WHO ARE i INSIDE?

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.