Mothers, Fathers, Parents

-- verbs, not nouns

Photo by Rene Bernal on Unsplash

On my way out of church yesterday, I stopped to greet the Rector, as I usually do. With a handshake and a big smile, he said, "Hal, Happy Mother's Day!" Knocked off guard for a nanosecond, I smiled and responded, "Tom, Happy Mother's Day to you as well!"

What a beautiful and complicated interaction!

I've had many thoughts about it in the past 24 hours -- but among them, is appreciation for those who acknowledge that mothering can be done by many people, regardless of gender and regardless of whether they have birthed or raised children.

I'd say that both my parents and Susan's parents, born in the 1920s and growing up during the Depression and WWII, lived out pretty traditional roles prescribing what mothers and fathers do. The moms took care of the home and children, and the dads went out and worked to support the family financially. As was typical, the moms often pulled double duty: Susan's mother also worked full time, and mine worked part time and then went back to work full time after my sister and I were in high school.

As children of the 60s, Susan and I consciously blended our parenting roles more flexibly. We both worked in demanding professional jobs, and we both worked hard to keep the household running and take care of our kids. I did plenty of "mothering," and she did plenty of "fathering." We didn't divide up the world in that way. We just did what was before us to do. Mothering and fathering were verbs more than nouns.

I've always been ambivalent about Mother's Day and Father's Day (and other Days that were probably invented by Hallmark Cards to keep themselves in business.) There are plenty of people who experience great pain associated with each of those days, and they receive little acknowledgment.

Instead, I prefer to think of "mother" as a verb, one which is not tied to one's sex or gender or history of birthing, adopting, or raising children. To the degree that "mothering" includes things like nurturing, caring, expressing compassion, and meeting the physical and emotional needs of others, I have always found great joy in those opportunities -- as parent, as teacher, and as mentor. It didn't need a label.

Thinking more deeply about the role of a mother / father / parent, I am always drawn back to Kahlil Gibran's beautiful poem, "On Children," from The Prophet. I will have the great joy of singing Joshua Shank's arrangement of this poem on May 25, with Berkshire Choral International, as we perform at Tanglewood. The poem is a profound piece, and the setting of the music is compelling - and sometimes surprising.

Here's the poem:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

----From The Prophet (Knopf, 1923). This poem is in the public domain.

Here's a performance by the One Voice Chorus:

I always have to pause after the first line: "Your children are not your children." We don't own our children. We as parents are the bows from which our children are sent forth as living arrows.

These rather radical ideas leave us with much to ponder.

I hope that everyone had a wonderful Mother's Day and was able to reflect on the power we all have to be the archer for the next generation.