women are meant to be mothers, for some it just happens and after it happens they do the best they can. My birthing was the outcome of an affair my mother had. An affair that sent her back into what was for her a loveless marriage. And although my mother tried to protect herself from what in those days was looked upon as the ultimate sin, and although she tried to protect me from the branding mark of illegitimacy ... it never really happened. We became the family secret. You know the secret that is talked about behind your back. The secret that everyone will hold because they fear the sin will rub off on them and they too will have to tolerate the pointing finger. Better to hold silence than be included in such a shameful act. It was an era that lived for judgment and though you may think it has greatly improved I tell you, as someone who has walked this path, it hasn't improved much.

It was a difficult journey between us. My mother caught in defense and denial, and me determined to find the truth. A truth that she was unable to speak, a truth that came from the last source I expected to hear it from, the man I called my father. A man who so loved this woman that he was willing to accept me into his life to have her back in his life. They say the truth will set you free, but the truth brings with it another journey for you to walk another question that will never find an answer. And though my father found the courage to tell this secret he refused to acknowledge the name of the man he felt might be responsible. No matter, only my mother held that truth and she took it to the grave with her. I am left with only half of my story.

Now that I have fulfilled the role of motherhood myself I realize the enormous sacrifices that come with this blessing. The constant attention that is required through those growing years. The silent fears as children begin to make their own way in life, and the absolute emptiness when you release them to become their own person. After years of service you are retired and returned to your own life. And you haven't got a clue about your own life. Most of us become the titles we carry. I had carded the title of wife and mother for so long that when it all dissolved I felt as if my life had ended. I was a stranger to myself.

The birthing of a new baby into this world, no matter how difficult that birth may be, is nothing compared to birthing yourself. Many times I have been tempted to abort this new life. Every time I try to do this I am granted a blessing. I am transported back to the last days of my mother's life. At first it didn't seem like a blessing, it felt like a punishment for a sin not yet confessed. You see, at the age of ten I was called forward to sit with the dead and dying, to listen, to comfort and console. It was never difficult for me to do this. I cannot say it was easy, but it came easily. Then came the day that I was called to do this for my own mother. I wish I could tell you that I accepted this call willingly, but I didn't. Too much history between us, too much anger, too much regret. But off I went. I didn't want this to be one more regret. Day after long day I listened as she reviewed her life. A life so void of joy that I thought it would break my heart. As she told her story, which was also my story, I had to detach from my own emotions.

As she spoke to me she stared at the blank wall as if in a space I could not enter. The need to comfort her grew inside of me. So familiar was I with the whip she used to beat herself, that I spoke, "Mom, you had my brother and me, isn't that something, isn't that enough?" She turned her gaze from the blank wall and faced me. She spoke not a word and in that overwhelming silence she said everything. The silence pierced my heart and the blank stare within her eyes turned the knife. I couldn't breathe; it took everything in me to separate from my emotions. To remind myself that I wasn't here for me, I was here for my mother. And there was a great possibility that I was the only person who has ever been there for her, who has ever listened to her.

It took me twenty years and much living of my own life to understand what happened that day. At the time it felt like one more wound to deal with, to heal. Now I see it as the gift it was intended to be. For one, brief moment in time I was granted my dearest wish. I was privileged to greet my mother, not as a daughter, but as a friend. Just another woman on this difficult path, a woman she evidently felt she could trust with the honesty and the pain she revealed.

In her silence lay the words, "NO, IT IS NOT ENOUGH." And she was right. As grand or as difficult as motherhood might be, it is not the totality that we make it. And those of us who have made it a totality have sacrificed more than was originally intended. In that gaze that day and in those unspoken words I do believe that my mother was trying to tell me not to sacrifice all of me less I end up carrying my own regrets to the grave as she did.

My journey continues to find my forgotten self, to not abort this birthing. When I think of my mother now I think of her with love and compassion. And if there is regret in me it is that I never really knew her as a woman. I never asked about her childhood and what drove her from a loving child to a bitter woman. I never asked about her dreams that were sacrificed in the role of motherhood. In my own stubborn silence I missed the opportunity to know this woman, I missed having her as a possible friend.

In this solitary journey that I now travel I am forced to remember all the forgotten dreams I had hoped for myself. For some of these dreams it is now too late and that is painful. But I was a huge dreamer as a child and many of my dreams can still become a reality if I simply continue to find the courage to be me. There are times that doubt still fills me, but I never lose faith. I don't know that I will truly fulfill what my younger self had intended to do. I don't know if I will find a clear understanding of what it is that I now wish to do. But I do know that at the end of this very challenging life I will know that I have at least tried. And no matter where I am at the end of this life it will be the exact, designated spot my soul intended when it began the journey. And I know that it will be ENOUGH. This is the gift my mother gave to me.

I have learned that love wears many faces. Sometimes love arrives with a kiss. And for those of us, who are blind and refuse to see, love arrives on the sharp edges of a sword. In the deepest recesses of my soul I pray that whatever accomplishments I manage to achieve will in some small way redeem my mother's life, and also mine. And when it is time to close my eyes for the last time against this journey ... I hope to see a smile painted upon my mother's face as she greets me. For whatever reason, my mother did not abort my birthing and neither will I. The journey continues ... Namaste.