Monday, October 4, 2010

Really, really who am I?

 A few weeks ago, my daughter was sick; she ached all over, especially her shoulder. She tried holistic medicine, and then main-stream medicine: x-rays, blood work up, EKG. As she continued to feel under the weather, I felt more and more helpless. I could not even go the few miles to her house, and there was not one thing I could do once I got there.  (Needless to say, she is well again, or I wouldn't even be writing this.)

I am extremely lucky to have care-givers in times of crisis. Rosie is the laughing, happy girl from Jamaica, who has been in the United States, on her own, since she was eighteen. She is educated in the hospitality industry and has worked at Disney in Orlando and the Westin Hotel. While working there, and during the times she works for me, she graduated from college with a  degree in the management of medical recocods.  Her mommy, in Montego Bay, calls her at least once a day.

Tall and beautiful Lise came from Rwanda.She worked at Delphi in Dayton for a few years, and when they went belly-up, she was able (it's a long story, with a long series of pitfalls) to get her tuition paid at a  nursing school in Columbus. In a few months, she will be an LPN. She would like to continue on for her RN, but that is one tough road..... Her parents call her every day,  and after she talks to her siblings, she is homesick.

As I fall asleep at night, I think about Mrs. Gardner in Jamaica and Mrs. Urejani in Rwanda.We are thousand of miles apart; we have never met. But I know that, at their very core we are the same people. We are mothers.  Make that a capital M.


  1. I know what you meant because I'm that person too. Take care.

  2. such a beautiful post - thank you, from a friend in california.

  3. yes indeed mothers with a capital M :)
    Thanks for the lovely post.

  4. Phyllis, I saw your blog featured on the BBC earlier today, and I found your blog soon after, I have to say, you're a complete inspiration, you truly are a wonderful person, and I hope to read much more from you!

    Thomas Joy, UK

  5. "Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not."
    James Joyce

  6. Thank you all for taking the time to write. "I shot an arrow in the sir, and where it landed, I knew not where." I'm glad it landed near you. Tahnks.

  7. The Arrow And the Song

    I shot the arrow in the air,
    It fell to earth, I knew not where;
    For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
    Could not follow it in its flight.

    I breathed a song into the air,
    It fell to earth, I knew not where;
    For who has sight so keen and strong,
    That it can follow the flight of song?

    Long, long afterward, in an oak
    I found the arrow, still unbroke;
    And the song, from beginning to end,
    I found again in the heart of a friend.

    Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    Dear Mrs Greene,

    I hope you are well and happy.

    This very beautiful poem of Longfellow I dedicate it to you.

    Thanks to you I have learnt something knew today...

    Best wishes

  8. Hello Mrs Greene,

    Thank you for a thought provoking blog post. As well as highlighting the love mothers have for their children all around the world, your blog post also touched upon the immigrant population who work in the United States in hotels, hospitals, hospices and in many other areas of the service industry. In your blog post you focussed on a young woman from Jamaica and another one from Rwanda. You briefly explained that they were both hard working and caring and keen to study and get good qualifications. Surely this must be one of the core tenets of humanity that no matter what the differences are between people with regards to age, gender, race, nationality, colour, religion, education and background that ultimately, we all strive for the same things in life. It is a more accommodating and inclusive approach and one which many people can learn from.

    Apart from that, I am a fellow blogger like you, it may interest you to have a look at my blog:

    Best regards, Bronte