Motherhood. Mother’s Day. Memoir.


Mother’s day is looming. I’m not a fan. Never really have been and it doesn’t have much to do with my eccentric and exciting upbringing as much as those who know me (and what I’ve written about it) would think.

It’s because it is false. It just rings false to me. The expectations… OMAIGAAAD, the expectations. Poor little kids, gathering all their pennies from their coin banks, asking dad or older sibs to take them to the CVS or the grocer to buy a box of chocolates, a necklace, or make a card or buy a card.

Due to some childhood stuff (my mom had her internal conflicts), I know that some of my dislike stems from not feeling as though I could please her, so yes, there’s that. But the other part is that it’s gone from a random assortment of reasons to honor moms (which in my mind sounds as though Mother’s Day has an identity crisis — shocker — going on) to an all-out blitz of over commercialized nonsense basically saying that if you don’t buy your mother a castle in St. Moritz, you’re an asshole.

Apparently the day exists because the daughter (Anna) of a Civil War peace and public health activist and care giver to wounded soldiers wanted to honor her mom, a woman named Ann Jarvis. The first celebration was in 1905, even though it wasn’t really established as we know it now (with back-to-back Sales and Storewide Blow Outs!) until 1908. Woodrow Wilson signed its proclamation, naming the second Sunday in May as Mother’s Day, in 1914. So last year was the 100th anniversary of the presidential proclamation… does that mean all the previous ones were moot?

Great. Now we’re all stuck wondering if we’re a) doing enough to be honored; and b) wondering if our degree or honor is high enough… I mean c’mon, how can I compete with a Civil War peace and health activist? They didn’t even have penicillin then. I’d have to move out to the woods and hope a band of wounded forlorn hunters with rabid nationalistic bents travels across my compound and that all cellular coverage is dead.

It’s hopeless.

How would you have liked to have lived during the first Mother’s Day? Can you imagine…  back in 1908…

Sissy Calhoun, whispering behind her fan to Minerva Simmons: Did you hear about Anna? She’s honoring her mother… AGAIN… it’s been three years since she died, can’t she just let it go? My mother’s all over me about not honoring her… ‘What? Is it not enough that I simply cooked and cleaned after you for all these years?! I have to go and be an activist TOO?!’ she hisses at me. I can’t take it. My needlepoint is never detailed just so. My churned butter is always runny. I can’t seem to do enough.

Minerva, picking up a napkin she let drop on the floor: I know, right?

Here’s the deal: be nice to your mom as much as you can. If my mom were still here, I’d struggle with the day, I know I would. I struggled when she was alive. Now I struggle that she’s gone. There were some years that all I could do was just send her a card, the burden to perform for her and fill her voids was immense, as was the feverish desire of hers for me to just ‘let it all go…’ whatever I was nursing emotionally, at the time.

She used to call me, often, and just sit there on the line, not saying anything. It was maddening. She would listen for sounds in my background, of the boys chattering, the TV shows or music or of our bustling household with a dog and friends of the boys running in and out. She would just hang there…

I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t “hold” that space for her.

After about 10 minutes of this … experience … I could take no more. “Mom, this is looney. Don’t you want to talk to them? Or me?”

“No. I just like hearing you all going about your day. I imagine how things are. Plates on the counter or a shoe in the hall. A backpack spilled on the floor. My own mother used to do this, just call me and hang on the phone and not say anything. I used to be like you are, thinking she was a little nuts, and she’d say what I end up saying now, ‘I just want to listen. To hear you all…'”

Sigh. (I know I’m going to do the same… my kids are growing up too fast. And I constantly MARVEL at their talents and how they’ve grown and matured. The poor dears… they’re really in for it with me when they leave. Must. Fight. Urge… to call and Listen. On. Phone…)

My mother would often sit in a chair and not say a word, but just observe us. She’d watch us and now I get it, to a certain extent, because she was an artist. If she’d just said something at the time, I wouldn’t have thought she was such a weirdo. If she’d just said something along the lines of, “I’m remembering this so I can draw it later…” (and she’d create a killer rendition of it, in her style), then I know I’d get it. I know I’d be less hostile and secretive.

She used to audio-record us. Major holidays especially. She had a tape recorder with her positioned under a linen napkin (she disliked paper napkins) and it used to unhinge us. She didn’t care. There was always something about Mom which insisted upon reliving the moment, a fear (almost manic and mortal) of moving into a future “space.”

