Cycle of Life
For the last several months, I have been helping my mother to move. She lived seventeen years in this apartment, an unsurpassed longevity record for one whose life took her to three continents and many countries. While we slowly processed papers and objects and made the hard decisions of what to take or leave behind, her lifetime unfolded before me. She and my father maintained relationships around the world and she continues to connect with friends from faraway places.
As I helped her pare down, I slowly absorbed the history lessons unrolling before me. Who knew that from the small corner in Ohio where her life started, she would soak in so many sights and sounds, learn another language, connect with so many people worldwide, cook for and serve at least a million people, and continue through it all to keep abreast of current events. Her life has been so rich, she says, and I think it’s because she has never let go of a sense of curiosity and learning.
In one day of work, she and I would handle a photo from a great grandparent as well as a drawing from a great granddaughter, objects spanning two centuries. We talked about the sad and the bad, the happy and the good, following the crooked paths of the many lives she has touched. From faded handwritten notes to typewritten carbon letters to modern email, we read through the events in her life. And slowly, the boxes to move piled up.
We processed her furniture and her artwork in the same manner, talking about the stories they carry, and choosing what would fit into the new space.
My siblings and church friends arrived to help with moving day. All went as smoothly as expected and my mother’s life continues now in a smaller and newer space. Surrounded with the familiar pieces that carry so much history, she is at home.
Over the course of these weeks, I soak it all in. I’m especially pleased of course with old cookbooks and recipes I find along the way. As I clean out the old apartment, I find two file folders and two handwritten recipe books still sitting on the counter. Since my mother no longer cooks, she tells me to take them. The two folders contain recipes she’s culled from various places (including this column!) and that she still wants to try. One of the handwritten notebooks is slightly stained and faded and full of favorite recipes including quite a few from her time in West Africa. It captures my attention. In the next few weeks, I’ll be trying some of those recipes. And then it dawns on me. Here I am, continuing the cycle of life, following in my mother’s footsteps. As she cooked for so many guests, I was standing at her side, watching. As she graciously hosted, I was standing by her side, helping. As she collected and tried new recipes, I was at her side, asking. Those moments created my love for food and shaped my life’s calling. So don’t be surprised if some old recipes show up in this column in the next few months. I’m just continuing the legacy I was given...
