It's Official. I'm the Worst Mother in the World

Two weeks ago I dropped my one and only child off at college and I haven’t looked back. I’ve called him once — just once! —  to make sure he was alive. (He is.) But otherwise I haven’t obsessed or worried or even shed a tear. There must be something fatally wrong with me. Right?

1st day of kindergarten

For years, I dreaded the day Jack would leave my home and go off to college. Sure, I wanted my son to succeed, but the thought of my only kid leaving me made me queazy. 

This was the boy I taught to fish and play tennis, spent untold hours reading bedtime stories, playing Hot Wheels and building elaborate tracks for Thomas the Tank Engine. But thankfully, children grow up slowly -- and there's this thing called puberty that really helps you detach, or at least put some distance between you and your son's stinky feet.

In January, when Jack was accepted to his first-choice college, Auburn, with an academic scholarship to boot, reality kicked in. My son was leaving me behind to begin living a life that largely would not include me. The thought made me sad. 

But then I realized … it was just a thought. And a thought in and of itself  has no power over me — or shouldn’t — unless I give it power. And often I do. 

My thought goes like this: “Jack is leaving me behind! He doesn’t need me anymore. I will be alone.” But that’s not true. Yes, my son is leaving to go to college, and I am not going to move into his dorm room with him. (And everyone is really happy about that.) And he doesn’t need me anymore in the way he did when he was younger. (Thank God.) Nor will he be living under my roof 24/7. (Again, thank you!) 

A more accurate thought is this: “Jack is moving towards his own goals and dreams which don’t need to include me, which is healthy. And I am moving towards my goals and dreams which don’t always include him, which is also healthy.” (The “I will be alone” statement is just over-the-top melodrama. I mean, I could be alone if I want to be alone, but that’s also a choice I make.)

When it comes down to it, all my attitudes are a choice. I can choose to look at a turn of events as a loss or a gain. I can choose to be happy for my son and for myself in this new stage of our lives, or I can choose to be nostalgic and maudlin. Why would I want to choose to be miserable when my son is experiencing a sense of accomplishment? Why would I want to dwell on the negative when it’s just as easy to find the good? 

First day of college

Last Wednesday, as I made the two hour drive home from Auburn after depositing Jack and his worldly goods on campus, I considered how easy it would be to feel sad. But I chose to feel satisfied, contented, even happy for him and for myself. After all, sending a kid to college is a great accomplishment even under the best conditions; and we had, shall I say, our share of challenges along the way. 

So no, I’m not sad about Jack’s departure. I don’t feel lonely or depressed. The dreaded day came and went and I’m relieved and happy that he’s on his way to adulthood. I almost feel guilty for not feeling sad. Almost. Instead I’m happy with the knowledge that our lives are unfolding exactly as they should. This is what Buddhists call non-attachment. Although it may sound crass it is actually a form of unconditional love. Imagine that?

I certainly didn’t always make the best choices as Jack was growing up. In fact, I made some really bad ones along the way. But somehow it seems that maybe, just maybe, I’m not the worst mother in the world after all.

Hooked on a Feeling

We were looking for the perfect end-of-the-summer activity and we found it: the latest Marvel blockbuster, Guardians of the Galaxy. I admit, I'd never heard of these heroes before I saw the movie trailer earlier this year—and I was only in it for the smack-talking raccoon.

There's something about hairy ...
Image compliments of Marvel Studios,
 Guardians of the Galaxy

Although this latest cinematic installment of Marvel comic series seems an unlikely place to find Buddhist teachings, as it turns out, we have a lot to learn from a genetically modified, wise-cracking, machine-gun totin' raccoon.  But first, I have to say I haven't been this swept away in the pure fun of a film since George Lucas premiered a little ditty called Star Wars in 1977.  With its overt and subtle tributes to the original space epic and its crazy, perfect soundtrack to my youth, Guardians of the Galaxy transported me back to a time not so long ago but far, far away.

