we write to patch things up

I started my blog in April with an unexplained quote from MAE's "Embers and Envelopes". In it's own abstract way, it really helped kick start one of my proudest accomplishments of the year.

"We write to apologize
We ask you look past life as it goes by
I know you have sacrificed
Time, life, love
Time to fly
Please consider all things trite
Forgiveness will be the thing that gets us by
I know to have something like this broken is hard to fix
Embers, we're burning bridges down
Oh envelopes stuffed with feelings found
To write this down as means to reconcile"

Since major fallout nearly a decade ago, the relationship with my mother and I has been precarious at best. There were plenty episodes where some little thing she said ruined my whole day (or a series of them). And my adverse behavior had conditioned her to respond with "what's the matter" or "what's wrong" whenever she saw me coming or picked up my phone calls. I didn't like that. So this year's goal has been to befriend my mother. Seems like it should be easy enough, but scaling walls is never an easy task. Especially when it's primarily your own you have to get over.

One night after railing away at my sister about all the things I held turbulent grudges about, she adamantly recommended that I let a lot of it go. "Let it go? What do you mean, just let it go?" And let her get away with over two decades of imperfect parenting? Not likely. But I have always known that for any of my mother's not-so-brilliant decisions as a parent, she made them all in my best interests.

Among other things, my sister prescribed that I read 1 Corinthians 13, the definitive chapter in the Bible all about love, until it sunk in. Love is patient, love is kind, love keeps no record of wrongs, etc. Often read through grit teeth, it eventually took effect. After some time, I lost the strength in my hand to continue gripping the resentment.

I came to the conclusion, that just like I have habits I may never break for as long as I live, some things, my mother is never going to be good at. She may never put my home address down where she can remember to retrieve it. She may never learn how to get straight to the point and not repeat herself in conversation. She may never stop talking about the girlfriend I abandoned that she liked so much. She may always remind houseguests how wonderful I am now but how much she wanted to strangle me when I was 16. She may never realize that being forced to live with her shaped my perception of what being imprisoned in a bad marriage must be like. She may never understand why apologies would be necessary because she doesn't believe she did anything wrong in the first place. Although it frustrates me, maybe she's not the superwoman I believed her to be. Maybe she really is fallible and maybe her success as a parent has been serendipity that I mistook for assured expertise. I'm willing to accept this now.

I think about how I love my life now. I have friends and ambitions and significance as an individual. I've begun weaving what I would like to be my legacy. Then I wonder how after 30 or 35 years of establishing myself, some kid who looks and acts like me is gonna come along and out of plain ignorance, not realize I had a life before he showed up. Though he (or she) will look up to me as a father and role-model, the little darling will probably still take for granted that I'm a person beneath it all and I didn't just pop onto the scene already refined, stable, and ready to be a parent. So now at the age of 25, I'm trying to cut my mother some slack and send around what I want to come around: some understanding between me and my children that their dad wants the absolute best for them, but is never going to make 100% of his jump shots.

Neutralizing the latent tension in this relationship is something I think may be key to me building a happy marriage. This year to date, things have gone well. My mom doesn't dread my calls anymore. Sometimes she calls me and sometimes I even call her. Most times, I enjoy it. We've learned how to disagree without detonating. We can deal with touchy subjects without infuriating each other now. And today, she's my favorite person. Why? Because for she bought me a pumpkin pie for Christmas. :)

When I was growing up with my grandfather, he always made pumpkin pies during Thanksgiving. Traditionally, most black families don't eat pumpkin pie... "we" eat sweet potatoe. But I don't like sweet potatoe like that. It's too daggone sweet and I miss my Papa's pie. He tried to give me his recipe before he died, but I was off having a good time with my cousins and didn't want to be bothered. I could have torn my clothes and dusted my forehead with ashes when I realized the opportunity I'd missed.

I didn't ask for it for Christmas, but I just kinda said a little prayer as I was driving to Mom's house that God get her to bring me a pumpkin pie. When she did, I was bowled over. I could have cried over this desert nobody wanted but me. Our house full of guests passed over the buffet style layout like locusts and left the pie plastic-wrapped and still untouched.

There's more! She also got me the entire first season of Taxi on DVD. I love that show now, but I never watched as a child because when the theme song began wafting through the television at 11pm, it meant it was way past my bedtime. So the show's theme song became a lullaby to me. Now whenever I hear it, I feel warm and secure as if for 48 seconds of the opening, it's 1981 again and I'm safe at home with my grandparents in our old house with the fireplace blazing and nothing can possibly go wrong. I suppose if diamonds are a girl's best friend, my proverbial equivalent would be pumpkin pie and Taxi. So Mom's hit the jackpot.

"We write to patch things up
Maybe not to agree, but to proclaim love
Let's look ahead and then
We'll see the one whose glory never ends
And based on that we’ll see,
There'll be room for change, but gradually
I know to have something like this broken is hard to fix"

One of my married friends was talking to me about the book The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman. He commented on how there was a times when he was focused on working at his home office and his wife came in and brought him a sandwich. He was elated. That communicated to him that even though he was entrenched in this thing, she was right there with him to support. It was just a sandwich, but to him it was more. He also said there were times when she would come in and verbally laud him for being a good husband, acknowledge his efforts, and voice her appreciation. He confided to me, "[That's nice and all], but I'm still waitin' on my sandwich."

My mom probably doesn't realize the sentimental value of the things she gave me, but her presenting them to me means so much. For years, she pretty much did things the way she wanted to them done, and didn't place too much emphasis on "coming to my neighborhood" or "speaking my language", but what she did for me this year, though only totalling $38.59 with sales tax landed right in my backyard with a bow on it and really began to heal places that they haven't made medicine for yet.