Mother’s Day

. . . Forgiveness, where there is love, is not a very difficult thing. A child comes before his mother, having offended her a thousand times, and asks her forgiveness. There is no other to go to. It does not take a moment for the heart of the mother to forgive. Forgiveness was waiting there to be manifested. One cannot help being kind when there is feeling. A person whose feeling goes out to another strikes a note of sympathy in every person; the person finds the point of contact in every soul they meet, because they have love. There are people who say, “But is it not unwise to give oneself in outgoing tenderness to everyone, because people are not trustworthy ?” I should say, “If a person is good and kind, this goodness ought to be manifested to everyone, the doors of the heart should not be closed.” 

–Hazrat Inayat Khan

Sulamith Wulfing

I was just looking into my bathroom mirror while blowing my hair dry after a shower, and it occurred to me that even though I never wanted it to, it has, especially in recent years, come to look very much like my mother’s hair, with which she struggled endlessly, trying to get it to do what she wanted it to.  She visited the hairdresser at least once a week, as reasonably affluent ladies did in those days, but she basically had the same hairstyle throughout my life, no matter what she did, and I’m fairly sure she wasn’t all that thrilled with it.  And this has become true of me, when I reached the age where I left behind my hippie persona and stopped having waist-long hair that I usually bent over from the waist and wound into a knot on the top of my head, at least on humid days.  Finally, in my late thirties, I went along with that Southern mandate that says women of a certain age should not have long hair; and now it is short and perky, except that….it is a hell of a lot of trouble to keep it that way (at least on humid days).  Did I mention that I live in Piedmont NC?

Anyway, as I stood there trying to get my hair to go in the direction I wanted it to, I thought of all this, and was reminded of a story told by the folksinger Greg Brown.  He said that at a certain point in his life, he found a hat he really, really liked, and although he wasn’t a “hat person,” he just liked that hat.  He then spoke of his father, who had been quite a conservative fellow when he was young, and then embraced Bahai in his later years, and his life kind of began to open out.  One day, he went to meet his father at the airport wearing his cool new hat, and lo and behold! his father had a hat on too, and “It was the same damned hat!”  The moral of the story was, of course, you can spend your whole life trying not to be like your parents, but “it’s gonna happen eventually.”  And, of course, it has.  In more ways than I care to name, I have become my mother.  Damn.

Now, this reminds me of another story, one from that wonderful old sitcom “WKRP in Cincinnati.”  Remember Venus Flytrap?  One day, he met the station owner, the mother of the station manager, one of those controlling sorts of mothers, who browbeat her son endlessly.  Venus, upon meeting her, remarked, “That was a mean little mama.”  Well, I’m afraid that was true of my mother, too.  I happen to be a mental health professional, and I can say with some authority that she probably had what is called Narcississtic Personality Disorder, and she was, indeed, mean-spirited and self-centered.  She was also a severe alcoholic.  When I was younger, I was vaguely aware that all this probably had to do with what I was sure had been both sexual and physical abuse at the hands of her father, a “mean little man” if there ever was one, and now that she’s moved on, I can feel more empathy for her, but while she was alive, I was never quite able to forgive her for values I considered to be basically lacking in humanity and her emotional and physical neglect of her children when they were too young to know that “mother’s moods” meant Mother had probably been consuming that bottle of Jim Beam I had recently found hidden in a shoebox in the basement.  I grew up to become an addictions therapist (what a surprise!), and I heard many stories from children of alcoholics about coming home and finding their parent passed out somewhere (usually on the couch in her case, where she spent most of her time) and cleaned up the vomit and tried to help their parent…endlessly.  Not me, folks.  I left her there when I came home from school and found her passed out in the side yard.  Truth to tell, I hated her, because when she was trying to be sober, she was mean, and when she was drunk, she was a complete, ineffectual fool.  In between times, she wore designer clothes and craved whatever Vogue told her she should crave, but complained about every penny spent on her children, except the expense of making us look like the upscale Presbyterian Republicans we were supposed to style ourselves as.  No wonder I grew up to become a hard-line Liberal who leans toward Eastern religions!  In fact, I suppose I should thank her for that.  What doesn’t kill us will cure us, as the saying goes . . .

