Things which remind me of my mom are everywhere. Like markers. Like the trail of light that emanates from a lighthouse. The smell of bread, a mashed potato sandwich, every feminist I meet…
But tolerance is not a nice word, it implies a partial understanding of people, that we are ready to tolerate them, let them live in the periphery of our understanding, but not consider them our equal.
And no matter how much we try to be different from our parents, it’s amazing how we end up behaving just like them.
It’s not just us who are changing, evolving.. but also our parents. It takes years to realise that they didn’t know any better and did not deliberately set out to traumatise us. That they don’t have all the answers, no one does.
Running on loop in my mind, is the fact that mom is gone. One more year has passed, it’s been now three years. The grief, though, seems fresh as yesterday, even more poignant. It doesn’t even require an anniversary, every Saturday looms large and insurmountable, a remembrance of that fateful day when she passed on.
Innocence lies in the small things, stuff that you didn’t realise the significance to, until you lost it forever.
As I attended a session yesterday on feminism and surmounting abuse, I kept thinking of mom. Everyday that I go out and try to reclaim a bit of space for me, enter an uncharted territory where I am not welcome or speak up about women’s rights, I am following in her giant footsteps.
Expectations – Buddhism believes that they are the cause of great suffering. The expectation that your friends will always remain your friends, that they will be loyal to you, that the feeling of companionship will remain to the same extent over time.
A star exploding is so much like heartbreak.
In the larger scheme of things, she is somewhere out there, but she is irretrievably lost to me forever, like a child lost on her way home.