I am indebted to
my mother Andee Platt
and to my sister Anthea "Anth" Sarah Platt Haupt who inspired this
conversation.
When a man says goodbye to
his mother,
it's un rite de passage, a rite of passage, of which there are
very few in life so profound as this one. When I say "goodbye", there's
a double entendre: it's finishing up ie wrapping up the
entire process, and it's also bidding the final farewell. It's
poignant: there won't be another opportunity.
I had a choice to make for the thirty three hour journey to the other
side of
the world
required to get here to be with to her. The first was I could wait
until I received
word
that the moment had become dire ie that the end was near, and then come
and bid the final farewell - and of course run the risk of arriving too
late. The second was I could arrive too early, yet have no doubt
whatsoever we would get everything finished ie we would wrap everything
up in plenty of time. I liked the latter more.
What is it to be complete with someone? Being complete with someone is
having the space for allowing them to be OK the way they are, and OK
the way they aren't. Being complete with someone is an
act
of
generosity.
As
my mother
and I spoke
face to face
for what will arguably be the last time, I could see how pointless it
is to
resist
the way she is. It was more than that actually: it was so pointless and
so obviously pointless that it became humorous, and
I found myself laughing at the irony of it. The way she is, and all the
ways of being (if you will) I've inherited from her and /
or from
being around
her, are just as much a part of my
constitution
as my DNA. So how can anyone who ismy mother
(ie me),
resist
being
my mother
or get away from or avoid
my mother
or not accept her as she is? How
stoopid
is that?
A lot transpired between us in a short timeframe, some of it mundane,
some of it profane, some of it
sacred.
With everything that transpired, there's one
image
of us which is now indelibly etched in my memory, which has emerged as
theimage
to share. It's an
image
I'll keep
front and center
stage and always remember. It's one that epitomizes our
relationship. I'd been wheeling her on a walk in a wheelchair through a
cool courtyard with a nice fountain. I sat down on a bench,
faced
her, and we
spoke
about all the things a man and
his motherspeak
about at a time like this, the babbling of the fountain in the
background.
Then we went back to her room.
With the wheelchair braked next to a larger armchair, I support her
getting out of the wheelchair and onto the armchair. I reach out to
support her, she reaches back to take my arm, I move my free arm under
her shoulder, she moves her free arm to my waist to steady herself, I
turn slightly to get her into position, then she turns slightly
following my lead ... and that's when I realize
my mother
and I are
dancing!
That's when I realize
my mother
and I have always been in a
dance
together - sometimes sublimely in a
dance
together, sometimes
stepping
on each other's toes in a
dance
together, and sometimes tripping each other up in a
dance
together ... but we've always been in this
dance
together - regardless of whether or not we recognized it at the time,
regardless of whether or not we appreciated it at the time.
Her last
words
to me were "Parting is such sweet sorrow.". I can include
William Shakespeare,
literature,
arts,
and music in the long list of gifts
my mother
gave me.
Transformation,
being what it is, dictates we're not able to be
who we really are
fully to the degree we're incomplete with
our parents.
If you simply get that, it
works,
and you can drop all the resentment in a flash (the explanation of
why
it
works
just takes too long, which will cost you precious time). Here's what
Mr Nelson Mandela
said about resentment: "Resentment is like taking poison, hoping the
otherguy
will
die.".
You can tell which people hold on to resentment and incompletion.
They're the ones looking banged up, bent out of shape. Being complete
with someone starts as an
act
of
generosity,
a gift you give them, ending as a gift you give yourself.