On the surface, the film follows a familiar trope. Boy is tragically orphaned. Boy meets fate. Boy is transformed. In this case, young Peter Quill is abducted by an alien ship helmed by a blue-faced incarnation of Merle from The Walking Dead (both characters played by my favorite anti-hero, Michael Rooker,) and turns up 20 years later as an able-bodied space looter.

We're introduced to grown-up Quill (played by Parks and Recreation's Chris Platt) in a scene that borrows pacing and attitude from another George Lucas classic starring Harrison Ford, Raiders of the Lost Arc, Quill (Chris Platt) is chasing down a very valuable trinket called the Orb when he's set upon by some space baddies. With a heap of Han Solo bravado, Quill makes off with the treasure only to discover that his problems are just beginning. Yes, when he lands in a prison reminiscent of Jabba's basement, things seem to really go down hill, but that's what makes for the best possible epic adventure, right?

Of course, there's no better place than prison to meet up with the other component necessary for epic cinematic swashbuckling: a ragtag team of unlikely co-conspirators. Quill's Fellowship of the Orb includes Rocket, a genetically modified raccoon (voiced by Bradley Cooper,) Groot, a hulking sentient tree (Vin Diesel's best role ever!) , a green hottie assassin princess (Zoe Salanda)—not to be confused with anyone named Leia,—and a tattooed bad ass (WWE champ Dave Bautista.) The ensemble cast—and characters—play well together. But since we're mixing Star Wars metaphors here, actually Rocket and Groot steal the show as the new Han and Chewie. As previously mentioned, I fell in love with Rocket at first sight, and my feelings were not mis-spent.

And then there's the Guardians soundtrack. Quill's beloved Awesome Mixed Tapes pushed all my happiness buttons. I mean, come on! I had an awesome mixed tape of my own back in the late 70s. My prize possession back then wasn't a Sony Walkman (as featured in Guardians) but a Sony cassette recorder. Crazy though it seems today, that hunk of electronics was a phenomenon at the time. I loved that recorder and spent many happy hours poised beside my sisters' stereo waiting for Dream Weaver or I'm Not in Love to come on the local top 40 station and so I could quickly mash down the blue record button and capture the soundtrack to my teenage angst. But I digress ...

It's nice to have a little nostalgia to hang onto because Guardians of the Galaxy has a lot of not so nice villains who could use a pina colada and a walk in the rain. Things start to look very grim indeed when Baddie McBadderton, Ronan the Accuser (Lee Pace), gets hold of the Orb and its powerful contents and sets about the task of micromanaging the galaxy's next Big Bang. In the midst of the imminent galactic destruction, as our heroes—the would-be Guardians—find themselves facing certain death, Quill, digs deep and rallies his companions in a very Buddhist way.

"I look around at us ... you know what I see?  Losers!" he says, sounding like a coach shouting the classic down-by-a-gazillion-to-one  at half-time speech, but he has something else in mind (or the skillful screenwriter does at least.) "I mean, (we're) like, folks who have lost stuff. And we have. Man we have — all of us. Our homes. Our families. Normal lives. And usually life takes more than it gives, not not today. Today it's given us something. It's given us a chance ... To give a shit for once and not run away."

And this is the line in the movie that turns the tide and rallies our heroes. It takes another 45 minutes of crazy CGI action and plot twists and great one-liners, but the unlikely companions do get another chance to right the wrongs done unto them—and by them.

Quill is right. We are ALL losers. We all experience profound loss, sometimes on a daily basis. Sometimes it's big, like the death of a friend or family member or the end of a marriage or demise of a career. But most often it's the small loses, like the passing of a sweet era of childhood. The latter is particularly relevant for me today as Jack enters 7th grade and I relinquish the last of his pre-teen days. As a parent, you look forward to the time when your child will walk and talk and propel himself through the world on his own volition, but when the day comes ... it feels too soon.

