Small Victories by Anne Lamott

Author:Anne Lamott
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

Mom

Part Two: Nikki

My mother’s ashes sat on the shelf in the living room, wrapped in festive paper, for a few weeks longer. I passed her many times a day, until at some point I was occasionally able to smile at what a handful she had been. I had long ago given up all hope of ever feeling good about having had her as a mother. She was a mix of wrathful Old Testament opinion, terrified politeness, befuddled English arrogance—Hermione Gingold meets the dark Hindu goddess Kali. And God, she was annoying. I mean this objectively. You can ask my brothers, or her sister. I used to develop Parkinson’s-like tics in her presence. But over time, my heart softened, and then my mind hitched a ride. Most of who I have become is the result of both having had her as a foil and having her profound and neurotic intelligence inside me: as DNA, as memory; as all the weird lessons she taught, and the beautiful lessons, too—and they are the same.

I spent my whole life helping my mother carry around her psychic trunks, like a bitter bellhop. This great load was lifted only when she died, little by little, day by day.

For a long time, I did not miss her at all, but that damn crematory box that held her ashes remained. Slowly time softened my heart, and at some point I discovered that I had forgiven her for more and more things, although none of the big-ticket items—like having ever existed, for instance. And having lived so long. Still, the mosaic chips of forgiveness were a start. I saw snippets of progress: one day when I passed her box of ashes, I said nicely, “Hi, Mommy.” I’d find myself smiling at her when I passed, as if she were sitting there in person, reading. Here is what happened next.

America went to war in Iraq, and my pastor, Veronica, gave a brilliant sermon about how, with the war raging in the Middle East, now was not the time to figure everything out, like who was to blame, or whom we would vote for. It was not the time to get a new plan together and try to push it on through. It was time to be still, to get centered, to trust what we’ve always trusted in: friendship, kindness, helping the poor, feeding the hungry. So, having felt scattered for much of the past two years, I took Veronica’s words to heart, and began to get quiet whenever possible, to go for longer walks on the mountain, to sit in beggy prayer and fretful meditation. My mind kept thinking its harsh thoughts, but I’d distract myself from them gently and say, “Those are not the truth, those are not trustworthy, those are for entertainment purposes only.” Eventually I started having quieter thoughts about my mother, to see her through what the theologian Howard Thurman called “quiet eyes.” Not quiet eyes, yet, in my case. But quiet for me, and then quieter still.

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