When I got back from the stress and confusion of my stepfather’s near-death, I dropped my bag on the counter, my keys in their dish, and called both my kids. I told them that most of all I had learned that I want an authentic relationship with them. That I need to be able to hear what they feel and tell them the same in return. That I will work towards this myself. That nothing they could tell me would cause my destruction.
As a young mother, with young kids, authentic means responding to their needs as best you can. As an older mother, with grown kids, authentic changes.
The day will come when I will be near death, and if we aren’t living in a habitual structure of truth by then, it will be difficult to construct on the spot.
My kids weren’t sure they knew what I meant, or if I meant what I said. Now we’re practicing. The early stages of anything new involves trying too hard, failing to understand failure, failing to understand success, and self-questioning. I’m well aware of my shortcomings and wish I could make my way through life in grace like witches in their glittered gowns. I’m thinking Glinda, you know, arriving in her bubble after the house falls on the Wicked Witch of the West? But I meant what I said. I still mean it. I intend to mean it tomorrow, too.
Have a wonderful weekend.