Day 26 ... Tough Lessons...

I have been asked to reflect on my history. My history as a mother to be more specific. This in light of my daughter's impending baby - a new grandson for me. Another birth I will sadly not be a part of in a way I would like to be. Another fractured beginning - for me anyway. I've have decided, however, to be grateful for what ever it will be.

In a discussion I had today with a wise woman, I reflected on who I was when I had my kids. She kept saying "I just can not seem to connect who you were then to who you are now". "Neither can I" I replied, yet I am being held accountable for that, for who I was and choices I made, then. I remember being a somewhat chaotic, immature, desperately lonely and insecure child who yearned for family - when I had my kids. I was addicted, dysfunctional, trapped and stuck. I had no models for how to live my life, only a conviction that "this" was not how it ought to be done. At one point I remember clearly, seeing a road before me, one led to my mother's end, one led I knew not where. Who knew it would be here.

I feel sad that my daughter would reproach me for who I was then, rather than accept (would appreciate be too much to ask?) who I am now. That wise woman today remarked how she understood my leaving, understood the impossibility of me staying in that place given my propensity, absolute need even, of moving forward, learning, growing.

I am grateful for having arrived where I am. I am grateful, again, for having found a capacity for compassion, because it helps me here too. I am grateful for the wise women in my life, who help steer the boat in the stormy waters of my life, give me anchor, keep me steady. I am grateful for my strength, for staying open, and present, despite pressure to retreat, withdraw, cutoff. That would be unacceptable - it used to be a pattern, a habit, a solution. I am grateful that its not.

I love you daughter. I wish you peace.

Day 25 ... Compassion

Today's gratitude has to do with yesterday's events.

I am a negligent daughter. While I do a good job taking care of the money for my dementia-ridden father, I don't visit as much as I should or could. Worse, I don't really feel guilty. I go every couple of weeks, spend a few silent minutes with him - which he seems really happy about, and then I'm off on my merry way. I make sure the Residence and case workers take good care of him, that he has what he needs, that he gets his medical needs met, that his rent is paid on time. Maybe I'm not so negligent.

The relationship with my dad is a complicated one. My dad is a narcissist. He was brutal with me as a kid, physically, mentally, verbally. In my twenties I walked around with clenched teeth, so consumed was I by my anger. I grew up thinking my self stupid, because that's what I was told. I made decisions to accommodate that belief. I was never supported or taken care of. Never protected from my mother. It sucked.

Somewhere along the line, because of another event in my life, I began to learn about compassion. The kind of compassion that Pema Chodron teaches about. She is a Buddhist monk in Nova Scotia. Through learning about compassion, and directing it toward my self and then my father, my anger began to melt away. I learned that the weight of compassion felt much better than the burden of anger. It was a salve, a relief, a better way for me to be.

So yesterday, what was supposed to be a 20 minute visit, turned into a four hour visit. My dad needed taking care of. He had an "accident", didn't seem to know what to do about it so left everything the way it was. It was not nice, required a considerable amount of cleaning and laundering. I had to intervene with the Residence staff. I had to wash my dad, help him shave and brush his teeth.

I am ever grateful for the teaching of compassion. Without that yesterday would have been impossible. I am grateful to have in my heart the capacity and wish, even, to do what I do - to understand it as something I have to do, want to do, can do. It is such an irony to me that I am the one now caring for my father. More importantly, it's a real gift.