When I look back at my childhood and consider all of my encounters with my mother, my memories place a light around her and I can’t help but grin. She is a woman made of all heart and selflessness and I could never in all my years articulate the layered depths of my love for her. I exist because she exists. I am her creation. She is art.
As one of ten children in my family, I am often asked if I’ve ever felt neglected or overlooked in the sea of faces — I can only laugh at the person who must not know Kerry K Stenson. With all certainty my reply is, Never for an instant.
My mother would argue that she could have done better but I see no room for improvement. I marvel at her ability to care for each of her children as if they are her one and only and I’m continually amazed at her stamina as each grandchild receives the same undivided affection. She is my joy.
While many would think that my mother must simply be a baby factory and nothing more, I challenge anyone to find a more complete individual. Aside from raising 10 well-rounded children, my mother is inspiring in her gritty courage throughout this life, the range of her talents, her quiet wisdoms and the love she bleeds.
Music is her heart. She sings better than angels and my earliest memories are full of lovely songs. Early on weekend mornings while us kids were fast asleep, she would steal the few moments she had alone and play her piano with might — filling the home with tolling hymns and a crystal voice. She is the reason I have The Music in my bones. She lit the spark in my youth and fans at the blaze I boast today. She gifted me my passion.
Beyond the music, she is art. Each season our home would experience a facelift that was subtle but absolute; decorations upon decorations were stored year-round just to be brought out for a matter of weeks to celebrate all major and minor occasions. St Patrick’s Day turned the walls green while Thanksgiving and Christmas faded from oranges to red — each holiday marked by its individual parade of handmade decor.
When my father, the architect, designed their new home, he constructed an entire “wing” of their home solely for my mother’s storage needs. Whether it’s her craft room or storage room, I can find anything under the sun that might suggest the makings of a theme.
I could point out her creations for decades but it all amounts to so much more than the fact that she creates the most beautiful of all Christmas trees — the kind I stare at by the firelight until I can’t take it anymore. It all adds up to so much more than her vacuuming at 2am because there is still work to be done. She is more than her OCD might tell. It’s the care in which she creates and the tenacity she demonstrates in all things — crafts, life and motherhood.
When you give life to ten others, it becomes clearer each day that you cease to live your own. My mother graciously puts her own life aside to bolster the existence of her children and has earned her place in the stars as a result.
She is art. She gave me life and The Music that has become my existence; therefore, no single person in this world has more of my doting respect and twinkling admiration than my humble and gracious and beautiful mother — I love you. Happy Mother’s Day.
“Rejecting things because they are old-fashioned would rule out the sun and the moon and a mother’s love.”