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Happy Birthday to my Dear Mother

My mother has been gone less than two years. She would have been 69 today. Death is so final for the living. And yet, it’s been one of my greatest teachers. I am far from an atheist and have no loyalties to any particular dogma. What I have learned through death is how important it is to give one’s authentic self to another. All the years my mother was here, I internalized her. I ate her up like one of those white wafers at communion. She is really inside me. She had a love affair with her own wisdom and it was one of her greatest joys to share that love of her ideas with me. All of her pain that she so honestly shared with me even when it made her look so scary. All the millions of miles we walked together along our memory lanes, trying to merge our stories. It’s all here inside of me. And yet, I understand it all better now that she’s not here in the flesh. When she’d say, “I’m not trying to criticize you, you don’t need to be defensive. I’m merely sharing my perspective.” I get it now. She was trying to get inside me with her perspective. And only after she passed over do I realize that she did her job- she has been internalized. I hear her crystal clear every day. I am so grateful I let her in. And even more grateful that she made the effort to get in. She wasn’t here in the physical sense when she was on earth, but she was always with me in spirit through the phone, that strange preparatory communication device for the soul. Maybe that’s why I still hear her so strongly – I had so much practice listening to her spirit while she was here. And while I’m not sure what happened to her spirit the day she passed, I have to say I don’t think it’s a figment that it’s still here. I hear her speaking to me from the other side, with wisdom that warms my heart and mystifies me. The other side of what, I’m not sure. From the time I was in her apartment and her voice directed me to which closet and drawer I could find what I was looking for, to now, when I hear her voice sharing what she’s learned after dying. “Your job here on earth is not to prove yourself worthy,” she says. “But to share the love affair you have with your spirit. Every time something moves you and warms your heart, that is your spirit wanting to burst out. Don’t hoard your spirit. Don’t protect it either. Let it out. Someone might need it one day.”

Three Generations

Cutting a grapefruit on Christmas morning, hearing my mother’s voice reminiscing about her Grandma Kay: “She used to broil a grapefruit for me every night, sprinkle it with sugar, and serve it with a little steak and one hot Jiffy roll. It was just the yummiest thing ever.”

She loved her Grandma Kay, enough so that she didn’t have to hurt as much about her own mother, who ate her grapefruit cold, with one of those special grapefruit spoons serrated on one side, with a napkin in her lap, while reminiscing about her own mother who had failed to broil her a single one.

I always nodded with commiseration instead of asking how she failed to notice, during her moments of resentment, that she herself had neglected to broil a single grapefruit for her own daughter, serving instead inedible things, meals you had to be grateful to be alive in order to enjoy.

I remember years ago my grandmother brought me to her mother’s grave. I held her arthritic elbow as she reached down to place a couple rocks on her mother’s headstone, reminding me again how she wasn’t a fan.

And I nodded with commiseration, never imagining for a moment I would soon be visiting that same headstone to bury some of my own mother’s ashes next to her beloved Grandma Kay.

And now three generations of women are gone. And I am left, the continuation of all they left behind, eating my own grapefruit, neither broiled nor with fancy spoon. Just a paring knife. And a sore throat made worse by its bitterness in this moment alone in my kitchen, thinking about Christmas, and wondering about resurrection. Hearing my mother’s voice once again- “Honey, even if heaven is just in your imagination, is it really the end of the world? If you think about it, aren’t most of your relationships on earth merely figments of your imagination anyhow?”

“Should that give me comfort??”

“(Laughing.) Honey, eat your grapefruit.”

So I eat my grapefruit. One of several that arrived at my doorstep in a box. Sent to me by an archbishop of all people. One of the most kind people I have ever met.

Perhaps this is what lives on- Gifts of kindness that pass through the hands of human beings, generation after generation. Even through the bitterness of this grapefruit, I can taste its sweetness.

You Can’t Be Mad At The Dead, or How Loss Gave Me A New Perspective

I’ve never known elegance in the face of loss. This might be one of the reasons I’ve documented so much of my life in journals. I’m just too afraid of losing even a moment, in spite of how many times I’ve been rudely reminded that hard drives can’t really back-up a life. I have been known to search frantically for days for the details of a vague memory, either on my computer or in my stacks of fireproof safes filled with jottings on napkins and coffee-stained receipts. The times I’ve been lucky to find the moment, I’ve savored it again and again through tears of joy. And the times I’ve had no luck, the feeling of loss was unbearable. It could take days to get over. That something so special was gone for good made me feverishly want to pull out my hair. And knowing I was behaving pathologically did nothing but make me more resolute, for if my mind was gone, at least I should be able to locate its memories. And then I lost my mother.

And as I sat in shambles on my mudroom floor, sobbing into the phone, I realized there was not a damn thing I could do about it. She was gone. And there was no place to go looking for her. I’d never again get to see her the way I did.

I walked through my days consumed by a continuous slideshow - the way she crossed her legs while watching TV, the cloud-shaped birthmarks on her arms, her elegant fingers holding a cigarette out the car window, her smile that could light up even the dimmest of souls, the way she’d speedwalk to St. Vincent de Paul’s to find the treasures before anyone else... Where did it all go?

The only thing that soothed me was to remember every detail of my mother. And that was pretty easy, considering I had over 20,000 Microsoft Word documents all about her.

In some strange way, I had actually backed-up our relationship.

And so I started to travel back in time, reading through hours of conversations and scenes. It was heart-wrenchingly sad and at times laugh-out-loud hysterical, but what I hadn’t expected now that my mother was gone, was the experience of revisiting all those old stories from my brand new point of view – the one where my main character was now past tense, absolved from all wrongdoings.

The reason I started documenting my life in the first place was to cope with the horrible feeling that I didn’t quite exist. My mother spent her entire life fractalling through one glorious handcrafted drama after another. And though I appreciated that her life was extraordinarily interesting and also excruciatingly painful, what I tended to notice most about her, was that she could never be counted on when I needed her most.

And yet there was this other narrative peeking through the undertones of my resentment - my mother’s story. And it’s funny to think I had been the one transcribing her words all these years, because it was as if I were reading them for the first time. All the vulnerable things she said to me when her life had fallen into shambles yet again, all the guilt she felt for not being there for me, how she loved me more than anything in the world - begging me to believe she was there for me and adored me and was so proud of me… I guess my own hurt hadn’t ever let her words truly sink in.

