The Universal Mother vs The Personal Mother
Deer Mom…
The tonglen practice is a method for connecting with suffering —ours and that which is all around us— everywhere we go. It is a method for overcoming fear of suffering and for dissolving the tightness of our heart. Primarily it is a method for awakening the compassion that is inherent in all of us, no matter how cruel or cold we might seem to be.
Pema Chodron
Today is one of the most difficult days of the year for me. And for my mother, I’m sure.
Mother’s Day is akin to Memorial Day for me. I remember the warzone of my childhood, presided over by my mother’s deep rage and addictions. PSTD won’t let me forget. Neither will listening to Jiminy Cricket sing “When You Wish Upon A Star”. The tears fall easily.
I remember the mother who birthed me, who discarded, rejected, abused and tortured me, who worked out her rage on my skin and in my psyche, whose demons haunted both of us. I remember, I forgive, I do not forget. The trauma still courses through my veins and spikes in anger or fear. I feel for her frustration, sense of overwhelming trauma from her own life, her frenzied irresponsibility that led her to make choices that were often no choice at all. Her taste in men – pedophiles, addicts, violent abusers – compounded the trauma and the sense that there was no one to turn to. And when she helped them beat us, took their side, begged us to keep quiet and stop making trouble, I knew we were trade, somehow. There was no respect for my sister and I – we were as valued as bad pets and there always seemed to be the threat of being “gotten rid of”.
Mom, Matt, Me – Brooklyn 1971
I was the confrontational one – in her face, talking back, sometimes pushing back, hard. I was the whistle blower – telling secrets we were not supposed to tell outside of the family. I tried telling my mother first, sharing what her brother did to me one hot August night in a Mineola bedroom. I was shut down, denied, humiliated, ridiculed, called a liar and a drama queen. She broke my heart daily, hating my eyes and my silent accusations.
My mother struck out with precision. She would often tell me that she had had an appointment at an abortion clinic to “take care of me” and she regrets not going. At 17, after almost a decade of enduring this particular humiliation, I told her to “shut up”, that I was here and to just “fucking deal with it”. She could find buttons and push, put in the knife and twist, slice open the wound and rub copious amounts of salt into it. The repeated hurting and beatings culminated in me finally hitting her back, closed fist, three times, when I was 21. Those three punches gave me ultimate freedom and ultimate exile. There was no turning back and I knew it. I was free and excluded all at the same time.
I remember some unique things, not necessarily fantastic but moments where she shined and dazzled me. My mother was a beautiful woman with haunting eyes. She was incredibly sensitive, not able to endure touch for too long, with graceful hands and a long neck that I would stare at for as long as she allowed. My favorite memories of her are of watching movies together. One summer night in the late 70′s, my mother woke me up at 1 AM, and made me watch “The Grapes of Wrath” from beginning to end. I was rapt and thrilled. My favorite movies come from Sunday TV movies and later VHS rentals we watched together, where she would explain to me the plot or the stars or the times in which the film was made. “Harvey”, “I Remember Mama”, “The Greatest Show On Earth”, “Its A Wonderful Life” – there was such hope in the movies she loved. Our shared interest in film and books was the only thing that kept us connected.
Her love and her hate were ever present and we never knew which hand she would use. Chaos and turbulence were the staples of our lives. I remember my mother with deep longing and the taste of my own blood on my tongue.
Me – Brooklyn 1971
So how do I deal with Mother’s Day?
I make the day universal and thank Gaia for ultimately creating me. I think of my sister, an incredibly loving woman with three wonderful children. I think of the millions of children worldwide who have no mothers, who have so much less in love and opportunity than I did. I do tonglen – breath in and out the pain and joy, the hurt and love, for everyone’s benefit. I do tonglen for my mother’s bones, which ache constantly. I send out love without conditions, strings or desire for return. I cannot hate or punish or demand justice. I can only love and keep on loving, knowing this love benefits each of us in some small way. Compassion can’t be kept from some in retribution. Love needs to flow everywhere, especially into the broken psyches and deep dark corners of rage and hate.
I also spend the day being grateful for the lessons of my childhood. I understand oppression, hate, abuse, rape, torture, humiliation, denial, neglect, mistrust, paranoia, addiction, misery and poverty. With this understanding, I can connect to the universal experience of pain and trauma, sending out my love to help heal this planetary wound. And I can be mindful, make my work part of the struggle for love and understanding, help how I can for the greater good and for justice. I’ve learned to go beyond the “why” into peace.
My mission is love, art and truth.
More on tonglen is available here.
Peace and Much Love,
Melissa