Of course, what goes around, comes around.  I actively pursued the “geographical cure” for most of my adult life, running around the world and going in and out of relationships, and my first husband was eventually diagnosed with the features that have plagued the child we had, and my first marriage was a disaster.  But I learned from that, and there are numerous posts here about these topics (“Always Endings,” “Living Forgiveness,” etc.), and the painful relationship I had with that first child, a relationship which has culminated in the loss of two grandchildren so far, to say nothing of the necessity I finally accepted, that of unconditionally loving my daughter from afar, a stage it took me nearly 40 years to reach.  I’m a slow learner, but eventually I get it.  I did a few things right, though:  after one disastrous marriage and a string of semi-disastrous relationships, I met the wonderful soul I’ve been married to for 25+ years now, and we had a second daughter, one who seems to inherited sufficient of her father’s genes to be a sweet, clear, bright and calm soul who goes from success to success.  We packed her off to grad school a week or two ago, and my husband I are going back and forth between “empty-nest syndrome” and “oh, how good it is to be on our own for the first time.”  Life is, overall, good, and I may be a slow learner, but I’m starting to get at least a few things.

But about this business of inheriting more of our parents than we’d really like to.  I’d like to think that although I’m more like my mother than I ever wanted to be, perhaps the ways I’m like her are not so important as the ways I’m not like her.  One can only hope.  As to my daughters, I notice that the daughter I’ve found myself unable to be with personally inherited her own interpretations of many of the painful wounds I carried during her early childhood.  I’m sorry for that, and I did my best to keep it from happening.  It would be tempting to think that there is some element of decision in what we choose to carry throughout life as the burdens that bring both growth and pain, but I don’t know that for sure.  And I do think that not all of us have the same degree of decision-making ability as others.  Thus, I don’t know what to do except try my best to keep a physical distance but a heart-closeness in prayerful well-wishing for that daughter and her little family.

Two different fathers.  Two different daughters.  My younger daughter is whole.  She can give and receive love.  She is kind to a fault and smart and funny and is, generally, an “old soul.”  When she was small, I often called her my “Baby Buddha.”  She had a lot to deal with, but instead of letting it break her, she is letting it make her great.  She is my dearest friend and will always be my divine child.

It occurs to me that where I am going with this is into the “nature vs. nurture” realm.  I was the “real” child of two parents who supposedly could not have a baby for nine years, adopted one and then had me.  Like my own daughter’s big sister, that adopted big sister never let me forget it, and had severe antisocial mental health issues throughout her life, although she died a number of years ago.

What goes around . . . well, you know the rest.

Life, as I’ve said here before, is about accepting the unacceptable.  I’ve learned that while I can’t “fix’ everything I’d like to fix, I can learn to stop doing the things that perpetuate my problems.  If there is anything I will have to regret when this particular phase is over, it will be that I was not able to be kind enough to my own mother.  At the time, I thought it was because if I gave her a single inch of compassion, she would swallow me whole, and with her problems, there was probably some truth in that.  But I can’t help wishing I had had more generosity toward both my parents.

Shortly after my mother died, we were driving to the beach she loved one day, and I “saw” her, somehow, coming through a flowery, arched gate.  She was “dressed to the nines,” of course, and she looked terrified.  I had the sense that she was in good hands and heavily supervised, whatever that might mean.

All blessings to you, Mom.  I’m sorry I wasn’t great enough to help you.

Once I was a Grandmother


WordPress provides me with these “stats,” daily, weekly and monthly, that give me some idea of how many people are reading this blog, who they might possibly be, how they get here, etc., etc. . . . It also tells me what I write that people tend to read most, and although I suppose this is a “Sufi blog,” I post some personal observations here as well, and the most popular one is the one I wrote when I became a grandmother.  Clearly there are lots of people out there who have become grandmothers and want to hear how it is for other grandmothers.  I remember it well, although currently, I suppose I’m not a grandmother.

