My brother and I used to make fun of my mother, not in her presence, but when we got together alone. Often our seemingly innocent humor and sarcasm about people, included her name, and the way some of her habits, in our judgment, were worth laughing at with mocking tones. “After all,” we thought, “We weren't saying things in front of her." Our humor seemed so innocent. We just thought we were being clever and funny.
I awoke from a dream one morning and realized I didn't like what I had been doing since I was a teenager - making fun of someone, anyone, including my mother, believing it caused no harm. I wanted to change that pattern. I had not read about this insight in any book. I just knew I had to change my way of seeing people.
I had become so familiar with what I saw as a clever form of humor, judging and mocking other people, that suddenly I saw the hurtful and mean side of putting people down with sarcasm. "How dare I," I thought, "dismiss my mother or anyone, believing I’m justified, having the right to laugh at what I deem deficiencies of others."
I decided to offer a silent apology to my mother, and to free myself from holding others in critical ways. I drove 400 miles from Northern California to Los Angeles to take my mother to lunch at her favorite restaurant. I gave myself thirty minutes to see the woman and little girl behind the “mother” I’d grown up with, now 70 years of age.
I allowed myself to see her as an eight-year old little girl of her parents. Innocent, playful, spontaneous. We sat across from each other as she drank her coffee and ate her dry toast. Each time I noticed my judgmental thoughts, or was about to roll my eyes, I’d release it, and instead, see her as a little child in a dress, named Sylvia. In these moments, I had no expectations of Sylvia or judgments. I knew I had to ask questions from a place of wonder, as though I were meeting a little person for the first time. My voice could not reflect probing, or
hidden agendas. I had to come from wonder.
For twenty-nine minutes, I repeatedly and patiently asked her about her parents and her childhood. “Oh, that was so long ago,” she replied each time, “doesn’t matter.” Sylvia's responses were limited to "that was so long ago, doesn't matter." Then, exactly on the 30th minute, the time I had allotted myself, I asked, once again, “How was it between you and your mother and father?” “They loved us,” she replied, “they never touched us, but they loved us.”
Hearing those words, my heart softened. Tears came. I knew who she was now, other than my mother. Three months later, my wife and I drove to Los Angeles with the intent to spend one hour with Sylvia, without expectation or wanting of anything. We were going to find a way to simply "touch" her. As they sat across from each other talking, I stood behind Sylvia and placed my hands gently on her shoulders to touch her lovingly, not wanting anything. Immediately, I felt the tension in her shoulders. She shook my hands away. Respectfully, I stepped back.
A few moments later, I returned to even more gently place my hands on her shoulders again. Her body allowed my touch. I stood in place for several minutes just being there. Her shoulders softened and her body relaxed. That was all we wanted to do.
At the door, as we were leaving, my mother and I hugged. This time, I realized her hugs had always been more distant, her arms outstretched, keeping a distance. I gently, gradually and respectfully, drew her 5’ 1” body closer. Closer than ever before. As her face touched mine, she began to sob, tremble and sob. Her head dropped onto my shoulder. “I haven’t cried like that since I was eight years old,” she said, holding me tight.
Her name was Sylvia. She died in 1999 at the age of 88. She was our mother, and a little girl. Bless her.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
MINERVA: BEYOND COLOR
.... When I was about nine-years old living in Los Angeles, my mother had a "black" maid come to our small two-bedroom house once a week for eight hours to clean, vacuum and wash windows. I looked forward to the one day Minerva would be there. Before my 7:30am walk to school, I'd sit with Minerva for about thirty minutes at our old yellow formica kitchen table as she sipped a cup of black coffee, no cream, no sugar. We really liked each other - even loved each other. I could feel our connection, yet I did not think of it, nor give words to it. We just seemed to know something together - a respect.
She was the first black person I knew really well and personally. Yet, I hardly noticed her skin color, which was a darker shade of black, now that I think of it. She knew who I was inside. She spoke to me as though no age difference existed. Her voice did not change. She looked me in the eyes and smiled a lot. As the time came for me to leave, I stood, bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and walk to school with my metal lunch box dangling at my side.
Minerva died when I was about twenty-eight years old. I received an invitation from her family in Los Angeles, inviting me to her funeral. I had not seen her in 12 years. I could have gone but did not. My heart told me I must. My self doubts suggested that it didn't matter if I went to the funeral. Years later, I realized I was more important to her and her family than I knew. Just as she made an impact on my life, I probably did the same for her. We "recognized" each other beyond race and color.
She was the first black person I knew really well and personally. Yet, I hardly noticed her skin color, which was a darker shade of black, now that I think of it. She knew who I was inside. She spoke to me as though no age difference existed. Her voice did not change. She looked me in the eyes and smiled a lot. As the time came for me to leave, I stood, bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and walk to school with my metal lunch box dangling at my side.