I remember several instances of not really knowing about the recording going on, even though it would’ve happened a previous dinner and we’d discovered it then. It was like my “naiveté and total trust” vat was never ending. But she’d be caught when the tape inevitably ran out and that >CLUCK!< of the machine gave her away… She used 90-minute tapes too, so we’d sit at that table for 45 minutes, easy, as we got older. The tape had to be ejected and the machine had to be reset to begin recording on the other side… it was like an invasion of privacy. I bet when tape recorders were reengineered to have “auto-reverse” it was like Christmas for her. She never knew about MP3 recorders.

On all of those occasions, I remember feeling deeply violated by her recordings and then equally shamed by her for feeling that way. She would dismiss it, telling me I over-reacted. Telling us all that we were wrong to wish she’d not done that. That our protests of her recording us cast a pall on the evenings and we never felt “safe” anymore. That she was recording these moments for history and we’d be sorry one day when there were none. I don’t know if those moments of anger were ever recorded. Mom had a keen talent for revisionist history. I also want to say that she never participated in the regular table banter either, just sat at the table as though she was watching a ping-pong tournament. Once those moments were revealed and felt as though they were repeating, they created a rut in me. I never felt “safe” again having dinner there.

There was no point in protesting. She did it for years. Never really stopped. I’m not sure if she ever listened to the tapes or just kept an archive (which is a stretch, as she was not terribly organized). I have no interest in hearing those tapes. I resent them. She cheated — if she wasn’t present enough to enjoy the moment as it happened, she didn’t get to cheat by recording it and playing it again out of context. Maybe she did it when she would make her “listening” calls.

Knowing what I know now about her inner conflicts, I am remembering that many times she was medicated during those dinners.

This is hard. I really didn’t plan on writing about this. It just sort of happened.

I remember my older brother sending cards every Mother’s Day with a giant “MOM” written across the front of the envelope and our street address immediately below in smaller scrawl. It was always fun for me to see those envelopes in the mailbox. I remember thinking how fun that would be for me to do something similar after I moved away, sending her a card like that and waiting for it to be received.

She never liked to open the envelopes. She barely ever used gifts I gave her. I remember one Mother’s Day when I gave her an avocado and some fancy designer salsa so she could enjoy guacamole — I gave her food so she’d have to eat it or let it perish. I remember being at the house one day, years later, and seeing the salsa jar, dusty, still sealed. I have no idea about the avocado. She loved them, so I’m hopeful she ate it. I asked her about it, why the jar was still sealed, and she said it was not the same jar… that she ate the first one… maybe. She got mad at me for being mad and wondering. Sometimes there was no way to “win” a conversation with her.

I’m trying to remember some fun moments with Mom, because I know they happened. It’s the least I owe her, to remember her on Mother’s Day “week” in a soft rose light.

One of my fondest memories of Mom was when my father would travel for the Republican and Democratic National Conventions for his job. She and I would take his blank check (big mistake, Dad) and go to the grocery store and we’d practically empty the place. Mom’s favorite cheese was Saga bleu on those little rice crackers. She loved Coca-Cola (I never liked it), and we’d take two carts through the store. I liked Oreos and mint chocolate chip ice cream. She liked freeze dried coffee. I liked tea. I liked fruit. She liked chocolates. I liked Cap’n Crunch. She liked granola. I loved fresh roast beef. She loved to make pasta sauces. Some of her best were just the simplest: olive oil, garlic, black olives and tomatoes cooked to an oily reduction which clung to the pasta, the combination of starch and oil created a heavenly experience.

The shopping bills then… they were not INSANE, but they were a lot for just three people (me, Mom and my younger brother). But we didn’t want to shop again later in the week and Dad left us only one check. It was twice a summer every four years. There was no way around it for my father. We were going to shop. It felt as though bringing in those grocery bags, “double bag with paper, please!” (she would always ask) was a daylong sojourn.

I drove to the store in our little 1981 Honda Civic 1500 DX hatchback. It was a manual 5-speed. She definitely couldn’t drive stick and we had another car, but she didn’t or couldn’t drive then. Either her license was suspended or she simply never renewed. She was not a good driver. She was deeply anxious behind the wheel, completely lacking the calm confidence my aunts often displayed when they cruised around town.

My poor mother … all the demons in her head.

