My attitude toward my mother’s silence has shifted since her death, honing my ability to discriminate between private and secretive. When I was a child and throughout much of my adult years, Mom’s silence shut me out and that felt like rejection. But as time and situations force maturity on me, I look back at my mother’s silence from a different point of view and with a new sense of acceptance.
Sure, her “If I have to ask it doesn’t count” philosophy will never work for me. And her keeping family history private still feels alienating. But my constantly railing against the injustice of her silence deserves pause and reflection. Perhaps Mom, beyond my comprehension, had her reasons for keeping her feelings to herself. Life has a way of working out without constant input.
It is difficult to know when to speak up and when to remain silent. In my everyday life, when I choose to remain silent, it’s a struggle not to feel buried. In my artistic life, silence is not an option.