Minerva died when I was about twenty-eight years old. I received an invitation from her family in Los Angeles, inviting me to her funeral. I had not seen her in 12 years. I could have gone but did not. My heart told me I must. My self doubts suggested that it didn't matter if I went to the funeral. Years later, I realized I was more important to her and her family than I knew. Just as she made an impact on my life, I probably did the same for her. We "recognized" each other beyond race and color.
WORLD AS SCHOOL
If I knew I had 10 minutes to live, and I had no concern for being judged, criticized or being marginalized and made wrong by others, what would I want to say, publicly, out loud, freely? I mean after I have hugged and kissed and said goodbye to all those close to me, what would I want to say about life?
I’ll pretend I have only ten minutes now. So, I say this: “Find a creative, loving, kind, open, respectful way to teach children the things they want to know more about. Delete the hierarchy of rank and authority between children and adults. Just let that overseer authority go. Transform school buildings to meeting rooms for creative and uncreative people in the community, to gather and offer to children exactly what they want to learn.
Get rid of tests and grades and all those tools that require fear, competition, and comparison – separating me from you, and by their very nature, imply children need to be coerced to learn, explore and wonder about things. Make available to all children, experiences, people and teachings that hold the world open, that inspire and transcend all perceived limits. If it is skateboarding, help them build one from scratch. Help them make a cartoon book. A video movie. A tree house. A real house. Let them be around adults that meet them equally, are kind, have a sense of humor, and can hug freely. Take a long bike trip. Allow reading to come naturally as it will. Reading and math aren't difficult. Handling the fear, tension and beliefs about reading and math are.
I’d add, “Go to another country, another neighborhood, another person whose color and language is different, and say hi. Just say hi.
I’ll pretend I have only ten minutes now. So, I say this: “Find a creative, loving, kind, open, respectful way to teach children the things they want to know more about. Delete the hierarchy of rank and authority between children and adults. Just let that overseer authority go. Transform school buildings to meeting rooms for creative and uncreative people in the community, to gather and offer to children exactly what they want to learn.
Get rid of tests and grades and all those tools that require fear, competition, and comparison – separating me from you, and by their very nature, imply children need to be coerced to learn, explore and wonder about things. Make available to all children, experiences, people and teachings that hold the world open, that inspire and transcend all perceived limits. If it is skateboarding, help them build one from scratch. Help them make a cartoon book. A video movie. A tree house. A real house. Let them be around adults that meet them equally, are kind, have a sense of humor, and can hug freely. Take a long bike trip. Allow reading to come naturally as it will. Reading and math aren't difficult. Handling the fear, tension and beliefs about reading and math are.
I’d add, “Go to another country, another neighborhood, another person whose color and language is different, and say hi. Just say hi.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
SYLVIA: MY SEVEN-YEAR OLD MOTHER
"If I could "see" my mother named Sylvia, as a seven-old little girl named Sylvia," I thought to myself," I would feel more compassion and respect for her as a human being - separating out the old expectations of what she did or did not do in her role as mother. I needed to simply see her as a human being named Sylvia. Even though we lived 400 miles from each other and I saw her once a year, I often noticed my seemingly innocent thoughts about Sylvia as mocking or disrespectful. Yet, when I thought of her in disrespectful ways, I was diminishing her as a human being, even if she never heard my internal thoughts. I didn't feel right perpetuating my judgmental beliefs. I decided I wanted to free myself from making her wrong, or holding sarcastic voices.
I decided to drive 400 miles to Los Angeles from Santa Cruz, California, with the specific intent to "see" and connect with the seven-year-old Sylvia, separate from her role as my mother. I arranged a time to meet. I drove her to a favorite breakfast coffee shop, where she ordered what she always ordered: toast without butter, and coffee without cream. This was my first test. Instead of silently rolling my eyes in judgment of her for ordering the same
thing year after year, and seeing her as a rather boring person, I opened up wider myself, allowing for her to be who she is, and order what's important to her.
I gave myself 30 minutes, and only 30 minutes to make contact with the little girl Sylvia. Any mind judgments that came up, or old ways of seeing her, I immediately replaced with my original intent: to find the little girl inside and free my own compassion. For 29 minutes I asked many of the same basic questions as she sipped her black coffee and slowly ate her dry toast.
"How was it for you growing up with your parents? What was their relationship like? As a little girl, how did you and your dad (mom) get along?" No matter what I asked, even though my tone was coming from wonder, not challenge, her answer was consistently, "Oh Bruce, that was so long ago. It doesn't matter." Over and over again, her response was, "It doesn't matter. That was so long ago. I don't remember, or everything was fine."
