My True Inheritance and My Legacy

I'm convinced that, no matter the circumstances, losing our mothers is never easy. If she was ideal (who is?!?!), we mourn the loss of that relationship; if she was less than ideal, we mourn the loss of that which was supportive and the hope of ever filling the gap left by that which never quite met our needs. In the end, we all just do what we can, as daughters and as mothers, and hope it might be enough, I guess.

I am so grateful for the circles of women I have been a part of, all these years. Without that deep sharing of all the separate stories that have intertwined in my heart and mind -- I'm certain I could NOT have unraveled and resolved as much of my "mother-stuff" as I have over the years. There is a tendency in my family of origin to BURY things rather than to resolve them; I have had mentors and role models who have helped me to shun that tendency, to bring feelings and fears out into the light, to take a stand for what is good and feels right for me and my immediate family, and who have supported me every step of the way. For all of you -- I am grateful to my core.

Thank you for your amazing, thoughtful, insightful and very helpful responses.

You hit the nail right on the head: I did lose my mother -- if I ever "had" her -- long, long ago. I have been trying not to judge my own heart connection, all these years yearning for the affection of a woman who could be so mean and selfish ... not just "in the end," but apparently -- if I'd let myself acknowledge the truth -- throughout her life and mine. But I wanted to believe that the mean and selfish things were not really her choices, but the influence of others ... my dad, my sister, my brother. Intellectually, for most of my life, I have known and acknowledged that even if they WERE influences, it was still HER decision to allow them to shape her interactions with me and others in the world outside the "safety zone" she fashioned for herself, where her mythology of victimhood could survive. Part of me always wanted to believe that "if only" I could sit and talk and spend time with her -- away from them --then I could set her free to enjoy the world of beauty *and* truth that I have perceived. But the prisoner didn't want to leave -- she was her own warden.

You are also so very correct that I am stronger *because* of the things I have experienced. I'm also a better mom because of what my own mother did and did not choose to do or to be. Difficult as that road has been, I am grateful; I take very little for granted when it comes to love and mothering and family.

And, again ... speaking of family ... you are again on target with the observation that family is more than biology. I am grateful for the spiritual family I've been blessed with, including all the sisters and all the circles!

Now that it's all over, and I've had some time to adjust to the idea that my IDEAL of Erika apparently was no where near the REALITY of her -- I'm sad, but also relieved I didn't get what I wanted so badly all these years: to be back in relationship with her. Because, to be honest about who she really was ... NOT having her in my life allowed me to nurture and grow within mySELF those traits I cherished about her:

• joy,
  
• play,
  
• childlike delight and awe,
• appreciation of beauty and music and art and creativity,
  
• a sense of adventure and culture,
  
• being strong and knowledgeable about medical and legal issues,
  
• seeing the bright side of things

-- without having those ideals clouded and diminished by her other strong character traits of pettiness and self-interest, and neediness and small-mindedness that (sigh) were truly a reality.



I'm looking outside at our new little quaking aspen and I am reminded that there is so much beauty in the world, so much to be excited about, and how much I am loved. When our tree was planted on Wednesday, I couldn't contain my delight. John said, "so ... another wish come true! I'll be running out of them soon!" I told him that the only other wish I need him to fulfill for me is to stay with me the rest of my life.

Life is good. The rest is just plot, setting, characters ...

My Inheritance

Yesterday, I got an envelope addressed by my sister, with my mother's initials as the return address. Inside were 4 items:

1. A printed card with a quote: "There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved."

2. A printed slip of paper with some prayer ... I think it said something about St. Francis ... which was wrapped around

3. A one-dollar bill, folded twice

4. A two-sided photocopy (same on both sides), cut top and bottom with pinking shears. The text is in my mother's handwriting, and says, roughly "To my other children [and she names four of us], they have made their choice for their life, and for my life, and so I leave them each a token of $1.00 to make it legal. My mother-love is undying, and lives on for my children, my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren. Like the sunshine and the black velvet of night, it surrounds you and each raindrop that touches your skin is a kiss from me. God bless you all, Your mother"


And all I could think was -- huh. I'm glad I didn't make the effort to go see her. Apparently, she died as self-absorbed and self-centered as she lived ... which would explain why she didn't make any effort to close the gap between us (despite my efforts for the first many years).



And then I thought: what a mean and spiteful way to leave things. Petty, and mean, and spiteful ... and totally unnecessary.



And sad.



I'm okay ... I'm just mulling.



And hoping with all my heart that I inherited none of her pettiness (I have) or meanness (I have) or spitefulness (I have).



And, in the absence of any hope that I escaped that inheritance, I am relieved that I am certain I also have a sense of deep connection with those I love, a fierce protectiveness that would subordinate my own self-interest for the safety and security of my loved ones, and empathy and compassion, which my mother apparently completely lacked.



I will be working on mindfulness -- carefully extracting and mindfully highlighting for myself those characteristics I cherish about myself that may have had roots in my relationship with my mother. I need to separate the gems from the slag ... but right now it all just seems... very ... sad. And distant. Like it's not mine. Except to examine. Later.

Dear Mom

In the mirror
I see flashes of you.
You were young, once,
And beautiful.
Then you were my age.
At thirty-eight
You already had six children.





In the mirror
I see flashes of you
When the sun strikes
My made-up face
And shadows the lines,
The pores,
The pouches of extra flesh
Dragging my face
Toward the earth.





In the mirror
I see flashes of you.
I am aging, mother.
And you won't see me.

March 25, 1996
from journal entry dated January 26, 1995

My Grandfather

Curt Albert Walter
had almost no hair.
And almost no genius.
Except the ability
to make a comfortable living
as a banker
and to remain gentle
amidst the war.
And to choose a wife
of exceedingly strong will and character
to lead them to safety
through the mud
and winter cold
and danger zones.



January, 1996

My Mother

Marriage

to a man who placed her
on a pedestal --
in a glass box
whose key only he possessed --
must have seemed to her
a haven
a place with thorns among the roses
and only a small price to pay
compared to
fearing for her life in Nazi Germany
where her mother's mysterious heritage
COULD have been construed as "undesirable"
and the whole family whisked away
like so many others ...

Or compared to
running away from the advancing Russian army
on foot
across Czechoslovakia
where German citizenship put her at risk,
a despised refugee ....

In a world, formerly comfortable
and privileged,
now torn by guns
and bombs
and hate ... a world of fear,
mortal danger,
deprivation, scarcity, and
uncertainty,

perhaps

the fact that her rescuer
was also her jailer
seemed only a small price to pay
for security.



January 11, 1996
from journal entry dated October 31, 1995