New Relationship With Mom

The thing is . . . I love a mystery . . . not a mystery novel . . . the mystery. When I was a child I would play games delving into the darkness, submerging myself into places where a normal child of eight would be afraid. But not me, I feel safe there, I surrender to the darkness and allow myself to drift between light flashes and stories of old, ancient wisdom spoken to me through familiar voices of those who came before all of us. Those who had no reason to turn events into stories for their ego’s own good. These faces were here only to pass along to the younger generation for future generations, this great wisdom, knowing it’s value would be called upon through the windows of time. I am remembering this wisdom.

And in this generation, now, I am born into a family of great dysfunction. Where small problems become a catastrophe. I wonder why as a child, then I let go into the mystery of the wisdom and remember what is really important – to bring in that wisdom – to relay what I really know – that love heals all.

With a strong determined will and deep innocence I approach my mother when she is angry and say to her “Mom, may I help you?” She looks angrily and distant at me and growls as she says sarcastically “Who do you think you are?” My innocence shrinks a bit, still holding it’s own. I look her straight in the eye, feeling her pain and I say “Mom, I love you and I see that you are angry, is there anything I can do for you?” Slightly more at ease but still burning with the delight of her own passion of anger running through her body, she begins to ‘see’ me, her eldest daughter, asking for a moment of connection and really wanting to help her and says . . . “Yes, you can help me by going to your room, I’ll call you when you can come out. Go do something constructive.”

Knowing I am safe now, out of the fields of anger, my heart is happy to have extended the love that I am, even without her receiving, her dismissing me was in a way a grace so that I wouldn’t have to be involved in her drama any longer. She knew it disturbed me but she couldn’t do anything about it, for me. She could only do what she was doing. As difficult as it was for her and for me to experience that pain, now at a distance from her, I am in my happy heart knowing I am safe in the darkness of the mystery in my room.

Her direction comes back to me, “Go do something constructive” and I wonder what she meant. She really only wanted good for me, she just wasn’t very good at remembering how to be a child and what a child needed was guidance, not orders. What I would have loved for her to say to me was “go write a story” or “make me a picture” rather than her usually demands “do your homework” “clean your room” “help your sisters.” But in my room I am safe to do what I want this time because there was no direct order except to leave her space and allow her to finish her anger on her own, whew, what a relief.

What does constructive mean, I am wondering? Maybe I will write something, let’s see I’ll write a story about the trees outside my window. Looking outside at our front garden, the beginnings of spring appear. On the evergreens I ponder the leaves, branches, tree trunk and even the small shrubs vining around the base of the trees, I am moved, even inspired to bring aliveness in words to what I see. Each word fills me with joy, light and I’m even happier that I can do this. Maybe I will bring this story to my teacher tomorrow as an extra credit assignment. Lord knows I need extra credits whenever I can get them.nnn