One Last Pearl of Wisdom

A pearl is a beautiful thing that is produced by an injured life. – Rumi

My mother-in-law was an avid reader and a book collector.  She was interested in American and English literature, classic children’s literature, American and European history, art history, and philosophy.  She was incredibly well-read, and when I think of her, I envision her sitting in a rocker with a large book in her lap, head tilted down, intent on whatever is on the page.  Since the moment I met her, we talked about books.  We would speak of various characters as if we had actually met them and knew them like we knew family.  I loved that about her.  She was always exposing me to ideas and events that were new to me.  She used books as breadcrumbs to show me the way and expand my thinking.

Little did I know she would continue to do this even after she died. The day of her funeral, my husband and I visited Barnes & Noble because we wanted to be in a place that she loved, a place that we would go with her to and spend hours looking at books, sipping tea, and savoring slices of cake.  I cherish those memories, and I think we both needed to go to a bookstore to be close to her again.  So that Wednesday afternoon in early January, we walked into Barnes & Noble.  My husband headed straight to the martial arts section.  I was greeted by a low display table right as I walked in.  On the table was a single copy of a book with a green and blue cover.  I was attracted to it immediately because those are my two favorite colors.  The green was a grass field spotted with flowers and the blue was a winding river.  At the top of the river was a black silhouette of a country church. I flipped to the inside dust jacket.  This story was about a young English girl, Marianne,  whose mother goes missing and she spends her life searching for her.  Her mother leaves clues for her in poetry.  As I read, I smiled.  This was just the kind of book I loved.  My mother-in-law had given a book a long time ago about a young woman who was a schoolteacher in an English village, Village School by Miss Read.  I loved that book.  It was so comforting.  So, I picked this new book up, held it to my chest and walked over to the sales counter.  I had a feeling that Anne wanted me to have this book. Only after I bought the book and was walking outside with my husband, that I understood the significance of the title.  It was simply called Pearl by Siân Hughes.  I gasped a little and smiled. Pearls were the only jewelry my mother wore.  She loved pearls. I took this as a definite sign that Anne was comforting me with this story.

I started to read, then I’d stop because I wanted it to last a little longer.  I read the back pages that described the author.  She was a poet.  Of course, she was. I am too.  The story took twists and turns, and I went right along with them.  The author explores the relationship between mother and daughter, and how one childhood tragedy can affect one’s whole life.  Anne and I often talked about this.  Often described our childhoods – pulling them apart and putting them back together again to try and understand more deeply.  Now, one more time, I could have this conversation.  I could think about how beautiful and painful it is to be loved.

I kept wondering what Marianne’s life would have been like if her mother hadn’t disappeared.  All that pain, all that agony gone.  She would not have doubted herself, or starved herself, or cut herself.  She wouldn’t have thrown herself into destructive relationships. Marianne would have remained whole.  But through the process of searching for her mother, she found poetry and art, and the truth about love and happiness.  All along Marianne’s family thought that her mother had walked off because she was unhappy.  She had just given birth to Marianne’s  brother, and it seemed she was suffering from postpartum depression. At the end of the book, something stopped me in my tracks.  I touched the words on the page.  There were so many connections as I read: the medieval poem, “Pearl,”  the nursery rhymes that introduce each chapter, the collages that Marianne creates, the bird imagery, and then this.  Towards the end of the novel, the author describes Marianne returning to her old house and the new occupants giving her an amulet that they found in the garden.  When she shows her father, he says that it was her mother’s and that she had lost it years before Marianne was born.  Inside the silver amulet was a piece of paper, and on that paper was the birthdate of the baby boy her mother had lost in childbirth before Marianne was born.  I looked at the date.  I looked again – February 10^th.  It could not be, but it was – it was day that my husband and I were married almost 40 years ago.  Of all the dates in the year, the author chose February 10^th.  I believe this was more than just a coincidence.  I do believe in angels, and I believe my mother-in-law was giving me one last story, one last beautiful story that ends with these words: “She said to me, “There’s nothing the matter with your heart, Marianne.  It’s not broken.” And I realized she was right… I moved into the space she had warmed for me and slept until morning.”

I truly believe Anne left this book for me in the Charlottesville, Virginia Barnes & Noble.  She knew how distraught I was in losing her finally, and spending years worrying and caring for her. I am positive that Anne wanted to tell me that it would be okay.  I would be okay.  I would go on and remember her, read good books, make art, write poetry, and make a happy space in the time I have left.