I wrote two posts here called “Always Endings” ( and “Living Forgiveness” ( and I imagine it was fairly obvious that the persons they were about were my oldest daughter and my first grandchild.  Recently someone read them and commented to me that they had the tones of a “Greek tragedy,” and I suppose that could be a valid statement, but to me they were terribly important, because they were about the most profound and painful spiritual lesson I’ve ever had to learn, the one called “accepting the unacceptable.”  It happens to most of us sooner or later:  someone dies unexpectedly and possibly violently, someone terribly important to us leaves us, we are traumatized in some way…any or all of the above.  And there is nothing we can do about it.  Nothing.  If you read the definition of “posttraumatic stress disorder” in the DSM-IV-TR of the American Psychiatric Association, you will note that the most prominent features of such an event are their unexpectedness and the fact they are completely uncontrollable.  We like to believe, in this world, that we have control over what happens to us:  if I get enough exercise, eat enough flaxseed, meditate daily, save enough money, etc., etc., etc. . . . all will be well.  But it isn’t always, is it?  Sometimes things happen that are so unexpected, so uncontrollable, so utterly unacceptable. . . and they just are.  We are backed into the corner.  Don’t have a leg to stand on.  Can’t do nuthin’ about it.  All we can do is to try to make something of the pain.  To make friends with it.  To let it stand for something.  Hopefully, to let it make us great.

Well, that’s what happened when I “broke up” with my oldest daughter and my first grandchild.  After 33 years of trying to rain on the desert . . . I stopped.  I truly believed it was my only choice, and I still believe that.  When I made the decision, I’m sure my daughter will never understand this, but I made it because I felt that she would never be able to become the person she really wants to become as long as she continued to hold me in a death grip, alternately tearing away piece by piece of my heart and clutching me to her in overwhelming waves of rage and love-hatred.  The first book I read about what have been called borderline personalities was that classic “I Hate You:  Don’t Leave me!” by Kreisman.  The first time I saw it, I sensed that the title said it all, and after those years with my daughter, I still think so.  I was a sitting duck for the experience I had:  I was raised by two personality-disordered parents, and my first husband–the father of this girl–had the same diagnosis she eventually did, so I was probably the worst possible parent she could have had.  I was the classic codependent.  And she never forgave me for it, nor let me forget it for a moment.  I’m sure she feels the same about me.  And I’m sure that, on some deep level, because we bonded like a real mother and child when she was young, neither of us will ever get over it.  Yet finally, it was time to leave, and so I did.  I had this granddaughter by then, too, and our whole family loved her dearly, for which her mother could not forgive us, because she continued all the years I knew her to believe that none of us loved her, because none of us could ever give her what she thought she wanted, something that I’m not sure she ever figured out.

Breaking up didn’t solve much, of course, although I continue to hope and pray that it will help her draw herself together and love her child well.  As for us, her “family of origin,” I don’t think any of us expects ever to truly resolve this, although I am grateful for the first time I’ve ever had to myself to live and grow and heal:  the first time in my life, really.  I had, during the “terrible years,” married a wonderful man, and we had a second lovely, wonderful daughter who was kind enough to show me that I could love and be loved normally and wholey, and who, to this day, is my best friend.  The break-up affected my husband and that daughter profoundly too, of course:  my second daughter has had time to find herself as a person without the constant message of “Mom loves you best, you’re the one who caused all these problems by being born, etc., etc., etc.,” the messages she needed to send her little sister’s way in order to bear herself during those years.  None of it was my daughter’s fault, truly:  she simply isn’t “wired” in what is considered to be a normal fashion, and her pain is much worse than any of ours; I truly believe that.  This is what I mean by “accepting the unacceptable.”  It is what it is, and it was what it was.  My good husband ran interference, and my second daughter and I did our best to survive.  I’m pretty sure that daughter will survive:  she has largely recovered, although it took her some time to learn to trust others; and she goes from strength to strength.  As for me, well, I too will and have survived, in the way that I can:  I have used these lessons I have learned, and my body bears the marks of the ongoing stress and trauma of raining 24 hours a day on the desert:  my immune system is compromised, and I have rheumatoid arthritis and fibromyalgia.  Nothing new there.

And. . . I’ve used this tragedy.  I won’t say what I said above, that I’ve “let it make me great.”  The results aren’t in on that one.  But there is much to be said for having one’s heart broken repeatedly and thoroughly.  There is much to be said for having no choice but to accept the unacceptable.  In this case, what that means is not only walking away from an adult daughter, but walking away from an innocent child who loved me and her aunt and her grandpa.  I didn’t know whether her mother would be able to care for her adequately.  Her marriage had already broken up, and I didn’t have much respect for the father, either.  And they, in turn, had demonized me quite thoroughly.  It is all my fault.

