My mother would have been 105 years old today. I think of her every day, like today. She was tough as fuck, with a heart more loyal and tender than I ever knew during her life. We shared a rough relationship. We shared a hard love with roots sunk deep into infinity. I used to say, “she’s so hard to love.” And at times, sweet goddess help me, she was. Now I say, “I’m so hard to love.” And, at times, I am. Assuredly so. There were some 4o years between us. This June will mark 11 years since her passing into the Big Mystery. I never (a word I rarely use) imagined that I would miss her as much as I do.
She could drive me to utter distraction. She knew my buttons and would press them relentlessly. And it didn’t bring out the best in me. And where I might have once blamed her for this, I now own it. But that’s another story for another day. I used to quip that we were like fine olive oil ‘n’ good wine vinegar: Hard to blend, but when we did, we were delicious.
She would likely have benefited from therapy ‘n’ medication. And the Work. As we aged together, we did some of the Work together… and it softened some of the edges, and enabled us to emulsify the best in both of us. And I’m so grateful for that.
I understand, now, that most - if not all - of her mental ‘n’ emotional peculiarities were born of her past, her herstory, the familial trauma born of the “meanness” that my uncle Chuck, her beloved baby brother, mentioned in ol’ school, typed correspondence to her. I recognize, too, that she had a singular tormentor throughout her adult life. A tormentor I knew, and still do - from a distance. A tormentor I recognized some 45 years ago when I placed distance between us. As much distance as I was able. It was a purely intuitive choice at that time, a decision born without conscious awareness. Conscious awareness I now claim. And I’m so grateful for that. And that’s yet another story for yet another day.
My mother, little Rita, as I called her in her later years, was a loyal keeper of a sacred contract. A covenant taken with her into that Big Mystery. And I love her more now for knowing that. Her tormentor is now my tormentor. Or so it seems. This tormentor is not a loyal keeper of anything sacred.
My mother could be so challenging to me that I would often say, “All I can do is love her.” And I did. I still do. And sadly, I now echo those words toward the tormentor; hers and mine. I don’t need to like the tormentor. I don’t need to forgive the tormentor. I don’t need to be around the tormentor. And I will not enable the tormentor. All I can do… is love her. From where I am. Reluctantly so.
My mother had an easy life. And a hard life. That’s often life. I’m grateful, in this moment, that she came to be mia madre, a loyal keeper of a sacred contract. A sacred contract that is my story. Was my story. Will be my story again. A sacred contract embezzled by the tormentor. A sacred story shattered to bits by the tormentor. A sacred agreement that I, with the support of the spirit of little Rita, will reclaim, repair, and make whole and holy once again.
Buon compleanno, mia madre. Ti voglio bene.
When I first started blogging back in 2004, the writing was for me, myself and I. I may need to reclaim some of that.
Peace. 🕊
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