Twenty-nine minutes passed, and I was determined to make the little Sylvia - the innocent little Sylvia, join us at the table. On the 30th minute, I asked, one more time, "What was your relationship like between you and your mom and dad?"
With a tone of impatience, "Oh they loved us. They never touched us, but they loved us."
Tears came to my eyes. My heart softened beyond where I was aware it could. I had no more questions. I saw Sylvia, the woman sitting across from me, with not only compassion, but
with love and appreciation. I realized she had little affectionate, loving touch in her life except to have two children. All my previous judgments dissolved. I kissed her on the cheek and drove her back to her apartment.
Months later, Meigra, my closest friend and long-time partner, drove back to Los Angeles with the specific intent to be with Sylvia for one hour. In that hour, we would find ways to bring simple touch to her. Meigra and Sylvia sat across from each other, having a conversation. I stood behind Sylvia as she sat in her favorite chair. I was not trying to make anything happen, only offer a touch without expectation or agenda. I gently placed my hands on her shoulders just to make contact. Her shoulders felt tense as she shrugged my hands away.
I stepped back, returning a minute later to once again place my hands lightly on her shoulders, as I said something that made her laugh. This time, her body allowed my hands to remain. Without movement, my hands rested gently on her shoulders. Slowly, I massaged her shoulders just a little, as she and Meigra laughed and spoke of things.
When our agreed upon hour was up, Meigra and I walked to the door to say goodbye. I reached out to hug Sylvia, and for the first time in my life, I noticed that when she hugged, her arms were outstretched, creating a distance. I gradually, and respectfully encouraged her 5' 1" body to come closer, riding the edge of respectful encouragement or pulling, as we moved closer, requiring a potential warm embrace. Slowly, our bodies began to approach one another. Within moments, we were having our first body contact hug - full on. Mother and son. We held each other as she began to sob, shake and sob .... in relief. "I haven't cried like that since I was five years old," my 75-year-old mother named Sylvia said between sobs. "I haven't cried like that...."
A year later, Meigra and I returned for a brief visit. But his time, Meigra and Sylvia skipped down the sidewalk together, singing.
I decided to drive 400 miles to Los Angeles from Santa Cruz, California, with the specific intent to "see" and connect with the seven-year-old Sylvia, separate from her role as my mother. I arranged a time to meet. I drove her to a favorite breakfast coffee shop, where she ordered what she always ordered: toast without butter, and coffee without cream. This was my first test. Instead of silently rolling my eyes in judgment of her for ordering the same
thing year after year, and seeing her as a rather boring person, I opened up wider myself, allowing for her to be who she is, and order what's important to her.
I gave myself 30 minutes, and only 30 minutes to make contact with the little girl Sylvia. Any mind judgments that came up, or old ways of seeing her, I immediately replaced with my original intent: to find the little girl inside and free my own compassion. For 29 minutes I asked many of the same basic questions as she sipped her black coffee and slowly ate her dry toast.
"How was it for you growing up with your parents? What was their relationship like? As a little girl, how did you and your dad (mom) get along?" No matter what I asked, even though my tone was coming from wonder, not challenge, her answer was consistently, "Oh Bruce, that was so long ago. It doesn't matter." Over and over again, her response was, "It doesn't matter. That was so long ago. I don't remember, or everything was fine."
Twenty-nine minutes passed, and I was determined to make the little Sylvia - the innocent little Sylvia, join us at the table. On the 30th minute, I asked, one more time, "What was your relationship like between you and your mom and dad?"
With a tone of impatience, "Oh they loved us. They never touched us, but they loved us."
Tears came to my eyes. My heart softened beyond where I was aware it could. I had no more questions. I saw Sylvia, the woman sitting across from me, with not only compassion, but
with love and appreciation. I realized she had little affectionate, loving touch in her life except to have two children. All my previous judgments dissolved. I kissed her on the cheek and drove her back to her apartment.
Months later, Meigra, my closest friend and long-time partner, drove back to Los Angeles with the specific intent to be with Sylvia for one hour. In that hour, we would find ways to bring simple touch to her. Meigra and Sylvia sat across from each other, having a conversation. I stood behind Sylvia as she sat in her favorite chair. I was not trying to make anything happen, only offer a touch without expectation or agenda. I gently placed my hands on her shoulders just to make contact. Her shoulders felt tense as she shrugged my hands away.
I stepped back, returning a minute later to once again place my hands lightly on her shoulders, as I said something that made her laugh. This time, her body allowed my hands to remain. Without movement, my hands rested gently on her shoulders. Slowly, I massaged her shoulders just a little, as she and Meigra laughed and spoke of things.
