I stay in the woods, close to the house, because I am expecting company. There is mud from yesterday's rain and the maple wings litter the ground cheerfully. My son who lives nearby knows where to find me. The dogs and I meet him, and we are lost in talk for a long walk in the woods. I stop to take pictures of all the lady slippers in bloom by the side of the path while he tells me all about his training in mindfulness and his work with athletes in Acceptance Commitment Therapy. 

These woods, this walking, these plants are my daily mindfulness practice, I tell him, and, of course, he understands.

One daughter gives me a fabulous card she made me and a grapevine to plant in my garden. My other daughter gives me a promise of a special deluxe pedicure. My husband gives me a fragrant gardenia bush that reminds me of where we started our family together, in Florida.

Special treatment on Mother's Day is nice and appreciated. But truly, my family makes me feel special and appreciated every day, and that's what matters to me most.

My mother, who is no longer alive, I know would have appreciated, today, that all five of her children were, (as we rarely are these days), spending the afternoon together at a graduation party for my nephew. 

What I missed in this day: my parents, their presence at the party. My father would have made a speech. My mother would have made strawberry shortcake Now, we, my brothers and sisters, and I, and our spouses, are the elders. And all our grown children, the nieces and nephews, they count on us being here together, asking them everything about their lives and dreams and secrets and successes. This is what my parents leave us: belonging to this, our family tree, our tribe.

All photos and text ©Kelly DuMar 2018