The Climax, May 09 Part 5

On the seventh day, with two hours to go before her departure, my mom was apparently ready to have an interpersonal moment.  A bit choked up, she began, referring to her husband, “Sonny told me not to bring this up. He told me I was just opening up a can of worms.” 

A pack of Harley riders stormed through right then.  We were at a restaurant with a window seat, I had my back to the window, and I just HAD to turn around. I stayed and gazed, compelled, until the storm had passed.

“I don’t know why anyone would want to ride those,” she began, and I let her tell me a story about a really loud motorcycle in her neighborhood.

In a spirit of encouragement, I said, “So…you were going to open up a can of worms? Even though Sonny said not to?”

“Your Aunt Joan,” my mom said, “told me that you had a conversation with her.” Great. Aunt Joan and I had talked a few months before, sharing our common experience of having my mom accidentally auto dial us when drunk. What the hell.  Why would she share this with my mom? I noticed, however, with all due thanks to the Goddess, that I did not feel a wave of fear—a wave of having been caught, wave of feeling like I needed to gather my resources for her onslaught. I felt…peaceful, as she continued. 

“Aunt Joan said…she said you told her that I loved Lisa and Jenny more than you.”  I’ve known my mom all my life, so I knew it would have been deeply wounding to her if I’d have laughed right then, but first, I was relieved that Aunt Joan hadn’t told my mom about our drunk auto-dialing conversation and second, it actually was amusing…how long had she been carrying this guilty secret around? For “months”? Not to mention the entire week she'd been visiting me in Chicago.

“Actually, what I said to Aunt Joan was that you liked Lisa and Jenny more than me.  Not loved.  And you do.  They are totally normal people who don’t have lesbian Tantra sessions in their basement, and you are more comfortable around them than you are around me.  And I don’t have a problem with that. Really, it’s fine.”

“Well, they look at me when I talk, as though what I have to say is interesting.  And they make comments and interact.” I have no idea what to say about this, so I don’t comment. 

She continued: “I’m not so fond of rosemary; I gave all my recipes with rosemary to Lisa. I don’t cook with it anymore and those recipes were just taking up space. Lisa grows rosemary.” My mother was referring to the salad she was eating, which apparently contained traces of rosemary.

We resume lunch; that was apparently the extent of the can of worms her husband had advised her not to open. Later, in the car, on the way to the airport, on the way to my big exhale, I ask, “Mom, were you satisfied with the conversation we had about Lisa and Jen?  Or is there more you want to say?”

She replies: “Well, it’s more Lisa than Jen. I really like her. Lisa is so cheerful and positive.” That is true about my cousin Lisa, but my mom also loves—she adores--that Lisa has worked for AT&T for 20 years and gotten regular promotions. She mentions it to me regularly.

 

She continues…“And Lisa has more, more---“ her voice trails off.

“—disposable income?” I ask, immediately horrified. It just popped out of my mouth. Possibly the rudest comment I’ve ever made. Ever.

“Yes!” my mom exclaims.  “That’s exactly the phrase I was thinking of! On St. Patrick’s Day, in fact, she sent us the cutest shamrock salt and pepper shakers, and some Irish Crème. And she picked up these nice napkins--she knows just what I like.”

I am thrilled that my mom didn’t realize what an insult she had just avoided, thrilled she didn’t realize how cynical my helpful verbal prompt had actually been. I am thrilled that my cousins take an interest in my mom. And my cousin Lisa does deserve to be in some special category, because my mom, queen of judging how others live their lives, has decided that Lisa passes with flying colors.

 …Jen…apparently not quite; and Rachel, just no…. And thus ended our heart-to-heart.  I felt lighter, more free. The energy in my car seemed clearer. Drive on, I said to myself. Drive on. I drove her to the airport, feeling like the embodiment of “the truth will set you free.”

My mom is being eaten alive by her dysfunctions, by her ego, by the thing we are all trying to let go of, the voice of judgment, criticism, insecurity, the voice that says: right now, something might be wrong, and if not, at any time, something might go wrong.  

