Bull in a China Shop

Labels, the identity we pick up, “That’s just how I am,” is not truly so. That’s just what I was told I was.
I can let that go. I don’t need to hold on to these.

I was following Brad up Pandora, it was getting pretty warm, as he tells me, “Spring has turned the heat lamp on too soon.'” We both feel the effects of global warming on the snowpack. The second winter in a row, spring heat feels too warm. Glomping is an issue, glomping is where your skins get a little wet and the snow stick to it, and suddenly you have 5 lbs of snow sticking to the bottom of your foot. If you rub wax on the bottom of your skins, it can prevent this, but it’s the most frustrating thing when it starts.

My mind often spins on these long uphill walks, gnawing on a piece of information; if the uphill goes for long enough, my mind shuts off, finding that peace of no thoughts. People refer to this state as ZEN- I think it is a reprieve. I meditate enough to know the difference between watching my thoughts and when my brain is too tired to do much. Both have a place, serving a purpose.

I have been mulling over my mother since my last post. Unsure of opening these doors and how to do it best.
My mother is a beautiful, fun woman, small, and always ready for whatever social occasion is afoot. I am pretty anti-social, preferring the company of nature, birds, and animals, listening to the wind and the trees. I am like my dad this way; I could spend hours collecting rocks, they could easily be my friends. Rocks do have much to teach a person. I might tell you what they say, one day, about acceptance and patience.

My relationship with my mom was not the easiest for me, and I don’t think she thought it comfortable either. Of course, she tried, but we are different people, and she usually dismisses anything she does not understand.
These days we are better, as I can help teach her how to react to me; she listens and tries her best.

I was in the middle of a kick turn, not exactly paying attention to my movements, my mind hit on the perfect description of my mother. She is a verbal bull in a china shop. She is opinionated in her world of right and wrong, black and white, a set in stone, finality. She does not think before she speaks and has little concern for the aftermath of her words. Assuming its other responsibility just to let it go. Or, in a perfect world, take on her assessment as truth and do as she would about whatever the topic is.
If anyone disagrees or has a counter opinion, she will label them as drama and dismiss them from her life until she forgets about the incident and goes back as if nothing ever transpired.

I remember my mother buying me everything I needed to learn how to decorate cakes. We made a tremendous mess in the kitchen with icings of all colors. I learned to make flowers, leaves, and all kinds of things. I ate too much frosting; it made me sick; I could not be around frosting for almost a year. I still get a little queasy when I see cupcakes with buttercream frosting. 

I remember the countless trips to the allergist where I would get shots to help me deal with my severe allergies. Then, she had to take me to the emergency room every so often when I reacted badly. I can’t imagine how scared she could have been all the little emergency room trips.
I remember hours learning about plants and flowers at the nursery and getting to pick some to plant in the yard; I would draw pictures of them later.

My barbie villages that would take up the whole living room for days must have driven her nuts with how immaculate the house was. My mom is still the only person I know that takes the screens out of the windows twice a year to clean them. Being a farmer’s daughter, I will say she knew how to work.

Thirteen years of little brown bag lunches, gram crackers with frosting, tuna, ham, peanut butter and jelly, all the crackers and snacks individually wrapped. My mom was great in all the things she did. But, these things are so complicated, muddied grey areas of emotions that are hard to separate, understand, and process.

My mom’s dad passed when she was 16; she started losing her hearing at about the same time. My mom does not talk much about it, but I can feel the pain, hurt, and sadness in her words when she does. My grandmother put on makeup and went out drinking at the VFW to dance the night away. My mom would say that as that’s how things went back then. Processing grief and fear and confusion by hiding it deep and putting on a smile, better to have fun; life is too short to dwell on these things. Put on your face and pretend it’s all happy. I think my mom internalized this as how you dealt with life’s hardships. That is her way, and that is the only way with my mom. It worked for her; it should work for everyone, black-white, problem solved. Don’t bring it up again; we have dealt with that, it is behind a door, and I’ve locked it. Let’s have martinis; her 4.11′ frame bounces off to find something more fun than the issue.

I know I can open those locked doors I have done it a few times. I have also learned that I’d rather leave them closed for her sake. I don’t like to see her hurt like that. Perhaps I’m a little jealous she can compartmentalize so well. I defiantly can’t. I wear my life on my sleeve.

Verbal bull in a china shop.
This is the hard part, where love gets confusing. Although I believe everyone has things hidden within their life and family that cause all kinds of issues, the most perfect of parents will raise kids that do not know how to handle the difficulties of real life. And they will be crushed the first time they feel rejection and failure. Blame their parents for not preparing them. That is the root of the millennial issue.
I am no longer upset, confused, or take any of the things my mother has said on. In learning to do that, I have learned to become my own woman, to create my own identity. I have learned to let go of others’ opinions and rely solely on my own.
I am grateful; it is a fantastic thing to be able to do. Finally, I learned to decide who I am and what I am capable of. By sheading the cloak of her labels of me.

I don’t think she is aware of what she has said to me; perhaps she was thinking out loud, being deaf maybe she thought I could not hear them.
But I absolve her from the responsibility of those names, words, and labels. I’m no longer angry, hurt or take them on.

That woman had her troubles and demons to fight. She was born in a generation where women had fewer choices. The life she lived was not of her will. All of that reflected her frustration, pain, and hurt. Yet, perhaps she was holding to freedom of speech. One of the only freedoms women have left in those generations; before that, I didn’t think women had even that. 

My mother did a fantastic job with what she had, and no one is perfect, as I don’t think we are meant to be. My mother set challenges in me that would later turn into my most significant revelations and triumphs. She laid a lot of dark in me, a path that took years to navigate, taking me on some of my life’s most amazing adventures.
She gave me many demos I had to fight, but it made me a great warrior of my mind. Coming out of the other side, I can rest in the light and love she has for me after battles are done. Grateful for all the great memories, and be appreciative for the harder ones. She made me stronger than you could imagine.

There is no need to unleash the words she has used. Those are a conversation for my mother and me, one day, or never, I can let it all go. I do not need to unleash that pain back on anyone. It serves no purpose. Those words did what they came into this world to do. To teach me, they are others projections, others pain and hurt frustrations and confusion. They are not me, and now I can see another person’s hurt, fear, and pain by what they put out in the world. And that s a special gift; my mom gave me.