It’s almost Mother’s Day and I find myself thinking about my mother June, who inspired my forthcoming book, “Wild Ideas: Creativity from the Inside Out.” This year marks the thirty-fifth anniversary of her untimely death at the age of fifty-four. I offer this edited version of a longer essay written several years after her death.
I have almost no concrete recollections of my mother. What I have are flashing impressions, a kaleidoscope of emotional memories with no beginning or end. What I do remember is how I felt about her as a child—I hated her. I hated her for burdening me with her defects, for humiliating me by allowing her terrible vulnerabilities to be visible to the world, and for letting me down again and again and again until I learned to rely on no one but myself. More