I have made specific recommendations to her, easy and accessible, but that ego voice prevents her from taking charge and making change, even an easy one, like, take a ten-minute walk and count your breaths.  Friends have said, “But she has to ask you for advice, she has to want it.” Oh…she has asked. She has asked what I would do if someone came to me with her set of problems, and I have said, I would send them to a therapist and I would have them take a ten-minute walk every day and count their breaths, to help release that connection to the thoughts that anchor you into thinking you are those thoughts. 

She hasn’t walked. And it wouldn’t matter, if she weren’t my mother.

The connection is powerful, and the choice is there, her choice, to be connected to her dysfunctions…and it’s hard for me to see beyond them.  Or to just feel her energy, the energy that gave me life, the energy that is the female lineage of who I am and who my daughter is—the energy that we summon, every time we open up a mother-daughter circle.

The best I can do, right here, right now, is to allow my mother—the physical, earthly, dysfunction riddled, crying out for help mother—to be the mirror that I know every other human being to be.  And when I look at that mirror, I have to acknowledge the paralyzing line of victimhood that runs through her, to me, in a lesser and far more conscious degree, the line of victimhood that has reached my daughter to some degree as well but which, when seen and acknowledged in me, by me, ceases to be paralyzing and becomes a lesson in transcendence.  

For me it is every day, little by little, less and less. For my daughter it is…on occasion. Sometimes, she has a victimy moment. And, amazing creator that she is, she has created a mother who is able to say, “You don’t have to be that. You can see it, and make a choice.”

And in case we couldn’t see the victim in us, in case it was destined to become a worm, embedded, that we’d have to dig for and unearth, we have my mother, large as life, to thank: Thank you for being my Divine Mirror.

That Same May, Part 3

Even the new Whole Foods, the amazing emporium that makes me at once feel cynically like a target market—because it’s awesome!  You should go there!  It’s like heaven!--does not make my mom happy…. It’s my local market, a half mile away, and filled with cool young people.  It makes me feel young and prosperous, and there’s something about Ronald, the checkout guy from Folsum, California, the one about whom my daughter asked, “Mommy, did Ronald check you out?”  To which my mom replied, “HEAVENS, no!” And they stared at each other blankly having no idea what the other was staring at them about, while I alone realized the root of the momentary communication respite—between the two of them, someone is always talking. 

But anyway…even the new Whole Foods, paradise…even the fact that I had rappelled down a cliff and tightrope walked two days earlier, getting high literally, which, well, got me high…even all that –it’s, like, a cosmic joke that this Whole Foods is sooo local; I mean, we can walk there!  I go there every day.  I haven’t missed a day since it opened.  EVEN the New Whole Foods doesn't make my mom happy. Today she was fretting that she hadn’t bought a little ceramic creamer that she’d seen, and I enthusiastically offered to run over there and pick it up, right that second! --and I ended up spending $60 on, basically, frozen waffles and cheese popcorn…and I think that’s it. Ok, so it’s overpriced, but I gladly give it out because that place makes me happy. But anyway, my mom is not EVEN happy there, and I let it affect me all week. She's a foodie. I thought she'd love it. 

I am convinced it is Heaven on Earth.  I am convinced that it will always be available to me no matter what happens in the outside world, like this crazy heaven that I will have access to.  I don’t have an impulse to move.  Ever. Where I live right now is a gift from the Universe, and I knew it the moment I first conceived of it.  And I will need to feel like that again, about a place, before I go anywhere.  In the meantime I am planning to be very well taken care of by the Universe, in the form of the Kingsbury Whole Foods, which sucks me in like an overpriced amusement park. I accept, with gratitude.

Past Present Part 2

May 2009 continued....