The truth was - she might not have been doing everything I wanted her to, but she had been there. She existed. She was my mother.

Now, when I revisit our old stories, I feel more like an archaeologist than a wounded child. I dig up clues for who she was instead of who she wasn’t. And I find a woman who I idolize - the wittiest, most brilliantly complicated person I ever met. And I cry to her from my heart- I’m so sorry, Mommy. I wish more than anything that I knew then what I know now. You loved me. And I loved you. So, so much. We were everything to each other. And I hear her voice reassuring me, We both knew, honey. Deep inside, we both knew.

I’m not as afraid of losing things like I used to be. I realize sometimes loss is the only opportunity we have to rearrange our perspectives so that we’re able to tell new kinds of stories about our lives. Maybe some part of myself always knew that I would need to realize this truth. That what’s really precious is never lost. That we’re here to leave our brightest parts. Not on any bestseller list, but in each other’s hearts.

Conversation With My Mother

My Mother: When you get to Cleveland, I want my ashes on the left side of Grandma Kay.

Me: Ok. I could bring a little shovel.

My Mother: Bring a bulb planter.

Me: Oh, good idea.

My Mother: Then, go to Harvey’s back room and get a slab of ribs for me.

Me: I can’t eat that kind of thing.

My Mother: Well then go to that wonderful Chinese place on Coventry…

Me: I’m not sure it’s still there…

My Mother: Oh, they had the best crab rangoon.

Me: Jeeze, you really do miss the food here.

My Mother: Speaking of food, you should cook something special tomorrow.

Me: Like what?

My Mother: Oh come on, Jessica. Be creative.

Me: Nothing I make is edible these days. I’m thinking of signing up for one of those meal plans where they send you food.

My Mother: You can do better than that. I’ve always told you- get out your legal pad, write out a menu, and stick to it.

Me: That never works for me.

My Mother: If you say so. I used to love roasting a pork butt. It was so yummy and I’d have it the whole week.

Me: I’m not going to buy a pork butt.

My Mother: I know you’re not.

Me: And even if I did, it would never work here. Chris would eat the whole thing and the house would go up in flames from all the methane.

My Mother: Oh Jessica. You make me laugh. This is too much fun. See what happens when you’re not on that stupid fucking computer?

Me: I know… I miss you so much.

My Mother: You don’t know the half of it.

Me: Have you visited other people?

My Mother: I visit my sister sometimes but she never hears me. She’s too busy with that swifter thing.

Me: What about your mother? Have you seen her in the after world?

My Mother: No, I have not.

Me: I wonder what happened to her? I can see her face in my mind, that look of pride she had.

My Mother: Indignance.

Me: Do you think she ever found peace?

My Mother: I think the wind probably blew her away and left in her place a pillar of salt, from all the tears she never released.

Me: Life is so sad.

My Mother: It is sad, honey… I wish so much that things could have been different... I wish so very much that I had been in a position to write a different script.

Me: Me, too… Will I ever get to see you again? I mean, really see you?

My Mother: I don’t know, Jess. I’m not sure what will happen… I’m still doing a lot of work over here.

Me: Are you still my mother?

My Mother: (laughing) Oh, Jess. You sound just like the little bird from that Dr. Seuss story. (laugh) Of course I am your mother. But you should know- the connection we have is beyond that –we have a precious connection, Jess. A connection that reached beneath our secrets to what was real. We left nothing unsaid. We’ve seen each other at our best and our worst. Only connections that real can last.

Me: (crying)

My Mother: Live your life while you have it, Jess. Because it’s true what they say - it’ll be over before you know it. Trust me. Stop planning your swan dive, honey. Your only job is to leave your truth and beauty wherever you go, even if it’s just across your fucking house. Wherever you are matters. I hope you believe me. It is neither a sign of humility or good character to doubt yourself – it is a sign of internal cowardice – of secretly fearing being humiliated by all those other selves in nothing but the same exact predicament as you. You don’t have time to cancel out the best parts of yourself. You don’t have time for interactions where nothing of substance passes through. You don’t have time to pollute your moments with mindless pleasantries and mildly amusing sarcasm. Your job is to give your attention to what truly matters to you, and you are the only one who gets to say what that is. Do you hear me?

Me: Yes. Thank you.

My Mother: You are welcome. Now close your fucking computer and go take a shower.

Thinking about my mother....

When I was little, my mother’s car broke down and we were stranded on the side of the road – at some point a group of Hell’s Angels pulled over. I was scared but my mother told me not to worry. When they got off their bikes, my mother clasped her hands in prayer and said, “Thank god you’re here! I prayed for good people and here you are!” I remember their smiling faces and the questions they asked me about school while one of them worked under the hood of our car.My mother believed if you give people an opportunity to be good at heart, they will almost always follow through. And though there was probably an element of privilege to her philosophy, the circumstances of my mother’s life kind of gridlocked her in a way, so that she had no choice but to practice it. For three years, she managed this motel where most people lived long term and had parole officers. My mother lived on the property and wound up spending most of her days listening to the stories of wounded souls. Many of these people weren’t the sorts she would have chosen to spend her time with, but over time, they inadvertently taught her that her judgments were just that – judgments. The way people behaved had very little to do with their behind-the-scenes. And my mother began to realize the behind-the-scenes of all people were pretty much the same. Underneath the hate and anger and very poor judgment, was the truth of their pain- someone broke or damaged or betrayed their heart and they didn’t know what to do about it. My mother soothed their wounds simply by listening and let them know she cared by helping them find jobs and social services. She believed that once a person realized someone cared about them, a little slime would melt off their heart.

I remember once visiting my mother at the motel, sitting there in her little garden area where she’d smoke her ciggies, and one of her residents ran over to share his triumph of the day. He’d bought a new jacket and said, “I jewed ‘em down. It’s a cunt hair too small but it looks perty good, huh?” My mother winked at me and gave the guy her special look, the one where she cocked her head with a closed-lip smile- told him how thrilled she was to hear his good news - and then proceeded to explain the importance of editing his language so as not alienate the entire civilized human population. My mother didn’t feel she needed to share that she’d been born Jewish and how dare he carelessly malign an entire population of people while also defiling her genitalia in the same breath. My mother believed one of the worst things you could do to a person’s face was to shame them. That shaming people had the potential to ignite more anger rather than eliminate it. She believed from her experience that people like this were not purposely hateful, they just hadn’t had the opportunity to go out into the vast world and be expanded by it- instead they’d only been exposed and re-exposed to the same sorts of dysfunctional people who broke their hearts in the first place. My mother realized once someone revealed their behind-the-scenes, she could get through to them, introduce ideas of kindness and understanding, and over time maybe even recommend a book or movie that might broaden their perspective.

