I was only 16 years old when I noticed my mother starting to act different. She lost her way in the streets more often than usual and her foreign language skills that I always admired faded away. She was 45 and my father had died just a year before, very unexpectedly. His death was an incredible shock for all of us, but the way my mother processed this pain and loss would mark her gradual disappearance from this world and from being my mother. When she died of the devastating effects of 6 years of pre-senile dementia I spoke on her funeral, saying that on that occasion only the last percent of her died; the rest had disappeared over the period of these 6 years. Years in which I grew up as an adolescent and later student. Trying to find my way in life without parents, and being rather successful in that, the situation with my mother felt like a burden. I felt obliged to visit my mother in the nursing home, where she went when I was 19, but I was abhorred with everything in ” that place”; the smells, the sounds, the whole ambiance and in the middle of that the woman that used to be my mother but was rapidly losing my respect and unable to connect with me. Many years later I realized (in therapy) that I was actually angry with both my parents of ” leaving me ” so early…
Now, 30 years (!!) later, the message of “Moving your soul” is impacting me with sadness and shame. How little I tried to connect with my mother in those days when it would still be possible albeit in a different way. How selfish I “gave myself permission” to visit her maximum only an hour per week by concluding “that that shaking woman in a wheelchair was not really my mother anymore”. Fact is that I had no clue that another perspective was possible. I didn’t have the awareness that many years of maintaining a loving connection were still possible and would not only have honoured my mother but even more the existential parental bond between her and me. I didn’t have the skills nor the maturity and courage to connect with her in more creative ways and to meet her in the deep fears that probably have produced her ongoing anxiety.
With years passing by my empathy with my mother in that nursing home grew and with it the feelings of guilt of not having been the loving son she deserved.
A few years ago I was with a Zulu guide on a trail in the jungle of South Africa. He told me that Zulus believe that ancestors can speak to us when they want through the wind and the rain. Some days later, during a gentle breeze to practice meditation I climbed in a tree, lay down myself on a branch and closed my eyes. For the first time in my life in a dream my mother came to me while the wind gentle moved my branch. She smiled and kissed me and said that she always had understood and forgiven my behaviour and that nothing was served by punishing myself. Finally I reconciled with this painful scar.