Dreams
Last night I dreamed of my mother.
Of course we all dream of our mothers yet mine has been dead now for eleven years. It was one of those dreams where she seemed so real. I could speak to her and for a few hours or maybe minutes, I felt like she was still alive. I wonder if dreams are a gift or a torture. Do they help us remember or resolve conflicts in our mind?
When my mother passed away from cancer I had so many mixed feelings. So many unresolved issues that could never be resolved. Yet some how, in the face of loss, the issues didn't seem so important anymore. If I could give anyone advice that has a parent still living it would be to find a way to set aside the anger. Your chance to know a person you have taken for granted for most of your life is so fleeting, don't waste it. Don't let it escape your grasp. Unfortunately we are all likely to repeat the same mistakes.
It seems that so often the qualities that we love and admire about a person are not recognized until death. Only when we miss them do they exist. When my mother was alive it seemed we had so little in common. Argument for her was a way of expressing love, for me it was driving frustration. The little always seemed to blind the big. It seems like anger is always so much easier to express than love. After the death of a loved one humans reach a fork in a road. They can either travel a road of bitterness that will feed their memories until they die or they can chose a road of redemption, setting aside the pain and dwelling on the good.
I chose the later. It was not an easy course. In the beginning it was bumpy. It was almost a year before I could look at my mother's picture without a tear creeping into my eye. While her photographs adorned my walls my eyes never found them. Wounds heal if we allow them to and now I miss her terribly. I miss the feeling of having a mom who gave me her unconditional love. I miss the admiration of my my mother that even when not expressed was reflected in her eyes. I miss being a child. It is ironic in life that so much of what I once found boring in my mother is now valued and a part of my own life. I fix the plants in my garden and wish I had her wisdom. I search for ancestors stories long forgotten and wish I had her to share them with.
It would be so easy today to pick up the phone and talk with her but the line was long ago silenced. Perhaps my mother's gift to me is to return in my dreams. At least there are moments in life when I can feel close to her. When I can tell her I loved her and never meant to be so angry.
When our parents die and the blood line of the living is severed there is a splash of cold water in the face. Suddenly we realize we are left alone. The world seems a little more empty. For most of our life our identity existed with our parents. They gave us our youth. Our sense of home. Our sense of identity. At some point we realize that it is our turn. We are now giving that same sense for our children. I can't help but wonder if they will harbor the same feelings toward me. I don't want this. I want them to love me and value me while I am alive. I promise I will learn from the mistakes and pray I will not repeat them.
Someday, I will visit my son in his dreams. I hope when that day comes he will smile and love me the way I loved my mom.
Of course we all dream of our mothers yet mine has been dead now for eleven years. It was one of those dreams where she seemed so real. I could speak to her and for a few hours or maybe minutes, I felt like she was still alive. I wonder if dreams are a gift or a torture. Do they help us remember or resolve conflicts in our mind?
It seems that so often the qualities that we love and admire about a person are not recognized until death. Only when we miss them do they exist. When my mother was alive it seemed we had so little in common. Argument for her was a way of expressing love, for me it was driving frustration. The little always seemed to blind the big. It seems like anger is always so much easier to express than love. After the death of a loved one humans reach a fork in a road. They can either travel a road of bitterness that will feed their memories until they die or they can chose a road of redemption, setting aside the pain and dwelling on the good.
I chose the later. It was not an easy course. In the beginning it was bumpy. It was almost a year before I could look at my mother's picture without a tear creeping into my eye. While her photographs adorned my walls my eyes never found them. Wounds heal if we allow them to and now I miss her terribly. I miss the feeling of having a mom who gave me her unconditional love. I miss the admiration of my my mother that even when not expressed was reflected in her eyes. I miss being a child. It is ironic in life that so much of what I once found boring in my mother is now valued and a part of my own life. I fix the plants in my garden and wish I had her wisdom. I search for ancestors stories long forgotten and wish I had her to share them with.
It would be so easy today to pick up the phone and talk with her but the line was long ago silenced. Perhaps my mother's gift to me is to return in my dreams. At least there are moments in life when I can feel close to her. When I can tell her I loved her and never meant to be so angry.
When our parents die and the blood line of the living is severed there is a splash of cold water in the face. Suddenly we realize we are left alone. The world seems a little more empty. For most of our life our identity existed with our parents. They gave us our youth. Our sense of home. Our sense of identity. At some point we realize that it is our turn. We are now giving that same sense for our children. I can't help but wonder if they will harbor the same feelings toward me. I don't want this. I want them to love me and value me while I am alive. I promise I will learn from the mistakes and pray I will not repeat them.
Someday, I will visit my son in his dreams. I hope when that day comes he will smile and love me the way I loved my mom.
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