Walking after rain, I am reminded of the Sylvia Plath poem, Mushrooms. I find the strength of these “nudgers and shovers” miraculous. When I see the dirt they have pushed through, pushed beyond, stand above, I think, surely, I too, could make it through this day.

As she describes them with “soft fists,” how could I not think of my mother? It was my grandfather who first brought it to my attention. I was only a child when he described the two daughters that looked most like him — my mother, and my aunt Kay. Both had suffered losses. Deep in the ground losses. But, as he explained, survived in their own ways. Fists were needed, but my mother chose soft. My aunt Kay, hard. He told me one day, before I was even ready, I would have to choose as well.

I suppose not even nature knows exactly when the rain is going to come. We’re not always ready before we’re asked to grow. My grandfather knew he couldn’t save me from hurt in this world. No one escapes. But what he could do, was lay out the choices. Make them clear. Give me a head start. I chose the path of my mother. And that, as another poem would tell me, has made all the difference.

Reminders are everywhere. In the poems. On the path. My mother was strong, but not without grace. So small I sat beside her. So tall, I walk with her even still. It is the morning now, again, so I rise. And I did indeed “inherit the earth.”

Mushrooms

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.

Sylvia Plath