Mirror, mirror

I can talk with anybody. I have heard confessions from friends and strangers...from people with great power and from people who live on the street. They tell me their story. They want to tell me their story...and they want to tell it correctly, with no ornaments to make it pretty and they often don't have any ending, much less a happy ending. And I can listen well, I can reflect well...I am attentive, encouraging, helpful, generous, compassionate...

And I can do that with everyone except my own children.

And there is nothing more important than listening to our children.

After YEARS of personal therapy and work as a chaplain, I can at least offer one perspective to this problem: self-differentiation. Casually put, that is the 'place where I end and you begin.'  Anxiety skyrockets when we don't know where that place is.  We no longer think about what the other person is saying, we are not even sure of what we are saying. We want to be liked and listened to and loved...but we go about it in all the wrong ways.  And that ends up in fights, hurt feelings, broken relationships and sometimes violence.

The problem may stem from familiarity:
I know what he/she is going to say.
Why try?
It always ends up the same way.
Why does she/he always want to win/hurt me/have the last word?
If you loved me, you would know what I want!
Why don't you tell me about your day? All you say is ''fine"...
I'm tired of being ignored...

And it goes on and on...

I suppose I remember because it's Thanksgiving and at some point, we used to return to the eternal dance of painful questions or observations:
When are you going to get a job?
Married? A raise? Have children? Finish school?
You just need to put your mind to it...
You can quite smoking. Just stop. Easy as that. 

Some people think these words are helpful. Some think they are signs of love and caring. Some are so self-centered, they really think they are doing you a favor.

My dad's favorite, from his lounge chair in the back of the room: "Move out of the way!  You make a better door than a window...you're starting to look like the broad side of a barn."

I was the broad side of a barn.  Sigh.  And those were the good days.
And for better or worse, I loved him. 

When he was dying, I came to the hospital with a cassette player and tape. I played songs for him that me and the kids sang the day before. My mother said,"Who is that singing with Beth and Bobby? It certainly can't be you, the person is singing on key..."

And I don't sing in public. It has taken a small miracle to get me to sing Alleluia when I read at daily Mass. People don't have a clue that when I open my mouth, I can hear her whispering to me, "you can't sing."
_________________

I bring this all up because it's Thanksgiving...and the expectations are high and the disappointment potential goes through the roof.  Thanksgiving was when I first began writing, because I was so frustrated with my family and I couldn't stand to be in the room with any of them anymore. I sat in my closet and wrote...I didn't know I was writing to God then, but I was...and I was so sad...I didn't have the "Waltons" as my family. I had "Archie Bunker" without the laugh track.  There was nothing funny about the way those people in the next room were treating each other. Or treating me. Such is the truth about some families.

The second reason I have to write comes from an encounter with a woman who was facing her mortality.  With a simple question, "Why are you here in the hospital?" the tears flowed like water. "I'm not really unhappy. I am happy. I get it now. It could be worse." And then I began to practice the art of listening. As I was listening, I heard her...I must have responded well, because she told me so very much...her life story...

It seemed to begin with her mother's words to her when she was about seven years old:

Her mother said, "You're ugly."

Then she told me her mother left her with her father and a bunch of kids when she was 14 years old. She took care of every one and every thing. And then, when her mother became ill, she went to her mother, and took care of her until the day she died.

Then she told me more. She said, "You know, I have never let anyone love me....I met a nice young man once, and he was so good...but I just kept thinking it out...this is wrong and this is wrong and this is wrong, and I'm so busy and I have my work...and finally, he got tired of trying. I wish I had let someone love me."

Oh my....will have to finish this story later...my grandson just walked in and wants to sit with me...

love, Cindy