to something. There’s so much flooding in now I can’t type fast enough. These are the things I’m trying to get at. I want to know them and remember them, and act upon knowing them each day.

My mother and I are deeply intertwined, like her cup-and-saucer vines. We have the opportunity to accept where we’ve been and grow upward toward the light. As each of us finds Grace, wherever we do, we’re more able to let go of the detritus of our past, to shed it and let it fall to Earth. That doesn’t mean forgetting all the bad stuff. It means daring to choose forgiveness. Hell, it means believing that forgiveness is even possible.

It seems to come in little steps and in odd places. Like the speech for my mother’s funeral. Who would have thought that this wacky—some would say twisted—mind play would yield such depth? But then, Grace shows up when we least expect it. And where Grace goes, forgiveness can’t be far behind.

So here I am writing it all down. I feel very close to my mother when I write, and when I pull weeds. I haven’t mentioned yet how much I love the earth and plants, and how she encouraged me in this. Somehow, in the garden, we communicate without the encumbrance of o

My mother will be eighty this year, and I’ve found myself contemplating her death, not because it’s imminent, but because of what these thoughts might contribute to the life we have left together. I picture myself speaking at her memorial, talking about the places she found Grace—the times when, in the midst of a fairly troubled existence, she could really connect with her Soul, and from there with the rest of the world.

Our relationship has been less than perfect. Most are. I’ve dissected our problems ad nauseam. Now I’m interested in what she has found to be good in her life, whether I’ve shared in it or not. I’d like to know her in a new way, a daring way, while I can still sit with her and discuss these things over a cup of tea.

She found Grace in her garden, I would say, loving her plants in a way she probably never loved anyone else, especially not herself. Her garden was a refuge where she found company that had no agenda other than to exist. Here she was safe and accomplished and full of life. Her plants knew this. They felt her Grace. They grew so beautifully for her. Walking into her garden, I could feel the immense power of her, directed in such a way that even the air was different.”

She found Grace in the written word, in the intricacies of the English language and the way it can dance. She read voraciously and wrote beautifully. She spoke, once in a while, about writing a book, but never seemed to be able to jump in and do it. Perhaps she didn’t find Grace there. It may have been the people, the thought of judgment that frightened her. Still, she worked for many years as an editor, and a damn good one too. I picture myself saying these things and I start to cry. Such lovely words...

I owe my love of language to my mother. She always read to me when I was a child. She read very well. Beatrix Potter was our favorite. I like Miss Potter. She was respectful of children, never reducing her language to something less than “because the little dears won’t understand”. She used good, plain English. The sparrow implored Peter Rabbit to exert himself, and I never missed a beat. I’ve never been able to understand why some people assume that children are stupid. It’s the same mentality that yells English to people who don’t speak the language.

My mother did neither. For all the difficulty she had in handling herself around small children, she always treated them as whole human beings with valuable opinions and desires. I remember the winter when I walked to school every day in a cotton dress, knee socks, shoes and a light coat. I can imagine the other parents’ chagrin. My mother said that if I was cold I’d ask for more clothes. She was right, and I had the freedom, at an early age, to make up my own mind and do my own thing. Oh, how I value that freedom!

I can’t honestly say that my mother was a great parent; but I can say that she tried very hard to be one. And it’s true, although it sounds paradoxical, that because of my mother I’m able to be a really fine parent to my son. Without experiencing her shortcomings, and the difficulties they cause in my life, I might never have become conscious enough to examine my own thoughts and motivations.

Many parents insist that their children look at life through their own dirty lenses—not consciously, of course, but it doesn’t matter. The effect is the same. The technical term is “projection”, but that word is wholly inadequate to indicate what it feels like to be on the receiving end.

Children, especially sensitive ones, take on their parents’ fear and anger because they don’t know they have a choice. They have no context for their pain, and they quickly learn to accept it as reality. Eventually, if they’re lucky, something happens to teach them otherwise; but in many families these patterns run unchecked from generation to generation.