So this visit, I tried a new tactic, really wanting to stay in a blissful state through the week of my mom's visit.  I convinced myself that at the end of the week, I would win $7000.  That's $1000 per day.  But to receive that gift from the Universe, I would have to stay in a blissful, buoyant state the entire week.  Second by second. I’m good at stuff like this:  I loved it as a fantasy designed to motivate myself, and I also loved it as a potential reality, thinking if I rocked the week, the $7000---maybe in some form other than money, would materialize.  Because…my life works like that.  

But, I didn’t rock the week.  I have to be honest.  I demotivated pretty quickly, thinking I’d be lucky if I just stayed neutral.  The moment she got into the car Saturday morning at 11, smelling like alcohol, I separated into three of me:  one, the reaction, the girl who says, “What the FUCK?  You’re on your way to go hang out with your granddaughter!”  Two, a more mature, empathetic therapist-Rachel, who realizes that she is just fortifying for a full week of not drinking and she probably feels like she needed to toast the impending week of dryness…and three: me as the Awareness that knows that everything just IS--the yoga teacher, spiritual coach, tantra-doer. Everything just is. But that one-third never really expanded back into its fullness, for the rest of the week.

I got it up just fine to teach, and even had fabulous first-time session with a lesbian Tantra couple…then, coming upstairs, expanded and buoyant, I watched one of the women take a left at the top of the stairs, heading to the bathroom, and I heard her, surprised, say, “Hi!” to my mom, who was apparently sitting at the kitchen table—I couldn’t see her from my vantage point.  But I spiked, oh, I don’t know, 400%?  Because, what the eff was she doing in my kitchen?  I had told her SO clearly, just short of being offensive, NOT to be around for my client referrals, not to even have her purse and shoes around—so what the eff?

Where am I not clear?

And I don’t mean, where am I not clear about explaining to my mother that her presence was not a boon to tantric sex couples’ sessions…where am I not CLEAR?  Because if I were clear, as a person…her presence in my kitchen wouldn’t spike me 400%.

Now, on one hand…the hand of clarity, it is hilarious that the first time I ever get a lesbian couple from the Berman Center, my mom is there to witness it.  Because, not only is she homophobic, her most homophobic moments have occurred in regard to my lesbian friends and lovers.  And, hilariously, I have spent a lot of energy hiding the nature of these relationships from my mom.  Because…it’s almost like taunting her.  Lesbian tantra students in my kitchen are her worst nightmare.  And her, in my kitchen saying hi to my lesbian Tantra students, is mine.

I know enough to realize that even when I least want to know this, …my mom is a mirror for me.  All kinds of crappy stuff, writ large.  I don’t want to look at this stuff!  I don’t want to think it’s a part of me, this negativity, and judgement, and overwhelming stream of consciousness that is a hundred times louder than the voice of Spirit.

But there it is, and I’m staring at it.  Day in, day out, for a week.  And saying to myself, “If I can just be present this MINUTE, I will be on the road to happiness and abundance.”  Well, I did get through the minutes.  But I didn’t ROCK the minutes,{so I am not sure if I qualify for the seven grand, but I am looking for a loophole in the rules and regs}.  What if this was the best I’ve ever done with my mom, the most positive and healing I’ve been with her since I was in high school?  What if, even though it didn’t feel like it in the moment, she was indeed, tuning into a higher vibration..and is at this very moment integrating it, and turning into a happier, healthier version of herself…you never know.

Past Present: a gift this holiday season (Part 1)

(May 30, 2009)

Each month, when we open our mother daughter circle, we call upon the energy of our female lineage.  More than once, one of the mothers has just finished complaining about her own mother…whom she is about to summon, like this:  "I am Rachel, daughter of Barbara, daughter of Mary, daughter of Anna, and I am Here, Now."

I have never questioned, when I am in the presence of my mother, “What in the hell qualifies me to lead mother-daughter groups, if I can’t even create* a satisfying relationship with my own mother?”  Because I know that although in that individual moment, in her presence, I might feel utterly bewildered, in retrospect it will all make sense and I just need to stay present in that paralyzing moment in order to get to the place where compression turns into perception.

