Last week my mother (who I sometimes affectionately call Mommy Lady or just Lady), informed me that she wanted to write a post for my blog. I squealed and clapped and tippy-toed from foot to foot like a pigtailed little girl who’d just been told that she was being given a new puppy.
One post was what I expected, but what she wrote was a series of posts so long that I had to break them into separate entries. She’s titled the series “Somewhere Over the Rainbow, a Bodhisattva Came to Me.” Each post is representative of a color of the rainbow, the significance of which she will reveal.
She wrote with me as the audience,so there are some “you had to be there” moments, but she knew that you would be listening in. If you’d like the background story to any of her allusions, just ask and I’ll tell. Or she’ll tell. A couple of days ago she said to me, “I’m intimidated to write for your blog. You write so…so…good. I’m afraid whatever I write will suck in comparison to yours.” I looked at her with my best woman, please expression and reminded her of all the writing that she used to do.
“You don’t forget how to write,” I said. “It’s like riding a bike.”
Or like being swept up in a tornado and waking to find yourself somewhere over the rainbow, amid vibrant colors and far removed from the blandness of black-and-white.
(Disclaimer: I did not pay or bribe her in any way for the ego-stroking words which will follow. I think she’s sucking up in repayment for locking me outside with the Creepy Gargantuan Mutant Buzzing Insectoid Alien Thing of 1992).