I have her to thank for being here. She brought me into this world and left me still wondering what the hell was going on. Will anyone ever have it figured out? I think not. And I think as a child, a human on this planet, it’s natural to expect our parents to have all the answers. It’s sort of mind blowing when you have your first of many experiences of your parent saying “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO ABOUT ________.” It’s as though they’ve somehow fallen from Grace. I suppose it’s one of the reasons I, as a mother myself, often say to my own team, “Look, this is my first May 5, 2015 too… so give me some space here as I try to figure this out…” I think with my mother, she must’ve come from a world where mistakes and ignorance were simply disallowed. So when that happens: we lie and cover up and obfuscate and hide and snarl when confronted.

A few months ago, while looking for something at their house, I discovered her Virginia driver’s license from 1981. She was surprisingly cheerful in the image, but I’ve never known my mother to have a bad photo of her when she knows the shutter’s clicking. She was all smiley, full of optimism and excitement. I looked for a fake line or dead eyes in the image (inasmuch as municipal IDs allow details) but could find none.

I remember the first time I discovered her paperwork for a part-time job near the Virginia house. It was so odd, to see her handwriting on a government form. I had never known her to “have a job.” It seemed almost as though it were a rejection of her life as it was at the time — that she was going to bust out! and work at that shoe store and Make Big Things Happen!

But it wasn’t meant to be. She stayed there for a while, I remember that. But I also remember her (and have found notes relating such) working an angle with some of her co-workers to branch out, do their own thing, be their own bosses and start their own lines of handbags and shoes. Mom hated the idea of convention, that a “boss” was waiting at the end of the shift to initial her time card.

Who can blame her?

Those were really hard days. She was so manic and distracted and wild-eyed. Desperate-seeming to get away and redefine ____ in her life. I remember searching for her “in there” in her body… hoping she would reveal herself in a way that was relatable, that I could hook into or hold onto. Her sign was Gemini.

There’s no doubt to me that I loved her. In the way I could. In the way God gave us to one another with all our preferences and expectations and baggage. And she loved me, in her way.

As Mother’s Day approaches, I think actively of my children, less of my mother. Have I served them? Has my honesty been too much? In my quest to be the “anti-Mimi” I have lost sight of who I can be instead of who I avoid. That’s my wish for this coming Mother’s Day — to make good on it for 2016 and to begin to discover or maybe even embrace, as this next year unfolds, who I am instead of who I’m not.

So if your mom is still around, give her a pat on the back and a kiss on the cheek for me. Raising you was not easy — regardless of whether you were a “good kid” or not — we mothers (even in the best of chemical circumstances) have so much stuff swirling around in our noggins: carpool, lunch, our menses schedule, medicine dosage, vaccine schedules, our medical appointments, your well-check appointments, music lessons, menopause, school test schedules, summer plans, vacation booking, shedding a few pounds — always!, oil changes for the car, mortgage payment, car repairs, walking the dog / aardvark  / rabbit … that you’ve really no clue. If you’re a man or a growing male, just … make us dinner on Sunday and don’t give us shit if we decide to feed the kids cold cereal when you travel.

Thank you.

About Grass Oil by Molly Field

follow me on twitter @mollyfieldtweet. i'm working on a memoir and i've written two books thus unpublished because i'm a scaredy cat. i hail from a Eugene O'Neill play and an Augusten Burroughs novel but i'm a married, sober straight mom. i write about parenting, mindfulness, irony, personal growth and other mysteries vividly with a bit of humor. "Grass Oil" comes from my son's description of dinner i made one night. the content of the blog is random, simple, funny and clever. stop by, it would be nice to get to know you. :)

6 responses »

  1. Hi M,
    this piece was very thought provoking for me and I thank you. On some sleepless nights I swing by to see what Molly is up to and you seldom disappoint. Mother’s day like any other “Holiday” a commercialized money making machine, in my opinion. But this one makes me feel specially inadequate about myself . I think about the love for the people who came through me is there, how I hurt when they suffer, how I worry sick when I hear a cough, how my heart breaks when I see their amazing talent and no ambition or drive, how guilty I’ve felt when I have gotten PMDD crazy on their ass. The look of terror on their faces in the early years of my perimenopausal ride with rage. How thankful I feel now that I can feel anger again without wanting to kill anyone. Yet, still the guilt remains (it has to, or I wouldn’t be a good Roman Catholic girl). But the part that gets me is what you said and many others express and is this:”my kids are growing up too fast” by that I understand that you will miss them when they move away, I got one left at home and can’t wait for him to move on to his own life. I don’t know how to be a mother, I know that just giving birth doesn’t make you one, but aside from that, I don’t enjoy this type of love, I resent it. I cannot not give a shit about them, I cannot not lecture about making right choices and choosing academia instead of freaking guitar,I can’t relax about these two people and I know is not them or anything they’re doing or not doing, it is all my unhealed garbage projected on them. From the deepest recess of my heart (gulp, I just broke into tears, period must be near), from the deepest recess of my heart I know they deserve better. The other thing your post reminded me is one of the last things a coworker said to me a few weeks back: “you are so busy not being your mom, that you have no idea who you are” I wanted to punch her square in the face, a clear sign to me that she had hit the nail on the head.