My mother used to tell me that hate begins the moment a person feels ignored, violated, threatened, or dismissed, and that most people aren’t even being violated or threatened – just a dismissive comment can send some people into a homicidal rage. And because so many people don’t have the tools to understand that it’s not other people’s job to make us feel worthwhile, the hierarchy of hate that begins in one’s own mind can easily branch out to one’s parents and one’s spouse and one’s children and one’s neighbors and one’s country until pretty much they’re shouting at the whole world. And unfortunately every now and then, some hate-filled person comes along whose need to avenge himself is so unprecedented he will recruit other enraged people and organize their hate to make themselves feel not only better than, but the best. I wonder what my mother would say about these white supremacists goose-stepping into the White House, believing that god sees them as better than so many others. I think she would remind me that their behind-the-scenes is probably still the same as everyone else’s. And to be wary of hating these hateful people, even when they give us such good reasons to. I bet she would tell me to stay away from them, and if I happen to run into one of their followers, to meet them behind-the-scenes by offering kindness and understanding. My mother was really so great at this. She had such a tough but unassuming way about her. If a white supremacist had stayed in her motel and vocalized his ideology, she would have probably laughed her compassionate cackle and said something like, “Come on. Get with the program. You are not a child of the sun. You are a child of your dysfunctional parents. Now, open your heart and go do something constructive with your brain that doesn’t land your ass back in jail.”

In some ways, the circumstances of my own life have also gridlocked me into understanding the behind-the-scenes of people. I live in a rural area now. I have friends that I would never have met if I hadn’t moved here. On the morning my mother passed, this one friend of mine drove her twins to her mother-in-law’s, and then brought her other daughter over to my house to keep Brautigan company so I could be whoever I needed to be in my hours of utter anguish. She is one of the most kind people I have ever met. And guess what– she’s a hunter and loves Jesus and voted for Trump. We’d never discussed politics before, because we’re both more conceptual than political, but we discussed other difficult topics and I always found her one of the most open people when I shared ideas she hadn’t thought of before, and I hope she thinks the same of me. So instead of dismissing this person, I look forward to having more behind-the-scenes conversations with her and with other people who grew in different cultures than mine. And I hope we can all emerge with bigger hearts for ourselves and each other and for all people everywhere.

My mother had a lot of wisdom but she also had a lot of problems. Even though she was present to the behind-the-scenes of others, she never trusted anyone enough to reveal the deepest parts of her own. And the ways she tried to keep her secrets at bay killed her in the end. And I understand that same fear of sharing, because I have it too. I hate the parts of myself that cause me so much pain. The ways I take everything personally and feel at times like my thoughts are a tourniquet over my existence. And I don’t have all the answers for myself about how to be free. About how to express my own hurt and anger in a constructive enough way so that it doesn’t hurt anyone in my vicinity. About how to protest injustices on the front lines and also be responsible for the injustices I create in my own little world. About how to stand up to hate and still be available to connect with the behind-the-scenes of anyone who happens to enter my vicinity. I guess I’ll keep practicing. Keep noticing my thoughts and my intentions. And pray for forgiveness, peace, and sanity.

Episode 322 of Me Talking To Dead People (or, perhaps me having another psychotic episode :) )

My Mother: Jess, listen to me. These people you're upset about… These people painting their faces with black paint… These people talking about sending Jews to the ovens… These people who say that women should have the baby after they've been raped, and those same people who applaud sending troops to bomb the shit out of some place in the name of freedom without understanding who the fuck they're bombing - millions of unborn children...

Please. Listen to me, honey… Angry people have no fucking idea what they're talking about. They have no fucking idea what they're doing. They never have. They never will. It's only in peace that people have the capacity to understand a glimmer of what's real because in peace is the only time they're able to see beyond their own pain… Ok? Do you see what I mean, Jess? Do peaceful people go around shouting that god wants them dead? Do they, honey? Of course not.

People who say this sort of shit are in so much fucking internal pain that releasing it on others is the only way they know how to get rid of it. And if you choose to internalize someone else's pain, honey, and you catch their virus of anger, you will be incapable of understanding this truth of what's really going on, and you will also be incapable of finding any peace for yourself.

You will only be capable of distracting yourself from this truth - by either finding someone who'll agree with you, or turning on your stupid fucking computer and zoning out, or shoving a pizza or a pill down your throat.

Honey, here's the truth- there is no heaven on earth. So stop trying to find heaven on earth. What you need to do instead is figure out a way to survive on earth while also preparing for eternity. And believe me, honey, you don’t want a lot of anger when you die, because it's a real bitch to unravel.

And guess who's over here helping you? You, and your team of angels and demons. So get to know them well while you're there, sweetie. The angels are always speaking to you. And your demons are not fanged-toothed - they are only trying to help you survive in the ways they think you need to, because they're so afraid of being forgotten forever.

Demons are just egos, honey. They're like PR people on crack, ok? They're nothing to be afraid of, unless you let them run your whole life. Here's what's real: You're born with one homeopathic drop of god... and the rest is whatever wisdom or insanity you've inherited from your parents or lack of, from television, from the other disconnected disenfranchised people of earth, and from the time you spend alone listening to your angels and demons.

Now, I don’t know about anyone else, but I will tell you what I know about dying. What I know about dying, honey, is that other people don’t come with you. And when you don’t have to be better or worse than anyone anymore, what do you think you're left with? Not the color of your skin. Not your best haircut. Not your holy book or your stupid fucking internet... You're left with the thought, “Holy fucking shit - all those people were not who I thought they were. They were me, and I was them. They may have had more or less layers of bullshit, but they had the same homeopathic drop of god that I did. And shame on me for not smiling at every single one of them and asking how they were doing in their moment and a half on earth."