Accepting the unacceptable.  Accepting being misunderstood, over and over again.  Accepting being hated by someone who was my first experience of the Divine Child, when I held her in my arms at birth and got up with her at night and walked her to school and mothered her endlessly, to no avail.  Living with having to walk away from a child I adored, not knowing whether she would survive her upbringing at the hands of someone with such profound problems.

Saying goodbye.

It’s been over a year now, and yesterday I was in her old neighborhood for the first time in those months.  We had avoided all the places that bore such poignant memories for us, but yesterday we drove by the house.  We didn’t know if she still lived there.  The father had sent us a blank email with the subject line “she’s moved,” because for awhile we tried to send cards and little gifts to our grandchild, and I guess they couldn’t allow us even that small pleasure.  I knew that there would come a time when we would run into them, and I knew it would be unbearable, but I hoped it wouldn’t happen before I could bear it.

But yesterday, when we drove by, the yard was neat.  Everything looked pleasant and lived-in, instead of that certain disarray that always illustrated the only atmosphere this young woman could seem to live in.

Except for one thing:  in the backyard, I could see my grandchild’s little “turtle sandbox.”  You’ve seen them.  In fact, I had bought one just like it for her mother when her mother was little.

So I have been suffering quietly since then, and suffering is good.  It is possible that good may eventually come from this tragedy.  It is possible that this little girl will grow up happy and whole.  It is possible that some day her mother will find herself.  And I can use this experience:

Out of the shell of the broken heart emerges the new-born soul.  –Inayat Khan

Once I was a grandmother.

Always Endings

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.  –Normal Maclean


Each one of us here today will at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question:  we are willing help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed?  For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us.  Either we don’t know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted.  And so it is those we live with and should know who elude us.  But we can still love them:  we can love completely without complete understanding. –The Reverend Maclean in “A River Runs Through It”

There is a person in my life who I have tried to love for many years.  She is a beautiful, creative, wonderful person who sees things differently from most of us, and try as I might, I have never been able to see through her eyes–or rather, even when I have been able to, what I have seen is not what she wants me to see–and so I have, over time, worn myself out trying to love her enough to heal her.  I come by this sort of endeavor honestly, because I was raised by parents who were what is commonly called personality-disordered, which to my way of thinking means that they were unable to give or receive love.  Of course, there are many more clinical definitions and qualifications for this particular problem with living, and as a psychologist, I know them;  but that is the one I would say really describes it.  For a child, new to the world and lacking in knowledge of human relationship, to be parented by such a person can be a very confusing and traumatic thing, and I would say that the worst part of it is that the child will tend to think that the way their parents are is the way people in general are, and unless there is something–or someone–to present a comparative picture of  “normalcy,” it is a very difficult way to grow up.  Of course, unless one lives at the ends of the earth in a completely unpopulated place, there are always people around who can show a child the difference, and I kept myself sane by reading books that taught me how to live–those wonderful classics that taught me about morality and humanity, The Wind in the Willows, Little Women, etc. . . .  and I remember a few people who came and went in my life who showed me that things could be different.  Yet I suppose I got in the habit of trying to emulate the Buddha and “rain on the just and the unjust,” and was poorly equipped for it for much of my life.  Thus, I grew up a starved and codependent person, and was foolish enough about relationship that I married a man who had most of the same qualities my parents had, and went on to draw into my life many people who were the same, and I kept trying to rain on the desert, and it just didn’t work.  By the time I reached my thirties, I was a very, very tired person indeed.  It was during these years that this person I mention here came into my life.

There are various kinds of relationships, and some of them we can relinquish if we realize they are not getting us–or the other person–anywhere, and there are others that aren’t going to go away no matter what choices we make.  You can draw your own conclusions about that one; the fact is that it is one of the latter, and I cannot say more about the person with whom I am in this relationship.   Yet I tried and I tried and I tried, and in the trying, I turned myself into a person who kind of became a sitting duck for people like my parents and my first husband and this young woman.  In fact, I became an excellent scapegoat . . . until I stopped.