    Happy mothers day?


    • T, your comment was a gorgeous “treatisette” on your situation. In my opinion you went into motherhood with the best of intentions. I was thinking about this in the shower, that if any of us knew the work and sacrifice and sympathetic pain and joy that were just part of the higher level aspects of this gig, that not many of us would continue it. It’s by motherING that we become mothers; not the vagina.

      I remember my mother asking me, “why did you wait so long to have children?” And I had to answer her “because I did not know that I wanted them. I didn’t want to rush right into this, and resent it.” her answer to that was then “times are different now. We didn’t have choices then.” And I have to disagree, because my mother took birth control in the 60s, and she was sort of a hippie, but I think she believed the narrative. Or she refused to look at her own parents’ marriage, and decide for herself what was and wasn’t going to happen for her. She fell for the trap.

      We have to make choices. PMDD, is something that we have no control over. But we can build awareness around it, and see how our lives can change because of it. Often for the better. We could be on that bus, looking at it, and refusing to accept it. But no, we chose a different path. Awareness. My mother did not choose that path. She stayed in the past, intoned the present and fucking denied any future. She decided to self-destruct. She chose it. Yes, she may have had some mental illness, but she never bothered to stop anything wrong she was doing. It was awful. She knew better. She says no, time and time again. She said “I know better,” all the time. She would be nice in public and horrible in private. These are choices she made. She used to mock me, deride me, and call me “house devil Street angel” I wonder where I got that?

      I see what happened to you, the PMDD, as a good thing. You could’ve continued the track you were on, but you chose to transfer yourself and choose another path. You can’t undo what you’ve done, but you also won’t smell any better or love yourself more for rolling around in emotional dog shit either. At some point, my dearest T, we must choose to actively live the life we’ve been given, and stop beating the shit out of ourselves for things that we did. There’s no point. Let the Catholic shit go. It’s what you’ve told me many many times. And your coworker was right, and wrong. I think her hitting the nail on the head and it bothering you is two-sided.

      I do want my kids to blossom and grow and leave the roost. Absolutely. They are capable of so much more out there than I could ever give them here. I know when my experience becomes anecdotal rather than executive. I don’t like it… But that’s how it goes.

      You can lecture … maybe? Look, maybe you’re just not cut out for it. And so you have to bide their time. Be the mother they resent. Even though you know better….

      My mother wanted to be the anti of her mother. And now there’s me. Except I seem to be doing something better: I’m not drugged up and unaware. I’m tired but I own my shit. I rectify. They back off. I never came into this gig knowing / thinking I had all the answers. Humility is what saved me — not fear and resentment. You / one can float along without really knowing who you are, so long as no one gets damaged in the process.

      When I decided to have kids, I was ready for humility. I was ready to learn about it. What I was utterly unprepared for is the irrevocable theft of my sense of self. Having a child in your 30s is like someone stole the ground beneath your feet. There’s a reason we start menses in our teenage years — we can more easily relate to a baby. And by the time we are 45 we can be grannies. But as we age, we get greedy. We like our independence. We like our way of life. There is no mother on earth, who doesn’t wish that her life was just a fraction of what it was like before the baby came around. Her body, her self image, or respect for herself, her career, her social life, anything, it is fractured forever and will never be the same. Probably for very good reason.

      Try to be gentle with yourself. You can’t unring a bell.

      • Your comments are very important to me because within them (if I choose to see them) you make very compelling points. However sometimes you use fancy words I not know the meaning of so I google and it is not returning any feeds. When I googled “Treatisette” this is what google gave me: “Did you mean: treatises, tressette,treatise or trentasette”…which one did you mean to use? Also, on your second post you make even more compelling and thought provoking points and I’ll keep posting and you tell me to stop. While similar in human nature, our journey as humans have a lot of similarities and a lot of differences. For instance:

        * “She used to mock me, deride me, and call me “house devil Street angel” I wonder where I got that?” ………One of the few things I know to be true for me is that we are always talking about ourselves, ALWAYS! and she wasn’t mocking you, she was revealing herself, from that good old place, unconquerable by design, the subconscious.