And you'll have to unravel all the reasons why you weren't willing to be courageous enough to be your pure loving self for others without expecting anything in return, including your dignity. All these ridiculous ideas about living a certain way and going to some hell or some heaven?

Please. All the formalities of every religion are left with your pants and shoes. When your heart is eternal, all you do is weep for all the time you wasted believing your fears and judgments were real. Honey, if you choose peace and understanding, everyone is equal, no matter what sorts of mistakes they make. That's hard to understand. I know. And I'm talking about even the most angry people. Because who they are underneath all that sludge, is you. Ok?

Now some people are shiny by nature. For whatever reason, they have less pain. And they’re able to be the messengers of angels. And you will recognize them because they will love you and want to help you love yourself, because they see that you are a carrier of that drop of god. And I'm not talking about some human god who speaks, ok? God is way bigger than that. God is not a human thing, it's a fucking life thing. So you are not going to meet god. You contain god. You will meet your angels - the most untarnished beings I could ever have imagined. And they will help you unravel every experience you ever had - with clarity, love, humor, and forgiveness- until all your pain and confusion are distilled into eternal peace, empathy and understanding.

Angels are with you, honey, whether you believe it or not. Angels are with everyone. And when you realize this, I want you to take a good long look at all the people around you. I want you to give them an extra second of your presence, even if you are so very sure you know who they are... Because in that extra second of your presence, maybe they will surprise you and let you see their drop of god.

Starkness

It’s been 8 months today since my mother left the planet. I don’t think I’ve ever been weighted down by starkness the way I have since. Not that anyone could see it on the outside, but a private starkness that keeps me company constantly. The interesting thing about this starkness is that I can see its point. It’s quite valid. It reminds me so much of this dream I had a long time ago that always stuck with me. In it, I was on an airplane that was going down and everyone was freaking out, naturally. And the guy seated next to me kept grabbing me in the rib cage. It hurt really really badly and so I said to him, “Can you please stop! You’re hurting me!” And he said, “What the fuck difference does it make if you’re hurting??!! We’re going to be dead in a minute!!!” That guy is the starkness I’m talking about. And it’s nearly impossible to convince him of all the other valid reasons to soak up any little bit of time left here. Last night, when we lost power, I sat with myself in the darkness, without the distraction of bulbs and glaring screens, and I thought about my ancestors – what their experiences might have been like long ago without electricity, if they felt more connected to something beyond their own fates, if they understood how to handle the longing to live with the need to stay safe in a more elegant way than I do. I am not used to thinking of myself as part of some evolving spirit – of seeing myself as a holder of beauty and truth that I have a responsibility to share because it doesn’t really belong to me. But I realize how grateful I am to have in my heart all the truths and beauty my mother took the time to share with me, and I hope to do the same and pass it along, instead of letting that heavy starkness diminish it for its own good reasons.

Peace

Little children are not self-centered at all. They are present-centered. Whatever’s happening right now is what they’re centered in. If they’re angry right now they’ll be angry. Hungry right now, they’ll be hungry. Need your attention right now, they will get it. They’re ok with however they are. And maybe this is what the old folks meant in the bible – be as little children. They have no self-judging-self yet. They’re able to experience first hand what’s happening without filtering it through judgment, without filtering it through the fear of being such and such or not being such and such, or the fear of someone else being such and such or not being such and such. Little children are free in this way. They don’t sit around and talk about what moments are like for them, or what moments were like for them, or what moments are hopefully going to be like for them. They are experiencing what is happening right now. And because of this, most grown ups cannot stand being around little children for too long. Most grown ups need to call someone on the phone and say, I need a vacation or a drink or a fucking loaf of bread. The little children never do this. They make things happen. They build something up or knock it down, they kick or they hug. But they don’t talk about what’s not happening right now. Not until a grown up drags them back to a time that already happened or drags them to look forward to some future that hasn’t happened. But the grown ups can’t help it. The grown ups need to distract the children from the present moment because the grown ups need a way to get the fuck out of the playroom. The grown ups can’t stand to be with the little children for too long because they can’t bear for their ideas of themselves to get lost in the moment. It makes them feel so uncomfortable, like they’re actually dying a little too fast or living a little too long- whatever it is, it’s excruciating. And sometimes they look at their little children and look forward to the time when their little children will be able to leave their present moments and join them in reflection. And it will happen. In time, the little children will leave their present moments. They’ll really have no choice. They’ll get sent off to the larger world and they’ll have to leave their moments just to figure out how to understand themselves around all these other people. But hopefully they’ll still have a place to go home to that gives them peace. Maybe where their parents are, or to some beautiful new place they’ll create, or maybe back to the moment they’ll somehow remember they’re still apart of, the one that’s always been right there, that’s still right there, where there’s nothing to worry about and nowhere to go and no one better to be.

Missing my Mother

I never knew how horrible it was to lose someone. To live every day knowing you will never see them again. I bet it’s the underlying meaning of waiting for the messiah. If only she were to come back, I would appreciate her and honor her and worship the ground she walked on. Now all I have are my memories. Not only the ones where she was inconvenient, difficult, but the ones that make me realize that people are probably not meant to be convenient in our lives. I see now I was lucky in some ways to have someone who crossed boundaries instead of most of my other relationships, so convenient and distant, there’s no possibility of really knowing each other, except knowing what needs of each other’s we haven’t met. With my mother gone, I understand more of the truth of our relationship. How rare it was that we could discuss who we were and weren’t for each other. I never realized how special that was. The endless phone calls, all the times I was alone or scared and I’d dial her number and she’d talk with me for hours till I fell asleep, rehashing the past till it made new sense, till it made us laugh so hard my ears would hurt. Any time someone hurt my feelings, she was right there to put everything in perspective. All the sing-alongs we had together since I was a child, even up to this year. Now, I see all these moments for what they were, they were gems. And life will never be the same, never be the long list of plans I thought it was. Now I see life for what it is, just moments, mostly moments that pass by too fast to notice they were magic.