Well, we do grow, right?  My spiritual teacher found me and I found him when I was in my late teens, and through his willingness to take the fall(s) for me and his unwillingness to give up on me, along with numerous other relationships and a growing spiritual practice, I finally realized that I was tired of trying to rain on the desert, and I decided that I wanted relationships in my life that were reciprocal.  I began to work with my tendency to draw miserable relationships into my life and I began to hold out for happy, loving ones.

It worked.  I have a loving, happy marriage now, and a family I feel loved by, people who are able to receive love as well as give it.

Yet this person is still in my life, and I am at a crossroads concerning our relationship, being fully convinced that I have nothing to offer her that is of worth to her, yet still feeling bound to her.  The situation is further complicated because now she has a child, and that child has become my friend and someone I care for deeply, and thus I am caught in two webs of meaning that I can neither understand nor fix.  As to the person I speak of here, she is convinced that I must give her something, anything, everything . . . but she isn’t sure what that is that she wants, and as soon as she thinks she has it figured out, it . . . changes.

Is it ever alright to walk away from a relationship?  Inayat Khan wrote a little poem on this topic:


Before one becomes sharp and the other blunt,
Before one is hot and the other cold,
Before one doubts and the other suspects,
Before one gives up his confidence and the other his trust,
It is time that they left one another.

Before one closes his eyes and the other his ears,
Before one turns his head and the other his back,
Before one talks and the other disputes,
Before one is in wrath and the other in rage,
It is time that they left one another. –Inayat Khan


I’ve always thought of it as “the divorce poem,” because that is the obvious topic this poem speaks to, but what about other relationships?  Friendships, for instance, or parental ones?  What about relationships with people who are chronic addicts, or personality-disordered people, as discussed above?  Relationships where, no matter what one tries and does, for no matter how long, the other person simply cannot receive the love that is offered, who cannot see, cannot hear, and is bound to get even for the terrible lack they feel?  How do we be with someone who simply–often through no fault of their own–cannot be in relationship to us, yet holds us in a death-grip in the awful belief that they need us?  I think most “normal” people would walk away, finally, would probably wish the person well, but move on to other things and people they feel they can offer something to.

With my background, of course, I am not “other people.”  I am carefully trained to feel that it is my fault if the other person cannot feel my love, cannot respond to it and make use of it and give it back.  And so, I have kept trying for well over 30 years in this case, and I find myself at this aforementioned crossroads, considering where my duty lies.  I am well aware that my “sins” are many, that I have done many things wrong where this person is concerned, and I am also aware that my compulsive clinging to the relationship, my need to fix it has done a great deal of harm to others who love me, who have felt drained by my ongoing need to help this person, to bring her in and out of our lives, to allow her to follow me and cling to me and beat me up mercilessly for some sin I still cannot name (or that has a million names), but am fairly sure is the one that says she can’t love herself;  and therefore, it must be my fault.  This young woman lives her life in intense and histrionic pain, and she is the center of it, and her pain is such that she cannot conceive of any other person, situation or thing so important, so all-encompassing, so needful.   She goes from relationship to relationship, each time convinced that she has found the person who will fill her agonizing, aching, emptiness, beating them away with her wings when they can’t do it (if they don’t flee first).  She brings animals and friends and things into her life, hoping they will fill the void . . . and they don’t, and therefore must be thrown away, sacrifices on the altar of her terrible, aching emptiness.  It goes on and on, and I see no reason to think that it will end any time soon, although I remain hopeful that someday she will find what she needs.

But there is me.  Well, I’m not worth much (just ask her), but I do have others within my enfoldment, and I have work I want to do and have tried to do with the limited amount of energy she leaves me, and I have this inner life that saves me while I try to save her, and the thing is, I keep getting tireder and tireder, and it keeps getting harder and harder to stay inspired to do my work, while she continues to demand my love and reject it on a daily, often momentary basis, loudly and vociferously letting me know that what I try to offer her is unacceptable to her.  Over these last years, I have developed some of the physical problems that people in these kinds of situations develop:  fibromyalgia, rheumatoid arthritis, auto-immune problems. . .  But they are never as serious as the never-ending string of physical and emotional problems she has, problems that keep her from giving to her life (and the responsibilities of her life) its due.

