Through the Looking Glass

Last night I saw my Mother’s face in the mirror – though I don’t remember now what I was doing – brushing my teeth, maybe, or shaving – I’ve shaved at night since my college days – old habits, I guess – but she was young, Mother’s hazel eyes looking at me, and I was young looking back at her – I could hear the world spinning but in a different direction – yet the moon was the moon – and her face – years before my birth – was the one playing the accordion, the music lifting itself into all possibilities that lay ahead for her, each note closing a door or window for the next note to open – and I’m wondering if this is the universe trying to tell me be an architect and build things – be a musician and play things – be a writer and write things – make something of yourself – when suddenly I realize it’s not the universe speaking – it’s my Mother’s southern way reaching me, keeping me in line, allowing me by giving limits – I suddenly understood what she’d been doing all along just by her look, by her long gaze – it wasn’t guilt she was pressing down on me, not shame, not dissatisfaction – though I’d imagined all those and more – instead, she was telling me not to, knowing full well I would, saying don’t do this, but believing in me to do that very thing – it was her voice – while the fingers on her right hand roamed the keys and her left hand pressed the buttons for chording, both working the bellows like a bow – telling me against the slow grain of song to be what I want, to find a way, to never look back or stop moving – “Don’t let the world pass you by,” she always told me, and each time I’d imagine myself to be a planet or moon or comet sweeping through space – the darkness cold but inviting, deep but familiar, scary but calming – letting me see and know everything – then, realizing my attention was out there in the somewhere, as she called it, she’d say, “And watch out for dreaming” – as if I could control or change anything or stop waking the path – so I dreamed – and I do

“Tomorrow is (3/9) 9 years since she died. She was 83. My interest in music came from her. She taught me how to sing harmonies.”

My Mother, Gray Smith Rasnake, was an extremely private person – a person of few words, so when she did speak, whatever she said carried weight. She had a way of looking at a person that was more clear and powerful than any words she could have said. As a young girl, she became fascinated with the piano – collecting rocks to set up her own practice keyboard, and she would pretend to play. Actually, she was familiarizing herself with the piano’s key patterns. When she was a bit older, my grandfather brought home a used upright piano, and Mother learned to play – developing her own style. Later, she took lessons, and also learned to play the accordion and autoharp. She made sure that I became acquainted with the piano and had me take lessons as well. Practice was difficult for me as a kid since I always wanted to be outside playing with my friends – but Mother persisted, as did I. The keyboard became the basis for my interest in playing the guitar and bass.

Sam Rasnake