My mom has always been an awesome writer. She went back to school when I was 10.  Her professors fawned over her writing which raised money, started programs that helped people, and made people feel awake and happy. The professors may also have been fawning over her new-divorcee good looks, but that’s another story…

My mom studied Jungian archetypes for fun. Morning breakfast (one scrambled egg, one slice of toast, a tiny orange juice AND milk) usually included dream-talk, new ideas, the politics of oppression, and observations about life and eastern spirituality. Into these conversations, I’d try to slip requests in for Nikes and trips to the mall, or try to steer the conversation toward kids-gossip-talk and pop culture. To all of these she’d smile amused, and say “so, I just had this insight…” and would launch into another observation about the meaning of life.

And she listened, intently, to my observations too.

Everyone told her she should write. If Mary wrote a book, they’d say, it would surely help others. She didn’t. Her mind flitted around big ideas like a fairy in a meadow, landing, then flitting away to the next big flower. But she took the color and dazzle along with her, and used her keen perception to help her clients, and to help me too. Mom was no fluffy weakling though. This lady was a mafia-princess powerhouse,  who could spot a dysfunctional dynamic in an instant, and shoot down an asshole like dead eye dick. She once tossed a pile of dog poop into an asshole’s car window… but that too is another story.

As I got older, she did most of her writing in letters and reviews. She was Yelp, before there was Yelp.

One talented chef I worked with made extraordinary food. He was also handsome and full of himself. I loved to hate him, but his food nearly made me weep. My mom and her boyfriend would occasionally come to dinner when we both worked. After one of these meals, she composed a letter about how much his food meant to her and mailed it to the restaurant.

Chef put it into his binder of keepsakes and newspaper clippings. He pulled it out later, now protected in plastic sheeting and said, “did you know your mother sent this to me?” I said I hadn’t. He teared up and said it meant more to him than anything, that his food made people’s lives better. I had never seen that egomaniac that soft and real (and, of course, my crush was again resumed).

From my mom, I’ve learned never to hold back saying something real and good. It can feel embarrassing and people can think you are ‘coming on to them,’ if you do this, or they’ll just be perplexed, or maybe be delighted, or moved, or happy. Or maybe even, they might do this same thing for someone else: reflect back the beautiful reality that is them.

See something. Say something. Good.