Filling the Urn Necklace

I had this thought, while I was trying to funnel my mother’s ashes into the tiny opening of this urn necklace I got. Well, first, let me tell you that this was no easy feat. Not the ritual I'd hoped for. Besides the unbelievable weirdness that these ashes once formed the foundation of my beloved mother, it was not at all easy to get them into this urn! Instead of silently blessing the spirit of my mother, chunks of bone were getting stuck in the funnel, then the funnel clearing-stick thing cracked in half and I wound up having to use a spoon and getting ashes all over the damn place. I heard my mother laughing, saying, “Poor thing,” while I was repeating the mantra, “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why didn’t they make a bigger funnel for fuck’s sake???”“I’m sorry I had bones, Jessica,” I heard my mother say. “I’m not blaming you for having bones, Mommy, I just wish they would fit in the opening!” Then the cork cracked and the superglue superglued the ashes to the cork so that shiny ashes will forever be stuck at the opening. And I said, “I fucking hate you! No, not you mommy dear, but this fucking cork!” “Take a deep breath, Jessica,” she said, still kind of laughing. "And calm the fuck down.” So, I finished the job, with various aspects of my mother keeping my company, and that’s when I realized that I have been speaking to multiple aspects of my mother at once. And it got me thinking about who people are. Not necessarily whole, but a container of multiple aspects coming and going, not necessarily with a through-line to make a whole tapestry, or with a President Aspect who governs the rest, but aspects that are disconnected, confused, a wonderful angel to some and a vindictive fucker to others. So then I was thinking, maybe the purpose of all this transformational work that so many people these days are endeavoring, myself included, is not merely to weave all our varied reactions with the thread of understanding for ourselves, but to do our best to gain wholeness for the sake of the people we'll leave behind when we cross that ol’ threshold, so that when my darlings on the other side try to speak with me, they will get closer to one voice rather than multiple ones that may or may not have any idea that the others exist.

On the Spectrum of Insanity

On March 28th, 2016, at around 5:08am, my mother left this earth. It was unexpected. Sudden. She was only 67. I was her only child. We spoke at least once a day for my entire life. Well, besides the times she was missing or having one of her episodes. Since she’s been gone, people who knew my mother have said things like, “What a sad life.” Or, “How awful that she had to live with voices in her head.” Or, “Shew, mental illness is so tough.” But my mother never referred to her entire life as sad or horrible. And she never, not once, referred to herself as mentally ill. And I can understand why.

If someone told me I had mental illness, or implied that I did, I would personally feel very threatened. I would feel like they were questioning the solidity of my relationship to my very self. People generally hold the reality they share with themselves sacred and my mother absolutely did. If I imagined someone telling me that I needed help with me, I would feel like I would need to question everything I know. And I would never be myself with them. I would always try to behave in a way that made me honorable and admirable in their eyes, or I would have to banish them from my life altogether so that I wouldn't have their constant reminder that I wasn't whole or perfect. Or worse, I would feel like I needed them for clarity and help 24 hours a day, and most people are too busy for that, which would leave me not only vulnerable, but alone with nothing but a damaged sense of self.

That's why I don't like the word mental illness nor do I like when I hear people say they feel sorry for those who they believe have it. Instead I like to think of insanity on a spectrum. (I don't believe in sanity. I've personally never met anyone who I feel is a role model for such a state 100% of the time. I've known a lot of comfortable people, and though comfort can look quite sane, I doubt it really is.) And if I suspected someone was tortured in their brain, I would ask questions and let the person answer with dignity which part of their brain was threatening the rest and try to offer healthier alternative perspectives, especially ones that involved the largest aperture of the soul's journey.

Brain dramas are not representatives of a person's true self. And the true self never deserves to be diminished by only being seen as mentally ill. I believe when the soul is born we come here to learn something, something to force us to abandon loyalties to old worn-out traditions and customs and instead embrace the understanding of the spirit through something learned in the experiential realm.

My mother was not a poor thing. In fact, she was quite certain the world was far more mentally deficient than she was, and I think she had a good point. My mother was a bullshit whisperer and could look at someone, see both their potential and what was in its way, and say so in a manner that made people love her.

But yes, she had a brain that kept trying to convince her of horrible things. She always knew it wasn't her. And she had all the right words to remind other people that the negative voices they'd internalized weren't them. But my mother's brain was wired differently. It made her special in the most uniquely wonderful ways and the most uniquely tragic ways. I know she tried to make friends with her voices. But the more effective way became to turn to substances to drown them out.

My mother hated people who were drunk. She never wanted me to know she drank. I of course knew she did. She was in and out of the hospital for years and years for binging and almost dying. But she refused to admit it and she’d blame it on anything else she could think of, because to her, drinking was the most horrible contemptible thing to do. Elegant perfect women did not drink. She was more willing to discuss what the voices in her brain were saying than to discuss that she'd drank alcohol.

We all have voices that aren't ours that we've internalized and want freedom from, but some people's internalized voices are horribly loud. I pray, Dear Mother, that you know I never looked down on you for drinking. I just wish I could have thought of the perfect way to figure out how to help you. You were countless times my angel on earth. My hero on earth. Far more than many of the so-called sane people who felt badly for you. I pray you are here with me. I pray that you are at peace.

The other week, I heard my mother’s voice, with assistance from a dear friend who has a gift for speaking with people on the other side. He told me my mother desperately wanted me to know what she’d learned since passing - that all the rules she’d lived by, all the rules that justified her being disconnected, were wrong. That what she was really doing by adhering to all those rules was trying to have control, and that control is what we want when we’re afraid, and that these kinds of rules are nothing but superstitions.

This gave me such a paradigm shift. I had thought superstitions were stuff like knocking on wood and saying poo poo poo (something I have been addicted to and which drove my mother crazy). And that’s a tiny bit of it, but this other superstition is bigger. It’s needing to behave a certain way to keep others from finding out that we aren’t entirely who we seem to be, or keeping others away who don't comply with the way we imagine ourselves to be. And these rules aren’t simply to protect ourselves from being criticized or judged for the company we keep. It’s bigger. It’s the fear of being ostracized, abandoned, and maybe even left for the wolves. Human beings have been doing this to each other for eons. Burning each other's houses down for not believing in what we believe. Perhaps most of us don’t go to this extreme anymore, but don’t we still abandon and disown each other when we feel that our reality and the things we hold safe and familiar are being threatened?

I think of my mother, who did have voices that were horrible, and how her own family diminished her with their oppressive diagnoses instead of cherishing the part of her that was beautiful, and letting her know they’d get to the bottom of that other side together.

