My mother was rightfully loved by those who saw the scope of her generous spirit. She was spurned by those who did not understand the quirks of her mental illness. As her daughter I defended her from those who seemed unable or unwilling to view her as the remarkable woman she was. Nonetheless I admittedly experienced great frustration with her cycles of normalcy followed by deep depression and manic episodes that sometimes scared people into abandoning her. It bothered me that she was so misunderstood by people to whom she was always kind and understanding.
I would often witness generally honored and respected individuals saying horrific things about people who thought them to be great human beings worthy of unending praise while my mother who never had an unkind work about anyone was often an outcast. The hypocrisy of it all left me angry and desirous of revealing the truth about the two-faced individuals whom most of society had embraced. The irony of my mother’s unconditional love being so often spurned confused me to the point of great distress. I often cried and wished that she had never been afflicted by an illness that so frightened people that they were unwilling to embrace her even as she continued to love them.
My mother’s life was punctuated with great suffering which she always unselfishly set aside. Even in her darkest moments when her bipolar disorder was raging, her greatest worries were for the well being of others. Her paranoid fears were always concerns about protecting her family. She loved more intensely than anyone I have ever known.
Only the most discerning people were able to look past my mother’s illness and realize how saintly she actually was. My mother-in-law once proclaimed that Mama was the most incredible woman that she had ever known. Clerks in stores that my mother frequented cried upon hearing of her death and told stories of how delightfully generous she had been to them. Her files held dozens of letters from charitable organizations thanking her for contributions that may have seemed meager but were proportionately huge given how tragically low her income was.
My mother was always the first to take small gifts to neighbors and friends. When she shopped for her groceries she often set aside cans of vegetables and soup to give to young members of the family struggling to make a start in the adult world. I know that I was often the recipient of her largesse even when I had become successful in my career. She was forever speaking of her obligation to share the blessings that she had. Sadly to so many others her life seemed so tragic and difficult that they failed to see how beautifully she had overcome her bad luck. Somehow she found the silver lining in every situation. She wanted nothing for herself.
When I was cleaning out my mother’s closet after her death I found gifts that she had set aside in anticipation of birthdays and Christmas. Each item was tagged with a loved one’s name. They were all practical and meaningful presents that she collected from sales that she encountered throughout the year. Sometimes they seemed to be more utilitarian than interesting, but over time the recipients almost always realized that were thing that they been unaware of actually needing.
I sleep each night with the sound of a fan that Mama purchased for my husband. I thought it was an odd choice when he unwrapped it, but when insomnia haunted me one night it became a lifesaver. The hum of the blades whirring around and around was just the kind of white noise that I required to lull me into a deep slumber. We now use it every night and I sometimes think that it is magical. Like Pavlov’s dog it reminds me of my dear sweet mother and somehow makes me feel as though she is tucking me in and smiling down at me with the smile that assured me that she loved me unconditionally.
Those who saw the inner beauty of my mother were blessed and they knew it. They were able to look past her affliction and see just how innocently loving and generous she was. They benefited greatly from knowing her because she was guileless. Her expressions of concern and compassion were as real as can be. Hate was only a word to her. She genuinely strove to understand and embrace even those who pushed her away.
When my mother was alive I was obsessed with protecting her, so much so that I all too often became enraged with anyone who abandoned her. I spent far too much time being angry that she was so misunderstood. I wanted better for her, but she never seemed to notice or care that some people were being ugly. She simply carried on with being a messenger of tolerance and love.
I have had many years to assess her life since she died. I no longer wish she she had been different and more like everyone else. I see now that she was a beautiful and special soul, unique in her ability to overlook the failings of others. What we all saw of her was exactly who she was. She never spoke unkindly even when nobody might have heard a catty remark. I wish I had told her how much I admired her. I wish I had not been so busy trying to shield her from the ugliness that I saw. From her I learned that people are wonderful even with their gaping flaws. She loved them in spite of themselves even as I suspected it hurt her deep down in her heart. She was love at its finest and a role model that I would do well to follow.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 