        * And your coworker was right, and wrong. I think her hitting the nail on the head and it bothering you is two-sided”……nothing that is not mine to own and accept at some level of awareness will get from me a strong reaction, like her comment, for me every time that happens, the other person is nothing but a sign post into the recess of my mind, the ones that are so deeply buried, I am not willing to concede to it or even accept, that’s the trick of my ego, to keep the fault “out there”, no my dear Molly, my ex-coworker was right on the money, I don’t like it and it has taken me years of practice to actually take a look at myself and keep looking, and digging and searching until my truth will be revealed. I have gone way out of my way to NOT BE HER! and so I have lost whom I was meant to be.

        *”You / one can float along without really knowing who you are, so long as no one gets damaged in the process.”….an impossibility for me, once I became aware that there is something else there, I cannot and will not unaware myself, it is hard as shit work and it ain’t for everybody, but “I am on this path and I don’t know why”,one my goals in life is to answer that question to myself before I die…who am I?

        *”My mother wanted to be the anti of her mother. And now there’s me. “……and me and my daughter, and my cousin and my neighbor and so many mothers and daughters not wanting to be their mother, they subconsciously end up being that anyway, it takes a tremendous amount of work to see it, swallow it and accept it. I fought it for years and not until I accepted it, was I able to start doing some changes. Some of that work contributed to this year for the first time in a long time for me to sincerely send flowers to my mother (she lives in another state) and mean it if not with like at least with love.

        *”When I decided to have kids, I was ready for humility.” ……another factor that makes a difference in our stories YOU decided, I got knocked up, by a great laid and the world biggest looser, and then also NOT part of the plan I didn’t have, doing the deal ALONE. …it pays to have a plan and a supporting loving partner to do it with…I didn’t know what goals were till two minutes ago (exaggerating a bit here) but you get the point.

        As for humility? I ran on pride all of my life as a big cover up for how insignificant I felt inside. So humility is something I’m learning now…this bitch is taking some time

        Thanks for all the good advice and I am being gentler with myself, you should’ve met me four years ago…phew!, that was hard to take

      • Good morning! “Treatisette” was a spin on treatise; I mentioned it because while I have every confidence of a vest investigation into the subject matter on your part, you manage very well, and concisely at that, to endeavor brevity while at the same time be very thorough, should the reader be equally willing to see all that you share. You know so deeply what you know; yet you manage to light up what is relevant in this case while, from my cheap seats, restraining yourself to further. It’s impressive.

        Angel / devil: yes it was her I see that now, thank you. I also live with that shadow of duplicity hanging over me, to the point that at times I don’t know *WHAT* an authentic reaction / response / behavior could be. What feels *right* could be a trap of the ego, and down the rabbit hole we go. It can be maddening. So I endeavor to do what is most sincere, relevant and healthiest to all while at the same time acutely aware that it’s a delicate balance. Too much indulgence of others, too much sacrifice of my self is like handing my kids (and others, and ironically me) the keys to the narcissists penthouse. This shit is insidious. It’s little wonder to me that monks are silent. That they hang out on mountaintops. Who knows what’s really running through their minds? Not me.

        I guess what I’m saying for me (which could be about you, you choose!) is that focusing my energies on thinking about my life is not living my life and it doesn’t help me fire the new neural pathways. It helps me Fontaine to fire the obsessive, self-punishing and deeply and ironical narcissistic ones. I watched my mother do that, surrounded by books and therapy and yet it changed nothing. Her deep-seated stuff was intractable given her natural chemistry. Then the meds…? It’s all extremely seductive. To think, for her, that she could do it all on her own, while changing absolutely nothing.