Every time my mother would take the bus to wherever I was, I would get a call from my grandmother who would say, “Get rid of her. She’s sick, and there’s nothing you or anyone else without a prescription pad can do.” This is the person who raised my unique mother. No wonder my mother ‘emancipated’ herself and refused to have anything to do with her mother. My grandmother never spoke of her own shortcomings that were so visible to everyone else but her - and yet she had no qualms about taking it upon herself to dismiss another’s journey as invalid, unfortunate, and even pathological, which in turn did nothing but fill the person with fear and doubt, keeping them from being who they might otherwise have become.

I’m so proud of my warrior mother for gaining so much clarity in the face of generations of dysfunction. And the scariest kind of dysfunction—where the inflicted walk around believing without doubt that they are the most right and reasonable in their perspective, and even have a community that agrees with them that this is so.

I’m not saying it was easy growing up with my mother. It was very difficult. My mother knew how to interrupt a person’s life like no other. She didn’t just come into town when her life hit bottom and watch TV or sulk and mope. She exploded on the scene until professionals from the justice system and medical system had to intervene. There were scores of times she needed me, when she’d been kicked out of town for one reason or another and became homeless. And scores of times she would pop out of near-death experiences kind of like Freddie Krueger, and become once again someone full of life and love, humor and wisdom, and I’d have that confusing shift where I’d think, "Ok, she’s here. I have a mother now."

I remember this one time, when I lived in Brooklyn and my roommates didn’t want her to move in with us, and I came up with the grand idea to send her to the yoga ashram I sometimes visited in Upstate New York. I thought it would be perfect. I thought she could become a Buddhist nun, teach yoga, have long flowing hair and wear it in a braid. When I told my mother the plan I could hear her over the payphone, dragging deep on her True Blue, “What yoga ashram?” “The one I go to!” “Doesn’t ring a bell.” “It’s Upstate, just a couple hours from here!” “Well, it doesn’t sound like the Shangri-La.” “You'll love it! You'll learn how to do yoga! You'll meditate! You’ll feel soooo much better!” There was another puff. A long one.

The swami knew me pretty well from all the classes of his I took and he agreed, after I told him a much less weird version of my mother’s situation, to let her move in temporarily as a volunteer. For the following two days, I heard nothing from my mother. And I was really, really hoping this was good news. But on the third day, I received this message: “Hello.. Jessica??? Ah... Swami Padma here... Ah... Please call me at once. At the ashram. Thank you.” It didn’t sound good. Didn’t sound at all like he was calling to rave about how my mother had miraculously cured Swami Baba's gout with her homemade fermented burdock tincture.

I hung up the phone and dialed the ashram as fast as I could, pulling long strings of my own flesh away from my fingers with my own teeth, preparing for the inevitable. “Yes, Jessica...” “Hi Swami! I got your call!” “Yes, yes. Uh... this is not working. At all. Your mother refuses to do yoga. I don’t know what to say. If you are going to be at a yoga ashram, you must do yoga.” “But isn't she helping with the housework?” “Yes. I suppose...” “She's an excellent cleaner, isn't she?” “She cleans fine. But she won’t do yoga.” “Well, how about keeping her on as the janitor!” “We have plenty people who clean. And the smoking... She smells like a chimney.” “She does?” “People are complaining of second hand smoke coming from her clothes.” “Are you sure?” “And she wont take off her shoes...” “I see.” “And the liquor - we can’t have liquor in the ashram. Her roommate is upset, very upset.” “Oh god... Well, can we...” “And she called for a food delivery… Hamburger.” “She had a hamburger delivered to the ashram??” “She tried.” “Oh my god. Well, I'll talk to her. I don’t think she knew. Oh, oh please, Swami... Please can you give her another chance?” “No.”

When I hung up with the Swami, my supervisor tapped my shoulder, “Line two is for you, honey.” I picked up the phone holding my breath praying it wasn’t who I knew it was. “Darling?! It's me! I'm at the bus station!” “You are??” “Yes, I only have a minute. Your people wouldn’t accept my collect call, but I wanted you to know that I'm taking the next bus to Port Authority. I should be arriving at 2:30. Please meet me there as soon as you can! I just need a place to stay for a couple days! I'm sure your roommates will understand. And if they don't, fuck 'em! Love you honey! See you soon!”

After I picked her up from Port Authority, we went to a chinese restaurant where she downloaded the tales of her ashram adventure. “Oh, Jessica... They were just rude as can be!” “How so?” “Well, for starters, no one showed me to my room. No one helped me with my bags...” “Well, they don’t have a concierge, Mother. It’s a yoga ashram.” “Well, they were extremely unwelcoming.” “Maybe because you wouldn't take off your shoes.” “Why should I take off my shoes?” “Because shoes are dirty. And you're not supposed to bring alcohol into a place like that, either . “Why not.” “Because it’s a yoga ashram, Mother. You’re supposed to be intoxicated by god.” “Well, honey, I needed something a little stronger than god. I was on a goddamn Greyhound bus for 24 hours, I needed to unwind.” “Well, the Swami said it upset your roommate.” “She could have used a drink.” “And there's no smoking in an ashram, Mother...” “I had my head out the window.” “Well, your roommate didn’t like it.” “It was the only thing I could do to drown out her B.O.!” It became increasingly evident that my mother was not the yogini I had hoped she might be. “They wanted me to break my back cleaning the shit off their toilets, and then touch my toes. No thanks. A never met a bigger bunch of sadists.” I guess she had a point.

After the dramas were over, my mother always felt badly for being what she called a burden. I can remember once visiting her in the emergency room after I’d called 911, and she looked up at me from her stupor and laughed, “You have the mother from hell, don’t you, little girl.” I laughed too. We had this shared understanding, almost like we were backstage behind the curtain of life, where we could speak truths together that had no place in most everyday ordinary conversations.

I was not the best mother to my mother when she needed me, but I never turned her away, well, not until I had my son Brautigan. After I gave birth to my son I realized that for the first time I needed to make some boundaries. I wanted to protect Brautigan from the dysfunction I grew up with and also create the space for me to be the mother I wanted to be for my son. As a result, my mother found herself even more alone than she had been. Slowly, she stopped asking for my help, even though she needed help. Not from me anymore, but from someone who could have really helped. And it's hard in our society to get the right kind of help. Help has become a business more than a family affair. And too many people need help, including the people who are in the business of helping. I know this all too well from my experience dealing with hospitals all around the country for years and years. In my experience, they were all the same - overworked professionals doing the best they could with limited resources and patients who didn’t even think they needed help to begin with.

