Things we lose have a way of coming back to us
in the end, if not always in the way we expect. --J.K.
Rowling
The Strange Beautiful Side Of Death
--by Leah Pearlman, syndicated from dharmacomics.com, May 05, 2016
It’s
no surprise to anyone who knows my family well (or perhaps anyone who has a
teenage daughter themselves) that growing up, my mom and I had a strained
relationship.
Simply
put, she insisted that I sit at the table for dinner, go to bed at nine,
periodically clean my room and go to church. She ran the whole house, had a full
time job, and was frequently stressed. My dad, on the other hand, seemed totally
relaxed to my child eyes. He would secretly take me for donuts before school, or
McDonald’s after. He would let me stay up late when mom was gone. He cracked
hilarious jokes with waiters, librarians, flight attendants, and everyone else,
which both delighted and embarrassed me.
I
was a total daddy’s girl.
I
still don’t know why this meant I had to push against my mom so hard, but I did.
So much of my “becoming” involved push, push, and more push. I was boundaried,
defensive, critical, closed. And I was usually harsh about all of it. The
fastest way for me to resist doing something was if my mom asked me to do it. I
was so desperate for my independence that I built walls about a mile high and a
mile in every direction. Plus thorns. Plus moats. Plus crocodiles (with
fangs).
Sometime
in college, when distance gave me the space the walls had meant to create, I
began to take them down; brick by tedious brick. I wish I could say it was for
my mom’s sake, or even for my dad who asked me frequently to be nicer. But it
was for my own sake. I knew that my mom loved me, and I knew that I loved her
too. It felt absolutely terrible to be jerk to her. But jerk is exactly what I was, because the
things that came out of my mouth jerked out faster than I had any control over.
I’d had a decade of practice at that point, which, In Malcolm Gladwell terms,
made me a master jerk.
Throughout
my twenties, she and I steadily but incredibly slowly began healing our
relationship. Imagine two ancient turtles moving toward each other from opposite
sides of the country…in
slow motion. Actually, the reality
was probably that I was the slow motion turtle and my mom was patiently waiting,
as she always had, for something to change.
And
then, something did change. My dad died.
Until
that happened, I couldn’t imagine anything worse. Besides all the other ways I
would miss him, what would it be like at home? What would my mom and I do? What
would we have to talk about? It had always been the three of us, I’d made sure
of it. His presence always made things so much more comfortable for me.
I
mean, he and I had everything in common, and she and I were so
different…right?
Well
it was awkward at first. But at
least she and I liked the same
kinds of restaurants and the same kind of food. My dad had often complained
about those things.
We
also both enjoyed traveling, so we took a few trips together. My dad had always
found traveling a chore so bringing him along could be like dragging extra
luggage. It was sort of nice, to be just the two of us.
Around
that time, I started learning to cook, so I would call my mom every now and then
for a recipe, or advice about how to make something. She always had the
answer.
Together,
we brainstormed what to do with a lot of my dad’s stuff. He was a collector. He
kept everything. She and I, on the other hand, love to live light, getting rid
of things we no longer need.
And
suddenly, really, suddenly,
it occurred to me: I AM SO MUCH LIKE MY MOM.
When
had this happened? Had it always been true, and I hadn’t noticed? Had I been
changing? Had something shifted when he died? Yes. Yes. And Yes.
For
my whole life, I had believed a story that I was way more like my dad than my mom.
Because I believed it, I would see the evidence to support it, and even create
new evidence to reinforce it. But when he was gone, and I no longer had him to
impress or constantly try to align with, I started opening up whole other parts
of myself I had been ignoring, repressing, or denying, because they did not
match my story of who I thought I was.
Growing
up, I loved my dad as much or more than any child could, I’m very sure of that.
I wouldn’t trade a single moment of that for anything in the whole world. And
yet, now that he’s gone, it’s like I get a whole new favorite parent to take his
place.
Now,
three years later, my mom and I have just about everything in common. How we travel, how we love, what
we wear, how we exercise, our relationship with food, art, play, and
spirituality, gratitude, friendships, and family, how social we are, and how
introverted, how much we love to learn, and get things done, how we treat
ourselves, and relax well. It’s like every seed she ever planted in me just took
30 years to sprout, and now I honestly don’t know how I could be any MORE like
her.
And
wouldn’t you know, this all is happening at the same time I am truly falling in
love with who I am. Coincidence? Doubt it.
Recently,
a new friend asked me how my mom and I get along. I hesitated for a moment, and
then said with finality, “GREAT.” It was the first time I’d ever answered that
way; the old stories, of “strained” or “we’re working on it” or “getting
better”, officially retired. I told him that too, how it was the first time I’d
ever answered that way. I suppose I felt guilty that something so positive came
out of my dad’s death.
“Way
to go, dad!” My new friend said, “Getting things right, even in death.”
Syndicated from Dharma Comics. Leah Pearlman is the creator and founder of Dharma Comics, and the upcoming book, "Drawn Together" (published by Tarcher Perigree, October 2016)
Be The Change: Look for the hidden gift in a
difficult situation today. To learn more about Leah and her journey watch this
beguiling short film.
Sourced From www.dailygood.org