I may have mentioned here:  I am a sucker for a child.  Having been a child who grew into a person who is still astonished to have survived her childhood at all, I am prone to try to rescue children who come within my enfoldment from the kind of starved, exhausting childhood I had.

Perhaps some of you reading this know such persons.  They are so often beautiful, creative, intelligent persons, yet they are persons who seem to implode the atmosphere in a room just by walking into it.  One feels that there is no space for one in a room where one of these people is.  For me, well-trained as I am, I have an extremely accurate radar that starts beeping the minute I come near a person like this, and in this particular case, I have, by now, thoroughly convinced myself that no matter what move I make, what words I say, how I say them, what I do . . . they will be the wrong ones, and I will again be beaten up and thrown aside…until I am wanted again, whereupon the same thing will repeat itself.

Where does my responsibility lie?  Do I get to choose me and my family over her endless needs, and–here is where I stop–the needs of her child?  For if I walk away from her, I walk away from the child, because that is the price I will be made to pay.  This has been made clear to me again and again.

And so I pray.  And I try to love without understanding.  In the film quoted from above, A River Runs Through It, there is a difference, because the person the Rev. Maclean is referring to is his son, an alcoholic and a gambler, a kind of puer aeternus, who is not of a particularly demanding nature, but is more inclined to remain remote from his closest relationships.  The conundrum is the same in both cases, however, in that one and in this one where the person says “gimme, gimme, gimme” but cannot receive and cannot give back . . . and cannot and will not hear.

And now, I am considering walking away, for the last time. I have tried this many times before, you understand, and have not succeeded.  I almost succeeded the last time, but she got pregnant, so I, the Eternal Mommy, got sucked in again.

Yet it is time.  It is past time.  It is time I stopped acting as a sort of psychic doppelganger, lending my being to her, since she cannot muster up any of her own, eternally failing to save enough for myself and my family.  Failing myself and my own purpose in this world in the interest of giving her–eternally–one more chance.  And so I named this essay “Always Endings,” because that’s what we always have, and it is invariably joined immediately with another beginning, when “things are going to be different.”

No longer will I be screamed at in public places.  No more will I receive long emails detailing my faults, calling me filthy names and beating me down, down, down in the hopes that I will reach her perceived level.  No more will I tiptoe around, trying desperately–and always failing–to say and do the right thing.  No one can do the sidestep like I can!  Yet it never works, and the only thing that works worse is when I finally indulge myself in losing my temper and saying what I really feel . . .   And paying the price for that.  Again and again I promise myself:  no more will I buy what I can’t afford, give what I don’t want to give, say what I don’t want to say, do what I don’t want to do, in the hopes that these things will be received and loved and I will be thanked for them.

No more.

No more.

No more.

Always endings, and finally, someday,




A new beginning.

There is always hope.  When Norman Maclean’s brother was finally murdered over some gambling debts, his family had to come to terms with his death, and their inability to help him:


As time passed, my father struggled for more to hold on to, asking me again and again: had I told him everything.  And finally I said to him, “maybe all I know about Paul is that he was a fine fisherman.”

“You know more than that,” my father said: “he was beautiful.” And that was the last time we spoke of my brother’s death.  —Norman Maclean


I am considering allowing a relationship to die, and when it does,  I will go through much the same process, and I will know that this young woman was beautiful, but never knew it, and to date, never would.  I will have to live with that.


Below him was the multitudinous river, and, where the rock had parted it around him, big-grained vapor rose. The mini-molecules of water left in the wake of his line made momentary loops of gossamer, disappearing so rapidly in the rising big-grained vapor that they had to be retained in memory to be visualized as loops. The spray emanating from him was finer-grained still and enclosed him in a halo of himself. The halo of himself was always there and always disappearing, as if he were candlelight flickering about three inches from himself. The images of himself and his line kept disappearing into the rising vapors of the river, which continually circles to the tops of the cliffs where, after becoming a wreath in the wind, they became rays of the sun. –Norman Maclean


Perhaps relationship, like souls, are like the rays of the sun, always being drawn in and always unfurling, over and over and over again, which is why the sun comes back every morning.  Perhaps beyond our concept of time, the relationship that recedes will inevitably unfold again . . . out of time.  In the right time.