I remember watching my mother interact with her mother and recognizing behaviors from my childhood. Somewhere along the line I decided that I would be the one to stop the buck. My child would be the first—in God knows how long a family line—to experience conscious parenting. We all say we won’t be like our parents, but it’s quite another thing to accomplish it. I went to hell and back as I wrested myself from the bonds of unconsciousness, but I found great satisfaction in the process. And my child is healthy and whole.

The other thing I found is all the ways I do want to be like my mother. She’s a deeply moral woman. She has a wonderful and whimsical sense of design. She’s a great cook…I’ll never make cioppino like hers. She’s very down to earth. She nursed countless sick and wounded animals, and she never flinched when we found my brother’s snakes in our boots. She’s a hard worker and utterly dependable when she commits to something. There’s so much flooding in now I can’t type fast enough. These are the things I’m trying to get at. I want to know them and remember them, and act upon knowing them each day.

My mother and I are deeply intertwined, like her cup-and-saucer vines. We have the opportunity to accept where we’ve been and grow upward toward the light. As each of us finds Grace, wherever we do, we’re more able to let go of the detritus of our past, to shed it and let it fall to Earth. That doesn’t mean forgetting all the bad stuff. It means daring to choose forgiveness. Hell, it means believing that forgiveness is even possible.

It seems to come in little steps and in odd places. Like the speech for my mother’s funeral. Who would have thought that this wacky—some would say twisted—mind play would yield such depth? But then, Grace shows up when we least expect it. And where Grace goes, forgiveness can’t be far behind.

So here I am writing it all down. I feel very close to my mother when I write, and when I pull weeds. I haven’t mentioned yet how much I love the earth and plants, and how she encouraged me in this. Somehow, in the garden, we communicate without the encumbrance of ou

as different.”

She found Grace in the written word, in the intricacies of the English language and the way it can dance. She read voraciously and wrote beautifully. She spoke, once in a while, about writing a book, but never seemed to be able to jump in and do it. Perhaps she didn’t find Grace there. It may have been the people, the thought of judgment that frightened her. Still, she worked for many years as an editor, and a damn good one too. I picture myself saying these things and I start to cry. Such lovely words...

I owe my love of language to my mother. She always read to me when I was a child. She read very well. Beatrix Potter was our favorite. I like Miss Potter. She was respectful of children, never reducing her language to something less than “because the little dears won’t understand”. She used good, plain English. The sparrow implored Peter Rabbit to exert himself, and I never missed a beat. I’ve never been able to understand why some people assume that children are stupid. It’s the same mentality that yells English to people who don’t speak the language.

My mother did neither. For all the difficulty she had in handling herself around small children, she always treated them as whole human beings with valuable opinions and desires. I remember the winter when I walked to school every day in a cotton dress, knee socks, shoes and a light coat. I can imagine the other parents’ chagrin. My mother said that if I was cold I’d ask for more clothes. She was right, and I had the freedom, at an early age, to make up my own mind and do my own thing. Oh, how I value that freedom!

I can’t honestly say that my mother was a great parent; but I can say that she tried very hard to be one. And it’s true, although it sounds paradoxical, that because of my mother I’m able to be a really fine parent to my son. Without experiencing her shortcomings, and the difficulties they cause in my life, I might never have become conscious enough to examine my own thoughts and motivations.

Many parents insist that their children look at life through their own dirty lenses—not consciously, of course, but it doesn’t matter. The effect is the same. The technical term is “projection”, but that word is wholly inadequate to indicate what it feels like to be on the receiving end.

Children, especially sensitive ones, take on their parents’ fear and anger because they don’t know they have a choice. They have no context for their pain, and they quickly learn to accept it as reality. Eventually, if they’re lucky, something happens to teach them otherwise; but in many families these patterns run unchecked from generation to generation.

