My mother, may she rest in peace, often got on my nerves in a big way. I don’t discount her great qualities or her struggles with life. She was intuitive, very funny, witty, warm, and a good friend to many people.
But on the difficult side, I remember her being incredibly controlling, repetitive, and at times, really hostile. I often had no idea of what I had done wrong or how I had angered her, and she was not one to apologize for her outbursts.
At thirteen, I (along with many others) discovered the book, The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran. The chapter called “Your Children” begins with, “Your children are not your children, they are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself. They come through you but are not of you…”It continues beautifully and poignantly.
I placed the book with the chapter on children bookmarked on my mother’s bed pillow. I have no memory of what I felt or thought while doing it. She and I did not discuss it. My father though, let his displeasure with my action be known. He reproached me screaming and scolding. The only line in his tirade that I remember is, “I don’t care about your 13-year-old philosophy. “
As I began writing this month’s blog called, “To Meditate or Not“, I was dragging my heels, procrastinating, and doubting whether anyone would be interested in what I had to say. I was planning on writing about my thoughts, my experiences, and my opinions (maybe even, my philosophy).
I needed to pause and investigate the feeling/belief that maybe what I had to say didn’t matter and that most people would not be interested. While this uncomfortable feeling was not solely due to my father’s attitude alone, it was the memory that quickly popped into my mind. So instead of writing about meditation I paused, reflected upon this memory and wrote instead about me. My introspection and immersion in this memory, even though painful, left me a little lighter, closer to myself, and to moving on. Thank you for listening.
Please share any of your responses, I love hearing from you.