In My Hands

 When I was young, I used to fantasize about what it would be like to belong to a different family, live in different circumstances. I'd daydream about a mother who bubbled with joy and an exuberance for living and a father who was a patriarchal rock of steadiness and security. There were many days I longed for Ward and June or Mr. & Mrs. Brady to jump on in and rescue me from my reality. Although I loved my mother and father very much, I spent most of my life trying to distinguish myself from my parents, repudiating patterns from them that I didn't want to replicate, desperately hoping to do it all differently when given my shot at adulthood. It has taken me almost a half a century to make peace with the fact, that while I am my own unique self, I am also the child of my parents, my mother's daughter in many respects, (my father's too) for good and bad; I'm more like them than I ever imagined. As I now walk alone without them in this life, I smile when I see one or both of my parents in my reflection, or hear them in my voice.

It wasn't until my perimenopausal years, that I began to fully empathize with my mother's depression, fears, and her need to cocoon herself in the safety of her own home. In my brazen teen years, I sternly( but silently) thought her weak and selfish. In my twenties, I decided she didn't try quite hard enough to push herself out and through the door that seemed unlocked to me, but a prison to her. During my thirties, I secretly detached myself, knowing I would never understand her and could die trying. At forty, I worked hard at reconnecting, convinced she was a product of her environment growing up. Sure of my own capacity to mother, I wanted to scoop her up, love her the way she needed to be loved, furious with those who robbed her of the carefree childhood she deserved. I wasn't convinced I had much of a childhood either, but next to hers, it was The Wonder Years. Still, I tried to move past this legacy and create my own to pass down to my little posterity. Retrospectively, I wasted far too much time in a push-pull of the heart, trying to embrace, but desperately wanting to escape my own inheritance.

It was a big, fat paradox for me. Here I was, my own unique person, on earth with a divine purpose to become all I was created to be and given agency to choose. At the same time, I was to a large degree, an inevitable result of my parent's DNA: their physical and emotional legacy; the result of a tryst between my mother's egg and my father's slow, but tenacious little sperm. Sure, I believe I came with an inherent personality and characteristics unique to me, but I was also formed from all the training and experiences I had from my parents as a child. All of that, paired with my reaction to and perception of those experiences, made me who I am- for better or for worse. Thankfully, sometime in my childhood I was innately gifted a deep knowing-ness: a personal confirmation of sorts, that my parents did the best they could with what they had. They were pretty much in the same boat- inheritors too, given what they were from their parents. I understood I was and still am in a very real sense, a product of those who came before me. This compassionate realization separated my bitterness from the sweet, like vinegar and oil. On most days, my love for two wonderful parents floated to the top, but I'd be lying if I said my bottle was never shaken, blending the two, making it hard to distinquish the very sweet from the bitter.

Because some of my childhood was difficult, even painful at times, it would have been easy to disassociate from my parents, or to blame them for what I believed went wrong in my life.  I tried instead to use the lessons they taught me (both positive and negative) and move beyond my legacy. As I have looked back, I know that this must have at times looked and felt like superiority to my parents. In many instances, I was too judgemental, too outspoken in my resolve to do it differently. My mother and I had a very real conversation about this just a couple of months before she died. One afternoon she sent me an email thanking me for being the daughter I was. She had been given five months to live months earlier and her time was drawing to an end. She told me that she loved me very much and that I had helped her so much in her life. As I read her email, I thought of our relationship. How hard it had been at times to relate to my mother. How difficult it was for the child in me to not suffocate beneath her depression; I shamefully had held anger in my heart towards her. I tearfully typed back, " You were a good mother. I am sorry for the times I wasn't always kind. I judged you. At times I was embarrassed of our life, our circumstances. I was never ashamed of you. I know you and dad did the very best you could. I regret not having had the maturity and goodness to understand everything much earlier in my life.  I love you, Mom. I always have and I always will..."

The following was my dear  mother's reply:


Dear Julie,

You show yourself no mercy. Please believe that I have only love and admiration for you...and mega pride. Those earlier years were so difficult. I don't even like to think of them. Children can only react. I do the same as you...wish to go back and make it better. I think we should just know that all things we experience, good and bad, make us what we finally become. No mother on earth could be more pleased than I with the person you have become- who you are. That person was always there, but had so many hardships to deal with. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to make your life better, Julie. I think it would have killed me if any one of you followed the pattern that was presented earlier to you. 

I think of times when I might have been more patient; if only I had more "room" in my mind to have done a better job. Please don't ever think you weren't a good daughter. If anything, you gave me reasons to be proud. Yes, My Violet, five more years would be so great... only to enjoy one another longer. I am trying not to think of how many months I have left, but rather enjoy each moment I have with each of you.

I love you to no end~
Mom


Dawna Markova (the author of the poem that inspired my Wide Open Wednesdays) has a wonderful practice that makes this all of this so very real. "Look in the palm of your hand. Thich Nhat Hanh would say that if you look deeply enough, you'll never be lonely. Each cell of your hand is made from genetic material passed on to you from your mother or father. Whether you adored or despised them, they are in the palm of your hand." Most of the last moments I had with my mother, I held her hand. When she could, she held mine. I held my father's too, for weeks and weeks, as I watched him slip away from me. Because my hands are a smaller version of my mother's, I connect deeply to her whenever I look down at them. Whenever I put her ring on my finger, or hold my own daughter's hand, I am brought back to her. I love my hands because I loved hers. This connection to her gives me a sense of belonging and a wholeness that I can't explain. My hands remind me that I am never really alone, belonging to something so much bigger and better than just me. At near fifty, I no longer wish to be part of the Cleavers or The Brady Bunch. I am content to fully inhabit both my circumstances and my genes- grateful for both and for the parents that live on through me, in my heart and in my hands.