        But this is not at all fair of me. I know nothing of her struggles; I only know their faces. To me, it’s all noble and good to want change; to have the best of intentions… But it means nothing without action. To me. So I act. Mother acted her intentions as best she could I suppose, honestly, it’s hard for me to say and I guess it doesn’t matter. She’s gone and that’s that. I’m still here. Continuing or ending the legacy, who knows. But I posses a lot of her in me and I see it. I’m not immune. She wasn’t, so what makes me so special? I’m not that obtuse. Regardless of the Work I do and the awareness for which I *strive,* there will always be slips. To expect or even hope for otherwise is a delusion. I mean that in the most serious sense. To devote endless obsession to betterment is equally fraught. It’s when we rest that we grow. It’s when we sleep that we repair. It’s when we laugh that we heal. I lived, forever on guard of that “other shoe”; it jacked up everything in me: gastrointestinal, muscular, jaw, my face is a map of consternation, nothing was ever face value. It was amazing: I had become my own iteration of my mother. Slightly shorter, a bit more daring but slightly more discriminating. Witty, charming, beguiling even… I had it all. I was On My Way.

        Then I had kids.

        I saw what I was doing, modeling. There were two outcomes: just like me or a total deviance. I had to look at myself. As horrific as it was, I had to see the entire composition: the vanity, the elitism, the biting wit, the dismissals…. The defenses.

        This shit is HARD. it’s a daily … No, breath-by-breath practice. The more we consider others, we must absolutely consider the self. How to get off the train then? How to right one’s course? I feel like the answer is integration. Mother used to say all the time, “we are not all of one thing and none of another.” My nasty bits want to say something mean about her, but I know that’s really about me (you are so wise, T) so I refrain.

        I pause. I think. And reroute. And say, “true.” And let it go.

        It’s a balance for me. Thinking about her means disregarding me. Thinking about me means disregarding others. Thinking about others means disregarding self… It’s a balance. “Thinking” can be exchanged with “blaming” … For me, I mean to wire new neural paths. It’s the only way. The old ones are not filled in so much as they are covered with straw. Very easy to move around…

        I have gone out of my way, as have you, to be NOT her and I learned I have lost myself as well. I had a dream the other day, can’t remember when, but being “lost” or a “lost soul” was emblematic. Signs, directions, intersections. Could be all of this, or it could be a thread coming in from “The Goldfinch,” which is simultaneously damning and inspiring. So I have been once again, “endeavoring” to discern who I am: I love dogs, truly. She feared dogs, but I know she liked mine as they are trained. Beyond and without doubt. I love getting on the floor with my kids, she did too. I love to watch my children, to a point… She got lost in us. I love to write, with a purpose, she meandered. I love and admire and challenge my husband, she did too. I harbor insecurities and try to channel them or overcome them, she did not. I go for walks, take a run, take a nap, read a book, she chose to medicate. I try –so freaking hard– to not look back with anger and comparison … And I fail. But I try to catch myself and reroute. Build those pathways. She medicated and that is where we divide… It’s an abyssal trench between us. The most fundamental crevasse and it is ABSOLUTELY what started me on my warpath. It galvanized me. Once I knew the gig, it was as though an iron curtain dropped and I LIKED IT. that’s the sick part. “I am NOT HER.” Was my song. And so the meandering began. And it goes on, until now. I have a purpose. She did too. When I allow her that, I allow myself too. It’s not self-serving, it’s self-seeing.

        I appreciate so much that you stand in the dark with your giant mirror up to me, T. You make me a better writer, a better person. I won’t say j wish I could be more like you because then here we go again, but suffice it to say, I admire the hell out of you.

        “Your” children (like how I did that?) will come to know you as an earnest and contrite mother. Just let them have fun with you too. For some reason the heavy moments stick and the lighter ones of my mother are harder to find. My mother was so inconsistent, it was hard for us.

        Smile. I am.


  2. This was so beautiful and candid and humble as if the “tall fences of ego defenses” (remember that?) are coming down for you and me. I can write another mile long comment, but I won’t,not now. Suffice it to say M, that I tend to share only the deep, underneath a few layer of consciousness (I have just manage to shed a few layers thus far) but please remember that you seem to have been introspective from a very young age, you have been on this path way longer than I am, and it is not that I do more of this or less than that or you or vice versa, no comparison here) because I tend not to share the light moments, please understand that they do happen, except I don’t need to analyze those or recount them, I just live them experientially, so you don’t have the full picture of T, just like I don’t have the full picture of you. What we do instead is filling the blanks with our preconceive notions (all of us do to a certain extent) . Gotta go pick up the kid from school his “friend” who is not! his girlfriend (yeah right, wink) missed the bus. In the mean time check this out, Tara Brach is one of the participants and I know you like her, it is free for the month of Epic May:

    ps: maybe you are in my life so that I can finally have a model of humility and for that I thank you from the highest places inside mySelf, I have yet to realize

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