Old Monks

Alone in the living room tonight. Everyone’s gone to sleep already. I’m tired, too, but won’t let myself go yet. Not sure why. All it takes is a few notes from this Tracy Chapman song and like unexpected rain, tears fall. Am I sad?

It’s easy to turn away from violence. What with a lifetime full of one massive threat or another, we learn to compartmentalize just about everything. Every morning when I go to Peet’s for coffee, I pass by the guy with the cup who asks me for money. Some mornings I give freely, though always carry the tension of feeling horrible about it and not knowing what to do. Other mornings I just walk right past him. I don’t even acknowledge his presence. Just now on TV, an enraged man beats another man. I sit and watch until I catch myself, then turn it off.

I’ve had my share of stalkers, too. Attackers in various forms throughout the years seemed to find me. Or did I find them?

There’s nothing like having a screaming toddler to throw you back to the wolves of memory. It was much easier being a single, thirty-something therapist attending all those meditation retreats. It’s not that I haven’t been pushed to the edge before. I have. But you can leave a lover. Even a husband.

I can’t leave my child. And I can’t leave myself. So here we are, stuck. Or are we wedded? Have we entered into a union of vows that transcend every ounce of fear and anger?

The worst part is when I see that look in River’s eyes. When she is melting down and my tolerance has worn thin, when I am out in a place I should not be inside myself - her eyes say everything. And then she becomes me when I was two. Just when I am brave enough to look, the scene flips and I am my mother. In a holographic sort of healing, I live through both sides in a split second. If, after that, I have any presence about me whatsoever, I remember to breathe. I pause. I look around the room.

I forgive myself.

And I go to her. My girl. My teacher. Sometimes we sit in silence and let the roles drop away altogether. Often she hands me a toy. She does not stand down. She does not collapse. Resilient spirit shows me the way out.

This morning I stood before her fury without exchanging a harmful thought in return. Driving to daycare, I turned down a block to find a row of large, brilliant trees bowing before our passage. I was so grateful. “Weeend, Mama!” Old monks, they bowed again and again. “Yes, sweetie, the wind.”

Tracy sings, “Be and be not afraid...to reach for heaven.” Tonight, for my mother, may she rest in peace. Let this song and this prayer and these words bless the silence of my home, “I believe in mistakes and accidents. That the nature of life is chaos and confusion. Be and be not afraid to reach for heaven.”

May we all find compassion in the moments when we barely remember our own names.