When I flew to Florida to visit my mother's apartment after she passed, I was horrified. It was a still life of her life. Everything just as she left it. All the items arranged in frantic attempts to survive. It was brutal to see. So real. No hiding the struggle that took place. A brilliant soul tortured by a nuisance of a brain. Hiding in stubborn isolation.

There will forever be a lump in my throat and in my heart at what I saw that day. At what I learned that day. There's never ever a good reason to stay in isolation, to avoid asking for help because the fear of being judged or diminished by others seems too terrible, too tedious, too embarrassing. Pain shouldn't have to be neglected or protected or self-medicated. Even if the whole world is too busy to be bothered, there will be someone with the time to care, with real words to say, with a real way to help. I pray to be open to notice if someone is looking for someone to care. I wish there was something more I could have done for my mother. But the truth is, I got burned out. I was too busy keeping my own pain a secret. And I had someone else to take care of. Ten little toes.

My mother loved so much of her life. She'd make gourmet food with her meager budget and call to tell me her latest concoction, that it was the best thing she ever tasted. She used to make fun of my speaking in superlatives, but once she got to that part of her life where she had nothing left but soul, she relished in superlatives herself. "Oh Jessica," she'd say. "I had a cracker party with tuna salad with my special mayo and grapes and it was too DIE for." I'd love hearing about all her eating extravaganzas. She never seemed sad that she couldn't afford something she didn't have. "I wouldn't trade who I am for the world," she'd say. She really was always grateful for everything. Much more so than I have ever been. She was always talking about how she found just exactly what she was looking for at St. Vincent De Paul's, as if it were divine intervention. Or telling me all the times she looked down on one of her walks and found a five-dollar bill or a diamond earing. "I hope you always look down whenever you're out," she'd say. "You can't imagine the treasures people step right over." She knew someone was always looking out for her. She never once doubted her guardian angels, even when the pain of her life was unimaginable.

That my mother suffered did not diminish who she really was. She was a fractured person, but each part was fascinating to me. And I know now that she was trying to put it all together, but just couldn’t in this lifetime. One of her journals had a title on the top. It said: A Collage of Confusion. It seemed like she had wanted to fill the page with ways to understand her different parts, but the rest of the page is blank.

I realize that it's kind of perfect that she passed the day after Easter. My mother has been released from her burdens. She is free. And yes, I have heard her voice several times a day. She tells me to be strong. That she will be here, right with me, always.

I found this conversation with my mother from Mother's Day, 2015:

My mother: I thought of an idea that you need to write about.

Me: What?

My mother: What if… on your birth certificate… it not only stated the day you were born but also the day you will die.

Me: Mother, that’s a terrible idea!

My mother: Why? Don’t you think people would live their lives differently knowing how many days they had left?

Me: I don’t think so. Personally, I’m feeling completely anxious just hearing about your idea.

My mother: Oh Jessica. Is there any thing that doesn’t give you anxiety?

Me: No. Not really.

My mother: Well, you know what should also be written on your birth certificate?

Me: What?

My mother: That you will be anxious every single day of your life. That you will never know what it’s like to wake up in the morning with a sense of well-being and peace. And because you have longevity in your genes, you will be living a longer than usual life with this horrible anxiety encompassing your every single day.

Me: Now, that I could handle.

My mother: Figures. Well, my darling, I need to start heading over to St. Vincent’s DePaul’s before it gets too beastly hot. So go and enjoy your Mother’s Day. Because you are the world’s most wonderful mother, as well as the world’s most wonderful daughter.

Me: Aw, thank you, Mother.

My mother: Don’t thank me, Jessica. You know how very unfond I am of your thank yous.

Me: Well, Happy Mother’s Day to you too, Mother. I wish we could be together.

My mother: There’s nothing I would want more.

End.

Conversation with My Mother

My Mother: And how was the wedding?

Me: Really beautiful.

My Mother: How nice.

Me: Yes, and it was rather interesting because my father's wife was there and also his first wife and also his third wife!

My Mother: Well, my goodness, I can't understand why in the world I wasn't invited... It's like breaking up a set!

Conversation With My Mother about Ceiling Fan

My Mother: Where are you going? Me: I’m on my way to Lowes to get a new ceiling fan.

My mother: Oh no... What happened?

Me: Well, at two in the morning I decided to turn off the fan at which point the light went on full blast and it woke up Brautigan who was very upset, yelling for the sun to go down, and then the fan started smoking and I must have dropped five f-bombs waiting for Chris to take the damn bulb out which was so hot he had to use a cloth, a cloth that wound up being Bruatigan’s brand new white training undies.

My mother: Oh, no... Well you listen to me, Jessica. You need to call that company first thing Monday morning and tell them that their fan almost burned your house down.

Me: Well I would, but I can’t find the receipt, so I’m not sure what to tell them.

My mother: Oh Jessica. If there is something to worry about, I can count on you to scour the universe and find it. Here’s what you tell them... You tell them that you shoved the receipt up your husband’s ass. Jessica... You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone. Just tell them you want your money back. That the fan almost caught on fire. And that you have a toddler. That’s it. Why on earth do you think the entire world is your jury?

Me: That’s a good point. I suppose you’re right.

My mother: Of course I’m right. So stop worrying about every goddamn thing. Or else you’ll have me to worry about. And you wouldn’t want that, would you.

Me: No, Mother.

 

Conversation With My Mother

My mother: ...Well, if he wants to come over to my place and give me a quaalude, I’ll gladly take one. But he’d have to leave me the fuck alone. Me: That’s terrible, Mother. And besides, I don’t believe they even make quaaludes anymore.

My mother: Xanax will work.

Me: Oh boy.

My mother: There’s nothing wrong with a little Xanax every now and then, Jessica.

Me: If you say so.

My mother: Darling, living in a world like this one, I think it’s the right of every human being to take a Xanax if they feel they need one.

Me: Well I think there are more natural ways to calm one’s nerves.

My mother: And I can tell they’re doing wonders for you, my dear.

