A Lotus Grows in the Mud (38 page)

postcard

D
emeter, the Greek goddess of the harvest, loved her only child, her daughter, Persephone, so much that the earth flowed with abundance and bloomed all year. Then, one day, Persephone was kidnapped by Hades, lord of the underworld, and dragged to a place that was frightening and unknown. Demeter was so distraught at losing her vibrant daughter to Hades that she mourned for a full year. Without her blessing, the ground turned to dust, and every growing thing withered and died, and the people starved. Fearing for the earth, Zeus, the king of the gods, ordered Hades to return Persephone to her mother.

Reunited, the two women wept for joy. The sun shone again, and their tears of happiness watered the earth, making everything bloom once more. But Hades, hopelessly in love with Persephone and determined to have her back, tricked her into eating a pomegranate seed, which doomed her to return to the underworld forever.

But wise Zeus arranged a compromise: Persephone would spend half the year with Hades and half with Demeter. And so every spring when Persephone is returned to Demeter, the earth is filled with abundance and love. And every winter when the ground opens up and Persephone returns to the darkness, Demeter mourns. The leaves wither, die and fall from the trees, and a cold descends on the earth, reflecting her grief.

T
here are many different interpretations of this mythical story. Some see it as an explanation for the seasons. Others see it as a metaphor for the depth and potency of the relationship between mother and daughter. The way I look at it, it describes the joys and the agony of having a daughter and letting her go, watching her become her own person and experiencing her life on her own terms.

I have always loved the Persephone story. I’m touched by Demeter’s sorrow, and feel badly for her poor daughter, consigned to a life apart from her mother and away from the light. But of these two deeply connected women, I think my heart goes out to the mother, Demeter, the most.

Even in the real world, a mother can be all-powerful, and she is the one person who can make her family flourish. She dotes lovingly on her daughter, and identifies with her in a way she can’t with her son. All her juices are flowing; she feels alive—she feels the vitality in her and in her girl child. She is present and relevant and omniscient. Such is the bond between a mother and daughter.

But when that daughter grows up and begins to lead her own life, a mother can feel bereft. The daughter moves into her own shadowy underworld, just as Persephone did, only in the real world it is secrets and boys and sexual discovery. A mother may be left behind, thinking, But I’m not done yet. I still have something to say but you’re not listening. I still have something to give but you’re not receptive to it. And so I have no one to nourish anymore. What do I do for the rest of my life?

When Kate left home, I indeed felt bereft. I’d walk into her bedroom and cry when I saw her things: the beautiful books she’d read, the perfume bottles, all of her makeup in her bathroom. I missed her so much that I wanted to keep everything just as it was. And then, very soon afterward it seemed, she got married, and suddenly she was a woman, somebody’s wife.

I relished this time for my daughter. I found joy in her joy, but I couldn’t help but feel the power of these emotions. I wonder how I would feel if my life wasn’t so rich, full of love and so rewarding. I have pondered the effects of my success at such a young age on my own mother, wondering if she felt left out or abandoned. Could my youthful luster have made her feel less luminous and not as useful? I recalled times when I scolded my mom for coming into my home and rearranging my dishes; I accused her of trying to live my life. Oh, how hard I tried to separate myself from her, to become my own person and stand on my own two feet. Now I ask, Did I secretly devastate her and leave her more saddened and alone?

I was only guilty of what all girls do. In order to become real individuals, they don’t want to be like their mothers. But now that I have experienced the loss of my own girl child to the great seduction called life, I have true compassion for both mother and daughter in this passage. That’s all it is, a passage. It isn’t lasting, and, if handled well, it moves into a healthy friendship that only grows and grows. But letting go is a most important first step: letting go of roles and the power we have had all of our lives as mother and daughter; letting go, and having faith that the lessons learned will be remembered. It’s not easy, but it is necessary, unless you want to be a mother who has to be “dealt with” instead of a mother who is free and fun.

My mother was never fully realized as a woman despite being the brightest one at the party, the most beautiful, the sexiest and probably the smartest. She could have been the star. Everywhere she went, she drew people to her, and lit up like a lightbulb with them. But her life was not as she wanted it to be. She didn’t get to be the luminary she should have been. She gave birth to two powerful daughters, one of whom just
so happened to figure out how to dance and act and ended up being the sort of performer she probably would have loved to be.

When Patti and I had children of our own, my mother, like Demeter, knew that her procreating days were over, and it hurt. I remember one day when I took her to the drugstore to buy some new lipstick. Quite frail by then, she spotted a young woman outside wheeling her baby across the street and she stopped and stared wistfully. “Oh, how I envy her,” she said. It took me a moment to understand what she meant, and then the truth of her statement hit me hard. I got a lump in my throat, knowing that one day that would be me saying that.

But I don’t think I truly understood how Mom felt until my Katie became pregnant. I was so happy for her, so filled with excitement, knowing that she was embarking on this most magical of journeys. The maternal torch was being passed, and I bowed my head in reverence. I was filled with such awe that this little baby girl that I still held in my heart and my mind was having a baby of her own. It was like watching creation happening right in front of my eyes, with great facility and grace. It was the continuation of the process that had started in my womb.

Everyone told me how great it would feel to be a grandmother—“The most wonderful feeling in the world,” I heard over and over again. I thought to myself, How could it be any more fabulous than being a mother to my own children? Besides, I still had a teenage son to nurture and cherish at home, my beloved Wyatt. It was sheer joy watching my daughter feel the feelings I had when she was growing inside me. I loved every moment of sharing all of the physical and emotional changes in Kate, of being able to identify so closely with the experience and compare it to my own.

The wonderful day arrived; my grandson, Ryder Russell, burst forth into this world. I could barely contain myself. But was I really a “grandmother”? A word that had so many connotations of old age and decrepitude. My son Oliver decided I should be called “Glam-Ma,” which I thought was quite brilliant and made us all laugh so hard.

Someone said to me jokingly, “Well, now, Goldie, you’ve got a new
baby.” I thought, My God, what a dangerous thing to say. My baby? This isn’t my baby; this is my daughter’s baby. He is all hers.

I try to be mindful of the fact that my children came through me, that I am just a vessel, and I cannot claim their lives. Their journey is clearly their own. My grandchild came through my daughter’s body, and so the circle goes, the circle of life.

Katie will always be my baby girl, just as I was for my mom, no matter how old she was. Daughters never really leave their mothers, and thank God for that. I couldn’t imagine my life without her to share it with. Like Demeter, I may shed many tears along the way about losing her to her other life, the part I don’t know about, her living away from me and being the person she can’t be with me. But, as with Demeter, when my daughter walks back into my world, the sun shines and my heart fills once more with love and light, giving me a whole new reason to feel joy.

And to think that I also have Oliver, my sage, my guru; tender Wyatt, my Zen master; my spirited grandson, Ryder; and my spiritual cohort, my stepson, Boston—to bless my life as well. Kurt is my love and my heart, and my work is now taking me in directions I could never possibly have dreamed of. With all of these remarkable lights in my life, I can honestly say that I wake up now with more energy and zest than ever before. As a mother, as a daughter, as a lover, as a sister, as a friend, I’m filled with such joy and excitement at the prospect of new opportunities for this perhaps most interesting segment of my life’s blessed journey.

Every day I ask myself, wondering aloud, “What does the future hold for you now, Goldie Hawn?” And the best thing of all is, I just don’t know.