Ada, my mother, is not the greatest listener. And by not the greatest, I mean she listens not at all. When I was getting ready for school and eating breakfast in the kitchen, my mother would be bombarding me with questions while at the same time getting distracted by the crumbs on the counter, my notebook on the table or by the hairs that touched the back of her neck, “I think I’m allergic to my own hair, I can’t stand it touching me!!” (irony: she was a hair dresser). It is my conclusion that she never wanted to know the answer to her questions. She wanted to fill up dead air with whatever thought came into her mind.
“Do you have practice tonight Bridge? Are you going over to Allison’s after school Bridge? I cleaned those white shirts for you and used OxyClean to get out all the yellow in the armpits. There were a lot of those. Maybe you should try another deodorant. Do you see how dirty this kitchen is? I’m going to be late for work.”
Did you hear my answer to any of those questions in that monologue? No. Because Ada speaks in monologues. There would be times where I never actually said anything and she never actually noticed. I just sat there quietly eating my Cap’N Crunch.
I mean, I can’t blame her. After six kids, I’m sure she just accepted the fact that as a mother, your kids never listen to you anyway. So why bother?
Her consistency of not listening rang true at my brother’s last weekend. During a 4th of July BBQ, I greeted my mother who asked me what I did the night before. She also asked me what I did when we spoke on the phone a few hours earlier. I told her, “we just went out.” So she asked me again – a third time. “We just went out. I told you this 2 other times.” I was being vague because there is some information I wish not to share with my mother. Her reactions are similar to a bug landing on your bare skin. She does not stop to process, think, evaluate and express. She just expresses.
For those who do not know, Sir Opti and I started practicing meditation about 3 months ago. The night before the bbq, we went to a session with our guru who was in town from California. This was not information I was prepared to divulge to my very Catholic parents.
Of course, the third time she asked me, there were about 10 of us sitting around the back deck of my brother’s house drinking vodka lemonades. And in true big-family-fashion, when information is shared, it’s usually among a crowd, my first audience. They were all looking at me as if to say, “Why are you being evasive for such a simple question?” And so I literally took a deep breath and said, “Well, we have been meditating and we went to session last night.” It was like I was coming out of the spiritual closet or something. “Mom. Dad. This is hard for me to say… I don’t go to church anymore. I’m in love with something else.”
After I told everyone we started meditating (although it felt like a confession because most things I tell my family are met with saturated judgment)
"Hmmm, I see. Sounds like you are a real disappointment to God."
everyone relaxed and asked follow-up questions that seemed quite genuine. “What’s it like? How did you get started? Is it helping?” And we talked and I explained the practice.
But Ada? No… she expresses:
“I meditate 20 minutes, 2 times a day. They’re called naps.”
and
“You know, Bridget, you could be using those 40 minutes a day to pray to God.”
“Yes mom, and so could you,” I said.
“Well, I’d be praying I could win the lotto.”
Then I am validated. It’s conversations like these and my blood-boiling reaction that led me to meditate in the first place. But because I wasn’t in a position to meditate, I chose the next best thing – my vodka lemonade.