Me: I’m not taking any, Mother. 

My mother: Well maybe you should.

Me: Actually I was thinking of trying some kava kava.

My mother: Don’t. I read something about kava… it can be very dangerous.

Me: So you’re telling me that kava kava is more dangerous than Xanax?

My mother: Yes, I believe so. Because by the time you take enough kava to calm your nerves, you’ll probably have consumed the entire bottle, where as if I took a single Xanax, I’d be able to sleep the entire night.

Me: Maybe, somehow, you have a point.

My mother: Oh, you are so green.

Me: If you say so, but I’m at the store now, so we’ll have to continue this conversation later.

My mother: Very well. Be careful, darling. 

Me: I will.

 

Conversation with my mother on Mother's Day

My mother: I thought of an idea that you need to write about. Me: What?

My mother: What if… on your birth certificate… it not only stated the day you were born but also the day you will die.

Me: Mother, that’s a terrible idea!

My mother: Why? Don’t you think people would live their lives differently knowing how many days they had left?

Me: I don’t think so. Personally, I’m feeling completely anxious just hearing about your idea.

My mother: Oh Jessica. Is there any thing that doesn’t give you anxiety?

Me: No. Not really.

My mother: Well, you know what should also be written on your birth certificate?

Me: What?

My mother: That you will be anxious every single day of your life. That you will never know what it’s like to wake up in the morning with a sense of well-being and peace. And because you have longevity in your genes, you will be living a longer than usual life with this horrible anxiety encompassing your every single day.

Me: Now, that I could handle.

My mother: Figures. Well, my darling, I need to start heading over to St. Vincent’s DePaul’s before it gets too beastly hot. So go and enjoy your mother’s day. Because you are the world’s most wonderful mother, as well as the world’s most wonderful daughter.

Me: Aw, thank you, Mother.

My mother: Don’t thank me, Jessica. You know how very unfond I am of your thank yous.

Me: Well, Happy Mother’s Day to you too, Mother. I wish we could be together.

My mother: There’s nothing I would want more.

Conversation with my Mother About Ebola

Me: I’m upset.

My Mother: Why?

Me: I’m embarrassed to tell you. But I have to get it out of my head.

My Mother: Go ahead.

Me: I was in Starbucks just before and I used the public bathroom and after I had been in there a minute, I realized that the whole room smelled of vomit and that the floor was wet and now I can’t stop thinking that the person had Ebola and that I’m probably going to get it and give it to Brautigan.

My Mother: (Laughing.)

Me: It’s not funny. My Mother: I know it’s not, Jessica. I’m not laughing at you. I’m just laughing at how fucking hysterical the news is making everyone. It’s not you, ok??

Me: Ok.

My Mother: But I want you to listen very carefully. This is your germaphobe mother speaking.

Me: I know it is, that’s why I called you.

My Mother: You are not in Texas. You do not work in a hospital. You have not been on a plane. It was probably just some bulimic who ate too many pieces of cake.

Me: Ok.

My Mother: And if you really are the sort of person who cannot handle putting themselves into situations that could… not likely, but could potentially make you sick, well, then you do like me and you use the bathroom before you leave home.

Me: Well I live an hour away from civilization.

My Mother: Well, then this is what you will have to do. Go and buy yourself some latex gloves, some really large latex gloves, and every time you go into a public restroom, put one over your head, and don’t forget to cut the thumb off so that you have some air to breathe. What are you laughing at?

Me: I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard in months.

My Mother: I’m not kidding, Jess. In fact, I think you should call Playtex. Well, first get it patented and then call. The thumb could even have a little filter on it with room for a little charcoal tablet. You just have to hope that nobody comes into the bathroom while you’re wearing it.

Me: Thank you, mother.

My Mother: Laughter is the most powerful antioxidant. Never forget that.

Me: I think you’re right.

My Mother: Of course I’m right. I’m always right. Now stop listening to the motherfucking news. And think instead of those poor, poor people in West Africa. I mean, can you fucking imagine??

Me: No.

My Mother: Neither can I. So let’s hope and pray that the angels who are over there risking their fucking lives to transform this fucking hell stay healthy, and let’s hope that all the greedy politicians and profiteers get the hell out of their way and quit convincing themselves they’re doing equally important work. And let’s hope and pray that humanity as a whole will finally realize that until every single human life is valued, there will be no motherfucking peace for any of us. Every human being deserves the right to live a dignified life, don’t you think?

Me: Yes, I do.

My Mother: Of course you do, darling. Now go and bleach your head and call me when you get home.

Me: Ok. Goodbye, Mother.

Conversation with my Mother

Mother: (after diatribing for five minutes) …I mean it, Jess, you must cleanse your lymphs… It could be the difference between life and death… And it’s so damn simple. All you do is stand like a scarecrow and flap your arms and… Brautigan: Oh, bother.

Mother: What did he just say?

Me: Tell grand-mère what you said, baby.

Brautigan: (smiling) Oh, bother.

Mother: Well!

Conversation with my Mother

MOTHER:  I spent a dollar today. ME: What did you buy?

MOTHER: A china cock.

ME: A china cock?

MOTHER: I believe that is the correct terminology for a male chicken.

ME: You bought a porcelain rooster?

MOTHER: I did. And you should see him, Jess. He’s wearing all hand-tailored clothing.

ME: Sounds interesting.

MOTHER: Very. He’s wearing this wonderful, wonderful pair of overalls that crisscross in the back, and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, with a collar that’s buttoned all the way to that thing… that long red thing that hangs under a cock’s neck… and he’s got a big orange beak and a big red comb on his white china head… and black china talons.

ME: Sounds like a real find.

MOTHER: Don’t knock it.  It is. And I’ve placed him in the most prominent spot of my kitchen. It’s a good day, darling.

ME: Well, that makes me happy, Mother.

MOTHER: It will be in Brautigan’s inheritance.

ME: You know I hate when you speak like that.

MOTHER: Well, I’m not going to be around forever.

ME:  Aww, you know what Brautigan just did?

MOTHER: What?

ME:  Lately he’s been taking my glasses off and putting them on Chris’s face, and he just put them on yours, well, on the telephone!

MOTHER: Poor thing.  When he finally meets me in person, he’s going to be traumatized.  I’ll have to hang a cordless phone around my neck.