Am I there Now?  She’s only been gone for two hours, after a long seven-day visit…in fact, to honor my maternal inheritance I just want to say that, her plane is probably actually still sitting on the runway, because you know how stressful travel is, late as usual because you know United, not only do they charge you for your suitcase, but they are never on time, and a cab from Midway is actually the same price as a cab from O’Hare, even though you think it wouldn’t be, and Midway airport is so much easier to get around in, Southwest Airlines is so much friendlier and they don’t charge you to check your suitcase, so Midway is actually better to fly into even though I know you don’t want to drive all the way out there to pick me up.  Did you put that leftover taco in the fridge?? Hmmmm??!

Oops.  Got carried away there, on my mom’s train of thought.  Her spoken stream of consciousness, or lack thereof, begins at 7am—right after my ayurvedic warm oil massage, tantric sex breathing, yoga…and delightful, aromatic, excessively long shower, which one would think would be adequate preparation for the onslaught.  To be able to live through that constant monologue for a week and not stab myself in the head with a fork, or perhaps more therapeutic but even more offensive to my mother, lie on the kitchen floor on my back and yell help at the top of my lungs—has anyone ever done that right in the middle of a frustrating interpersonal moment?  I mean, since they were a two year old?  It might provide a powerful energy shift…which is all that is actually needed, right?

Interpersonal moment.  That is the key word…the level of interpersonal moment my mother is willing to engage in ludicrously unsatisfying.  Mostly I just tune out, like the long-frustrated husband in the movies who turns his hearing aid down, saying the occasional, “Yes!” when appropriate.  But there are moments when I want to say to her face:  “You’re not home!”  She already thinks I’m super, super weird, so…what can I lose?  She can disown me and it actually might be BETTER.  Like when David said he was going to divorce Janet a few weeks ago, dropped the bomb, she was devastated, and now their relationship has never been better.  The sex is more satisfying than ever.  Suggesting a “divorce” might be just the key to unlock the appalled state I get into in my mother’s presence.  I walk around the house going, wow, this is really who she IS?  Is she really this afraid of silence?  How can she not know her thoughts, her state of judgment, her need to plan compulsively, are making her miserable and affecting her level of sanity?  Well, but she knows…she has asked me why she isn’t happy, and I have told her.

Can I get out of judgment that she’s in judgment?  Maybe, if she wouldn’t verbalize every judgment.  Maybe at the next visit.  Which she’s already talking about, planning.  I am feeling pretty much like if we never saw each other again, it would be fine.  I will not die wishing I had tried harder to have a relationship with her.

Or will I?  It is not my responsibility to heal my mother.  I learned that, decades ago, when I tried to get her into an AA meeting—or anywhere close.  I can’t heal her.  And she is not going see me, if she’s looking through a lens of judgment—and she is not going to allow me to lead her into a more positive state, even though she has, on occasion, asked me to. 

My instinct is to…try.  Just my very presence, I am told by yoga clients, is healing to be around.  I would assume SOMETHING about me would rub off on my mom.  But it does not seem imminent.  Instead, she rubs off on me and I compress.  She has declared, “This is who I am, and I can’t change.”  She is very invested in clinging to the state of mind that makes her unhappy.  And we seem to polarize each other.  Because I sure don’t feel like my expanded self around her.  My experience last week is that at the most, we average each other out, me going numb and she… maybe avoiding voicing some of the more graphic fears that she might normally put into words.

Even knowing that with every fiber of my being, when my mom is talking about how much worse the world is getting and how she will never change, there is a polarizing affect that feels like I so strongly don’t want to enter her world, that I can’t fully inhabit mine.  It’s just energy.  But it doesn’t feel safe to FEEL around her.  So the full bloom of my happiness is stunted in her presence.  And I take full responsibility for that. 

*Nine years later, looking at this blog, I have a wealth of compassion for myself, as well as for her, because after my mother's death I see very clearly her incapacity to be happy or to sustain a deep and loving relationship.