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.