My mother’s mental illness became a central concern for me and my brothers. We understood that there was no cure for the depression and mania that returned to her mind with great regularity. There were certainly medications that help to lessen the symptoms, but often they caused side effects that rendered them unsafe to use. Her treatment involved close monitoring and changes in tactics and prescriptions that annoyed her. She would mistake feeling better with being free from the bipolar disorder that would follow her to her death. She would stop seeing her psychiatrist, take her pills only when she felt like she needed them. Sadly this would cause her to descend into recurring bouts of deep depression followed by mania that prevented her from sleeping and often led to psychotic episodes of paranoia. In spite of all this she had long stretches of normalcy that allowed her to keep her job, pay for her house, be the delightful person that she truly was.
Anyone who took the time to know my mother loved her. She was quirky for sure but her heart of gold was what people liked about her. She was generous to a fault, often cutting her food budget to donate to a worthy cause or give someone a gift. Amazingly she did not allow her mental illness to steal her happiness. She was the supreme optimist who found joy in the smallest of moments. She taught me and my brothers to be grateful even when times were hard.
The love that my mother spread was not always returned to her. I suppose that her illness frightened or puzzled some people. Many people who had once been her friends abandoned her, but she never became angry with them for doing so. She would continue to speak of them with glowing compliments, ignoring their failure to stay by her in her times of need.
I have done my best to be like my Mama but the truth is that I am far less patient with the world than she was. I become angry when I see injustice. I often bemoaned my own fate even as I understood that others were suffering far more than I ever have. Still, I did my best to love people just as they are without imposing my will on them. A student recently told me that this was the key to my teaching. He said that I somehow made each of my pupils feel confident and important. I’d like to think that was the case because it was something that I was always striving to do. I suppose I got that talent from my mother because that is exactly the way she was.
My mother believed in redemption. Her rule was to apologize to anyone that she had hurt during the day. She insisted that everyone should go to sleep at night knowing that they are loved. If that meant that she had to ask forgiveness or give the gift of forgiveness, she ready to do so. When her illness was not clouding her mind Mama lived in a state of perpetual delight.
Of late I have been thinking of the moments that were the happiest for me and in truth they have all been quite simple. Driving along Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park with my family was a spiritual experience to which I have returned countless times. Hearing the laughter of children is the sweetest sound anyone might ever hear. It is mind blowing to realize how fortunate I have been because of the simple randomness of having the parents that I did. Living in the place where I was born has provided me with opportunities that I did not earn. I won them by the luck of the draw.
I have been writing about my life and in the process I have seen that while some moments were incredibly traumatic, the overall cadence has been comfortable and filled with intangible gifts that are far more valuable that wealth or power. My mother showed me how to be passionate about life, to find beauty in simple places. For her every single glass was full, every person a wonder. I applied those lessons to my own life and what a difference it has made.
It’s not to say that I never become frustrated or dissatisfied with the world as it is, but I learned how to fall down and then dust myself off and try again. I get quite angry at times, wondering why I had to lose my father so early in life and why my precious mother was afflicted with such a diabolical illness. I have been known to feel defeated by life and to wonder why evil exists so openly among us. I have wanted to walk away from overwhelming challenges, but then I would remember my mother and know what she would tell me to do.
I have recounted the early years of my life before I truly found myself in my forties. There is more to come but somehow the tenor of my tale will be more mature, more inclined to be flexible. In the next phase of my life I practiced allowing myself to make mistakes. That was a triumph that was difficult to reach for a perfectionist like me. It’s something that I suppose I will be working on for the rest of my days. Luckily I had a great maestro to show me how it should be done.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 