This evening I almost made a big mistake. I left work a little early so I could take my dog out for her evening walk, grab a quick dinner and head out to the meditation center I’ve been thinking about going to. A friend of one of my meditation teachers from California is leading the meditation and dharma talk at the Center, so as tired as I was I was determined to go. I ate dinner, watching the news as usual, then prepared to plug the address of the center into my navigation app so I could head out. I read information about the weekly meditation, about meditation etiquette as defined by this particular center, and double checked the address and start time on my calendar app. Then suddenly I realized that the meditation session is tomorrow.
I can tell you that I would have been one salty sister if I had jumped in my car, gotten back on the beltway for the 23 minute trip to the center only to find the parking lot empty and the place deserted. God was definitely kind to me this evening. The challenge will be making sure that I once again arrange my trip home so that I can repeat the process I undertook today. I’m grateful for the reprieve of not having to go out tonight, because as much as I want to “try out” the meditation center, I was pretty exhausted this evening, having gotten to sleep late last night. Tonight I’ll make an effort to get to sleep at a decent hour.
Tonight I am going to repost and excerpt from Day 333 from a year ago, June 11, 2012. June 11 is my mother’s birthday–she would have been 87 this year. I think it always sounds so odd to say that–yes, she would have been 87 if she hadn’t died 18 years ago. How we mark time, anniversaries of significant moments is so interesting. I always know that when springtime comes around I subconsciously begin marking the anniversaries of events that occurred around the time my mother got sick (on December 30, 1994 she got the diagnosis), when she died (May 29, 1995), when she was buried (June 3, 1995) and all the various dates and milestones in between. A week after she died (June 10) was my sister’s wedding that Mom had tried so hard to stick around for, and then the next day, June 11 would have been her 69th birthday. And so, as I wrote about her one year ago:
I guess I won’t ever really stop missing my mother,though after 17 years I no longer feel the acute pain of her loss. It has diminished to a mostly gentle wistfulness, except for those times such as I’ve experienced recently when I feel like a lost little child who wants nothing more than to lay her face against her mother’s breast and be comforted. Then the pain is a bit sharper until it once again subsides to near stillness.
I do not take for granted the solid, strong and loving relationship I had with my mother. I know that for too many people their connections to their mothers were strictly biological and no warmth or affection existed between them. Far too many children are neglected or abused by their mothers and cannot fathom what it is like to feel anything but relief at their passing. No, I realize how fortunate I am to have liked my mother as well as loved her, to be pleased to see her face when I look at my reflection in the mirror, to know that I share some of the same interests and creative outlets that she did. I am grateful to have had her in my life for as long as I did, though to my thinking it was still way too short.
Now don’t get me wrong: my mother was by no means perfect and I didn’t always agree with her and think she was completely wonderful. We had our share of differences of opinion and personality, and in some cases major philosophical departures. I can look back on various decisions I made based of my mother’s advice and out of a desire to please her and realize the “negative”impacts those decisions had on my life. I’m still working my way through some of them. No, she was not perfect, but even in that she was teaching me that being a parent doesn’t mean being perfect; but in large part it involves loving each of your children for who they are and doing the very best you can to “bring them up right.” That formula has mostly worked alright for me (though my children might differ with that sentiment.)
A few weeks ago on Memorial Day weekend two of my sisters, one of my brothers, my daughter, one of my aunts and I and a bunch of friends and nieces and nephews gathered for a barbecue. I pulled out my guitar and sang “Mama’s Song” with my sister Ruth (with whom I sang it at our Mother’s funeral) and my daughter Michal. Such a lovely three-part harmony in places, I know Mama would have enjoyed it. The last lines of the song express my deep gratitude for the relationship I had with my mother:
Our memories may number many
But to me they’re all too few
I’ll always thank God in his kind ness
For giving me someone like you.