I remember watching my mother interact with her mother and recognizing behaviors from my childhood. Somewhere along the line I decided that I would be the one to stop the buck. My child would be the first—in God knows how long a family line—to experience conscious parenting. We all say we won’t be like our parents, but it’s quite another thing to accomplish it. I went to hell and back as I wrested myself from the bonds of unconsciousness, but I found great satisfaction in the process. And my child is healthy and whole.

The other thing I found is all the ways I do want to be like my mother. She’s a deeply moral woman. She has a wonderful and whimsical sense of design. She’s a great cook…I’ll never make cioppino like hers. She’s very down to earth. She nursed countless sick and wounded animals, and she never flinched when we found my brother’s snakes in our boots. She’s a hard worker and utterly dependable when she commits to something. There’s so much flooding in now I can’t type fast enough. These are the things I’m trying to get at. I want to know them and remember them, and act upon knowing them each day.

My mother and I are deeply intertwined, like her cup-and-saucer vines. We have the opportunity to accept where we’ve been and grow upward toward the light. As each of us finds Grace, wherever we do, we’re more able to let go of the detritus of our past, to shed it and let it fall to Earth. That doesn’t mean forgetting all the bad stuff. It means daring to choose forgiveness. Hell, it means believing that forgiveness is even possible.

It seems to come in little steps and in odd places. Like the speech for my mother’s funeral. Who would have thought that this wacky—some would say twisted—mind play would yield such depth? But then, Grace shows up when we least expect it. And where Grace goes, forgiveness can’t be far behind.

So here I am writing it all down. I feel very close to my mother when I write, and when I pull weeds. I haven’t mentioned yet how much I love the earth and plants, and how she encouraged me in this. Somehow, in the garden, we communicate without the encumbrance of o

ays treated them as whole human beings with valuable opinions and desires. I remember the winter when I walked to school every day in a cotton dress, knee socks, shoes and a light coat. I can imagine the other parents’ chagrin. My mother said that if I was cold I’d ask for more clothes. She was right, and I had the freedom, at an early age, to make up my own mind and do my own thing. Oh, how I value that freedom!

I can’t honestly say that my mother was a great parent; but I can say that she tried very hard to be one. And it’s true, although it sounds paradoxical, that because of my mother I’m able to be a really fine parent to my son. Without experiencing her shortcomings, and the difficulties they cause in my life, I might never have become conscious enough to examine my own thoughts and motivations.

Many parents insist that their children look at life through their own dirty lenses—not consciously, of course, but it doesn’t matter. The effect is the same. The technical term is “projection”, but that word is wholly inadequate to indicate what it feels like to be on the receiving end.

Children, especially sensitive ones, take on their parents’ fear and anger because they don’t know they have a choice. They have no context for their pain, and they quickly learn to accept it as reality. Eventually, if they’re lucky, something happens to teach them otherwise; but in many families these patterns run unchecked from generation to generation.

I remember watching my mother interact with her mother and recognizing behaviors from my childhood. Somewhere along the line I decided that I would be the one to stop the buck. My child would be the first—in God knows how long a family line—to experience conscious parenting. We all say we won’t be like our parents, but it’s quite another thing to accomplish it. I went to hell and back as I wrested myself from the bonds of unconsciousness, but I found great satisfaction in the process. And my child is healthy and whole.

The other thing I found is all the ways I do want to be like my mother. She’s a deeply moral woman. She has a wonderful and whimsical sense of design. She’s a great cook…I’ll never make cioppino like hers. She’s very down to earth. She nursed countless sick and wounded animals, and she never flinched when we found my brother’s snakes in our boots. She’s a hard worker and utterly dependable when she commits to something. There’s so much flooding in now I can’t type fast enough. These are the things I’m trying to get at. I want to know them and remember them, and act upon knowing them each day.

My mother and I are deeply intertwined, like her cup-and-saucer vines. We have the opportunity to accept where we’ve been and grow upward toward the light. As each of us finds Grace, wherever we do, we’re more able to let go of the detritus of our past, to shed it and let it fall to Earth. That doesn’t mean forgetting all the bad stuff. It means daring to choose forgiveness. Hell, it means believing that forgiveness is even possible.

