If I called every day, every hour before I finally arrive, would she ever remember? What perversity in me wonders this; what dense desire to control, to impose my will upon her, does this question expose?
"When will you be here?" she asks for the third time in our two-minute conversation.
"When you see me," I say, and then hear my frustration fully exposed in her silence before I correct myself again and quickly say, "Valentine's Day, Mother. You'll see me on Valentine's Day. Tuesday."
The apparent irony in my own practice of mindfulness, of working at being more fully present, in contrast with my mother's mindless presence as she's stricken with the disease of the Living Dead, doesn't make me smile. Instead, I intend to find some simple ways to bring light and space into her home while I'm visiting there----clearing away clutter, opening windows, bringing in flowers, sitting with her and listening, trying not to get hooked into her bitterness or my own impatience. I must remind myself of my intentions over and over again because I know the darkness of the reality of being there can be dense enough to blind me, heavy enough to feel like drowning.
Maybe I'll be able to tell myself "It's just another story; let it go" when I hear her distorted tales and my own versions clamoring to "correct" hers. I can take a walk when I'm no longer able to bear the feeling of being trapped in that house. I can remind myself that this could be the last time I see my mother alive.
"When will you be here?" she asks for the third time in our two-minute conversation.
"When you see me," I say, and then hear my frustration fully exposed in her silence before I correct myself again and quickly say, "Valentine's Day, Mother. You'll see me on Valentine's Day. Tuesday."
The apparent irony in my own practice of mindfulness, of working at being more fully present, in contrast with my mother's mindless presence as she's stricken with the disease of the Living Dead, doesn't make me smile. Instead, I intend to find some simple ways to bring light and space into her home while I'm visiting there----clearing away clutter, opening windows, bringing in flowers, sitting with her and listening, trying not to get hooked into her bitterness or my own impatience. I must remind myself of my intentions over and over again because I know the darkness of the reality of being there can be dense enough to blind me, heavy enough to feel like drowning.
Maybe I'll be able to tell myself "It's just another story; let it go" when I hear her distorted tales and my own versions clamoring to "correct" hers. I can take a walk when I'm no longer able to bear the feeling of being trapped in that house. I can remind myself that this could be the last time I see my mother alive.
| Travel altar (with thanks to Zen Dot Studio) |
| In use. . . |