And yet, through losses great and small, we experience the death of ourselves (our egos) and this is, ultimately, essential for spiritual gain. Letting go is what allows growth through transformation. Like the Guardians, I have to set aside my resentment and sorrow and self-pity and self-centered interests and let go of my idea of how my life is supposed to go so that I can have that chance to feel the loss and the joy that life provides and not run away from reality. And that requires consciousness.

We live in a society that promotes winning and winners, and to admit that I'm a loser is well, so losery. And yet, in the end, we are ALL losers and this is really, really good news because only when I accept that  loss and death are part of a natural (some might say Divine) process, can I have a chance at true and sustainable happiness. I may not be able to save the galaxy, but everyday—correction—every moment, I have that chance to awaken and right myself. (And to think it all started with a talking raccoon.)

Threadbare and lovin' it

"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby."

Recently I was invited to join the faculty of an organization called the Institute for Conscious Being. At first I thought they had the wrong number. I found myself teaching a writing course and surrounded by an incredibly brilliant group of people. Faculty members include an Episcopal priest, a Catholic nun, an Harvard-trained clinical psychologist and a New York Times best-selling author. (Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, right? As in, "A priest, a nun and a psychologist went into a bar...")  I have to say it's a dream come true. Four years ago, I was an unemployed editor struggling with divorce and some very difficult issues. How in the world did I end up here? I believe I arrived at this very wonderful destination by owning up to my true self.

The Institute uses the principles of the Enneagram as a method for discovering one’s true spiritual self.  And no, despite it's odd-sounding name, the Enneagram has nothing to do with witchcraft or the occult and it's not a parlor game. (Read more about it here—and take the free assessment.) 

The idea behind the Enneagram is that we all are born in divine perfection and over the years, we put on all sorts of armor to shield us from the crappy things that happen to us along the way. For example, I'm six years old, and my beloved cat runs away and I'm inconsolable. Boom! Up goes armor. My dad has to work and misses my performance in the school play. Armor up! My best friend puts a preying mantis in my Snoopy lunch box then makes fun of  me while I scream my head off in the lunchroom. Armor! After my first date, I make out with the boy and then he tells everyone that I'm the worst kisser in the world. You guessed it—up goes the armor! 

These are minor offenses, of course. You can imagine (or know) what happens when really terrible things happen, when family members die, or you're abused or abandoned by a parent. The armor goes up and we learn to respond to life in a manner than seems to relieve the pain. Of course, this armor is ego. And ego is not an all-together evil thing, but often in the process of trying to protect ourselves, we buy into the ego self and set aside healthy and true aspects of our personality. Then, at some point in our lives (a-hem! often around middle age) when the old, unhealthy responses no longer bring relief—and in fact may be causing more harm—we finally look for a better way to live.

Returning to my authentic self seemed scary at first. I mean, I looked sorta cool in my armor. What if I'm just a big nerd beneath it all? And yet, only when I remove that hardened shell can I know what it means to be truly alive.

Last night, I was reminded of a beautiful story that encapsulates the concept of finding one's true self. This wisdom comes from a beloved children's book, The Velveteen Rabbit. In this passage the story's hero, the Velveteen Rabbit, is chatting with the Skin Horse, another toy/resident of the nursery where they live. Rabbit asks Horse what it means to be real.

“'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit. 

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.' 

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?' 

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.'” 

In her book, Daring Greatly, author and researcher Brene Brown describes this passage from Margery Williams' classic as "a beautiful reminder of how much easier it is to become real when we know we're loved." I respectfully submit the converse is also true: 

It's easier to be loved when we know we are real. 

Being real may not feel easier at first, but only when I'm my authentic, honest self am I truly lovable. Anything short of really real and you may love me, but your love will be on condition of my ability to keep up a facade. When I am 100% myself, I know I am loved unconditionally.

Maybe this is why people in mid-life (like me) tend to have identity crises. We are finally ready to get real. Certainly, at this point in my life, my hair is thinning, my eyes are getting weak (must get bifocals!), my joints creak and I'm a bit shabby, but my sharp edges have been worn smooth and I can no longer be broken quite so easily.