It feels like this, right here, is the back story all in one fell swoop.
I have loved my mother all my life. I have also begrudged her, been irritated by her, gone in the exact opposite way that she wanted. I have loved her. I have tolerated her as an adult, as messed up as that feels to say. For heaven’s sake, I am a mom. I would hate to think my kids grin and bear it and tolerate me. I have strived for something different.
My mother and I are so much alike, we are like twins. And she’s irritated me all my life. What does that say of me? What does that say about my own wellbeing? Have I been irritated at myself my whole life?
I had to know.
I trained my poet eyes and poet heart on my mother. That sounds so much more lovely than how it started.
I screamed at my mother in the parking lot of her Assisted Living and called her a Monster. Then when she tried to have the last word, and be all holier-than-thou, and shouted, “I love you, Liesl,” I screamed it again. So. You can count. Twice.
That is where it started.
Shaking with rage at her, spewing ugliness that does not sit well with me. An outburst, under duress – oh, bullshit. There was no reason to ever treat her that way.
I came home and fell apart. My dad was in decline. We didn’t even know how close he was to the end at that point. My process through any hurt or frustration has always been to write. What came out of my heart that night, instead of the anger I thought would be there, was a desperate curiosity to find out who my mother is, and who I am, and what parts of our shared DNA I want to keep, and what needed to go. What didn’t fit. What had felt like being put in a box. And we are so much alike.
It ended with, “We have been dueling our whole lives, instead of dancing.”
Initially, it felt urgent to put my father’s heart at rest. It is no secret that my mother and I have been at odds frequently. So much alike that we tangle. They live in my town. I am the daughter-of-four closest. They moved here because of my involvement with the Assisted Living in my town. I’m a volunteer reader. We started with Narnia four years ago. My parents moved in after about five months of my reading stint.
If anything happened to dad, it would be me here with mom.
If my shoulders rise whenever we’re together, and I’m cringing over things she says, I am not going to be a comfort to my dad or to her. I needed some rearranging of my heart and attitudes. I wanted to learn to truly love my mother. Not tolerate. Celebrate.
At a Speakeasy a couple of days after writing that piece, I shared it from stage. I received so many little notes from people in the audience. The one that made me cry said to look around the room at the moms in the room – to watch their faces as my words flowed – to watch them weep, to see them acknowledge the hurt of daughters not understanding. To watch them hope toward healing.
I am a daughter who didn’t understand, and didn’t take the time to, had no inclination to, until my dad was dying, and I wanted to be a good daughter. That was a part of it. Subconscious. Part of me realized that if I couldn’t love the parts of her that are identical to parts of me, then I have serious self-love, acceptance, etcetera problems.
The book I thought I was writing was about menopause and the tricks and turns of the brain.
Field notes. From someone in the thick of it. Staring at walls. In poetry. Fun.
My muse shook things up completely. I needed to write about my mother.
And back to my point. I did train my poet eyes and poet heart on her. I looked and paid attention. I saw things that surprised me. I went stark raving mad for a few super hot poems in the mix. I also saw her more clearly than I ever have.
I cannot tell you the whole story arc. But this week, I reminded myself of her four times, and each time, I just thought, “Huh. That’s something mom and I have in common.” And then I would shake with a start. My head would bob like I was coming out of something.
That has not been my reaction throughout my life. I have groaned. I have wrestled with myself to try to change a mannerism. I have held myself tightly.
Today, I feel loose, free.
My mom hasn’t changed.
My attention changed my way of seeing her and seeing myself.
This last week, on a drive back from the doctor, we decided to be spontaneous more often together. She no longer drives, and she always loved to drive. I, too, love to drive, and pull over to take pictures of anything that delights me. I am in a resurgence-of-delight period in my life.
After writing the book, after early mornings before work, late nights, after visits to hospitals or hospice, late into the night, excavating, feeling, examining, remembering, finding treasure, so much treasure. And then my dad took a sudden turn and we were in anticipatory grieving and then grieving, and the writing was still happening, all around everything to do with loving someone and losing them, walking them to death. Rage days, family dynamics, old tensions, tender mercies. When the book was finished, I looked up and someone told me to go play.
Tonight, after being out of town for the weekend, I stopped by to visit. I told her how I’d frolicked and been ridiculously carefree at the race track. She told me how she’d watched the parade; first from one side, where they were lining up and getting organized. She liked the hubbub and the chaos. Then on the side where they were in formation and marching. She told me about all the circuitous routes she took to get right up front. I asked her if the Assisted Living didn’t have a group that was going. She said they were on a float, back there waiting their turn to go. She wanted to be down in it – in the thick of it.
Oh my gosh. I’ve just been photographing things from deep inside of flowers or up inside of trees. I’m so curious. I got out and touched grass per an internet suggestion, and now I can’t stop with the nature. It’s part of this delight thing that is keeping me together.
Mom has it too. She seeks delight too!
This is freaking me out.
(The photo is of mom and I at dinner the night after dad passed away. We were both wearing bright colors. Dad would have liked that. We are in deep grief, and still a garden.)