It seems to come in little steps and in odd places. Like the speech for my mother’s funeral. Who would have thought that this wacky—some would say twisted—mind play would yield such depth? But then, Grace shows up when we least expect it. And where Grace goes, forgiveness can’t be far behind.

So here I am writing it all down. I feel very close to my mother when I write, and when I pull weeds. I haven’t mentioned yet how much I love the earth and plants, and how she encouraged me in this. Somehow, in the garden, we communicate without the encumbrance of o

know they have a choice. They have no context for their pain, and they quickly learn to accept it as reality. Eventually, if they’re lucky, something happens to teach them otherwise; but in many families these patterns run unchecked from generation to generation.

I remember watching my mother interact with her mother and recognizing behaviors from my childhood. Somewhere along the line I decided that I would be the one to stop the buck. My child would be the first—in God knows how long a family line—to experience conscious parenting. We all say we won’t be like our parents, but it’s quite another thing to accomplish it. I went to hell and back as I wrested myself from the bonds of unconsciousness, but I found great satisfaction in the process. And my child is healthy and whole.

The other thing I found is all the ways I do want to be like my mother. She’s a deeply moral woman. She has a wonderful and whimsical sense of design. She’s a great cook…I’ll never make cioppino like hers. She’s very down to earth. She nursed countless sick and wounded animals, and she never flinched when we found my brother’s snakes in our boots. She’s a hard worker and utterly dependable when she commits to something. There’s so much flooding in now I can’t type fast enough. These are the things I’m trying to get at. I want to know them and remember them, and act upon knowing them each day.

My mother and I are deeply intertwined, like her cup-and-saucer vines. We have the opportunity to accept where we’ve been and grow upward toward the light. As each of us finds Grace, wherever we do, we’re more able to let go of the detritus of our past, to shed it and let it fall to Earth. That doesn’t mean forgetting all the bad stuff. It means daring to choose forgiveness. Hell, it means believing that forgiveness is even possible.

It seems to come in little steps and in odd places. Like the speech for my mother’s funeral. Who would have thought that this wacky—some would say twisted—mind play would yield such depth? But then, Grace shows up when we least expect it. And where Grace goes, forgiveness can’t be far behind.

So here I am writing it all down. I feel very close to my mother when I write, and when I pull weeds. I haven’t mentioned yet how much I love the earth and plants, and how she encouraged me in this. Somehow, in the garden, we communicate without the encumbrance of o

to something. There’s so much flooding in now I can’t type fast enough. These are the things I’m trying to get at. I want to know them and remember them, and act upon knowing them each day.

My mother and I are deeply intertwined, like her cup-and-saucer vines. We have the opportunity to accept where we’ve been and grow upward toward the light. As each of us finds Grace, wherever we do, we’re more able to let go of the detritus of our past, to shed it and let it fall to Earth. That doesn’t mean forgetting all the bad stuff. It means daring to choose forgiveness. Hell, it means believing that forgiveness is even possible.

It seems to come in little steps and in odd places. Like the speech for my mother’s funeral. Who would have thought that this wacky—some would say twisted—mind play would yield such depth? But then, Grace shows up when we least expect it. And where Grace goes, forgiveness can’t be far behind.

So here I am writing it all down. I feel very close to my mother when I write, and when I pull weeds. I haven’t mentioned yet how much I love the earth and plants, and how she encouraged me in this. Somehow, in the garden, we communicate without the encumbrance of our personalities. We create something bigger and finer than all our disagreements and the pain we’ve felt over the years.

I may never be able to talk about this with my mother—or at least not the way I’d like to. She may not be ready. I might not be either. She’s going to be eighty, though, and I’d like to try. Maybe I’ll do it this summer. Maybe I’ll do it in the garden.