When our agreed upon hour was up, Meigra and I walked to the door to say goodbye. I reached out to hug Sylvia, and for the first time in my life, I noticed that when she hugged, her arms were outstretched, creating a distance. I gradually, and respectfully encouraged her 5' 1" body to come closer, riding the edge of respectful encouragement or pulling, as we moved closer, requiring a potential warm embrace. Slowly, our bodies began to approach one another. Within moments, we were having our first body contact hug - full on. Mother and son. We held each other as she began to sob, shake and sob .... in relief. "I haven't cried like that since I was five years old," my 75-year-old mother named Sylvia said between sobs. "I haven't cried like that...."
A year later, Meigra and I returned for a brief visit. But his time, Meigra and Sylvia skipped down the sidewalk together, singing.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
IT'S IN ALL OF US
I stepped into the airport shuttle bus with a $3.00 espresso drink in my hand.
"You can't bring food or drink on the bus," the driver admonished.
I told him I would keep the lid on the cup, be very careful, and not drink any until our terminal destination.
"No," he said, "You'll have to leave it in the trash can outside, or not ride.
"Your bus is empty," I insisted, "and it is only a few minute ride. And this cost $3.00"
"No," he said angrily, somewhat agitated.
Angrily, I tossed the cup into the trash can, and returned to my seat, directly across from the driver. Thoughts poured in to to justify how right I was, and how inflexible and wrong he was. Within moments, I realized I was the one that reacted, believing the driver to be wrong, me to be right. The bus arrived at my stop. The door opened.
I stood, walked over to the driver, and faced him directly. We made eye contact.
"I apologize," I began. "I apologize for getting angry and giving that anger to you. I had no right to do that. You did your job and I did not respect that. I am sorry."
Tears came to his eyes.
"I am sorry too. I want to give your $3.00 back."
"Thank you for the offer, but you did the right thing. I did not need the latte. I need this reminder, one more time, to see through the eyes of others. Your eyes. I am sorry."
With his hands together in a prayerful hand clasp, tears in his eyes, he said, "thank you." I returned the gesture, bowing to him. I stepped off the bus.
"You can't bring food or drink on the bus," the driver admonished.
I told him I would keep the lid on the cup, be very careful, and not drink any until our terminal destination.
"No," he said, "You'll have to leave it in the trash can outside, or not ride.
"Your bus is empty," I insisted, "and it is only a few minute ride. And this cost $3.00"
"No," he said angrily, somewhat agitated.
Angrily, I tossed the cup into the trash can, and returned to my seat, directly across from the driver. Thoughts poured in to to justify how right I was, and how inflexible and wrong he was. Within moments, I realized I was the one that reacted, believing the driver to be wrong, me to be right. The bus arrived at my stop. The door opened.
I stood, walked over to the driver, and faced him directly. We made eye contact.
"I apologize," I began. "I apologize for getting angry and giving that anger to you. I had no right to do that. You did your job and I did not respect that. I am sorry."
Tears came to his eyes.
"I am sorry too. I want to give your $3.00 back."
"Thank you for the offer, but you did the right thing. I did not need the latte. I need this reminder, one more time, to see through the eyes of others. Your eyes. I am sorry."
With his hands together in a prayerful hand clasp, tears in his eyes, he said, "thank you." I returned the gesture, bowing to him. I stepped off the bus.
Monday, December 14, 2009
FREE THE CHILDREN: 12/11/2009
A two-year old child named Katie came over
to where I was sitting and put her arm around mine.
She looked up and smiled a real smile - the kind of
smile that comes from within, like an offering, something
sacred. My mind stopped thinking. My body stopped moving.
She leaned against me, wanting to be there, wanting
to be near me. I admitted to myself that I was honored
with her presence. I felt, but did not reveal tears - tears
that expressed how grateful I was to two-year old Katie for
liking me, and wanting to be near. How simple.
My to-do list disappeared. My need to go anywhere dissolved.
There was nothing as important and satisfying as simply
being still with Katie. In my imagination, which I consider
to be another reality, Katie and many children remind me to
stop - to stop talking, be still, and feel.
to where I was sitting and put her arm around mine.
She looked up and smiled a real smile - the kind of
smile that comes from within, like an offering, something
sacred. My mind stopped thinking. My body stopped moving.
She leaned against me, wanting to be there, wanting
to be near me. I admitted to myself that I was honored
with her presence. I felt, but did not reveal tears - tears
that expressed how grateful I was to two-year old Katie for
liking me, and wanting to be near. How simple.
My to-do list disappeared. My need to go anywhere dissolved.
There was nothing as important and satisfying as simply
being still with Katie. In my imagination, which I consider
to be another reality, Katie and many children remind me to
stop - to stop talking, be still, and feel.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Universal voice of children
Children from around the world speak the same language, when you can hear it.
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