Hologram Thoughts

I was watching people at lunch today, sitting alone in the corner at Taco Bueno, eating my bean burritos and thinking. There was a mom feeding her son a taco. He was laughing and having fun which was stressing his mother, but she continued to smile and tell him he was a good boy and that it was alright. She asked him to stop when he tried to drop his taco shell on the floor, and he laughed with her, leaned forward and gave her a messy taco-flavored kiss. It made me think of my mom and how kind she is with her children and grandchildren.

Kindness is something that my mother taught us our whole lives, even though we had no idea class was in session. Whether it was helping with homework or talking to us about our life decisions, mom was there, sitting with us on the couch or on our bed, talking us through it all. I knew that as I grew older and began to make decisions that took me further and further afield, she was still there, a phone call away, when I needed her. That gave me tremendous peace of mind.

There were times I am sure my siblings and I thought she was too worrisome or to demanding. Now that I am an adult with a family of my own I see how kind and compassionate my mom was and is still.

There is a reason my kids want to spend every weekend with her. They love the attention she gives them. The time they can spend with her at the kitchen table, painting and making things with pipe cleaners and construction paper. She shows my kids what everyday magic is, every day. My mom is good for me and she is good for my children too.

One quality that is necessary for Buddhahood is compassion for all sentient beings. With out knowing it my mom was teaching me this my entire life. I hope I am lucky enough to have my mom in my life for a long time to come. For me, for my children and for theirs one day as well.

Mom taught me to forgive others by her own actions. There have been times when I know she was wronged, even by those close to her, and she got over it somehow. She taught me to repay kindness by those same actions. She has opened her house time and again for those that need a safe and secure place to sleep and eat. A place to feel welcomed. She is far more compassionate than I am on so many fronts.

I wish everyone had the chance to have a mom like mine.

I talk pretty big about compassion. I even try to live the talk, and I think I do a good job with almost every one I come across; but I fail with my family. Why is that? I have always hated the saying, “We hurt the ones we love” — it just seems like such a cop-out to me. Why do we rationalize that it is acceptable to hurt those we love, the people closest to us?

I bring all of this up because yesterday morning was a war zone at my house. My son and I had a disagreement about how his behavior was affecting his sister’s. It ended up with both of us upset, angry and hurt. I felt badly for the rest of the day about it. I let my emotions run away with me and he paid for it. I should have remained calm and softly spoken to him, instead my voice became thunderous and he was scared and felt like I had betrayed him to the girls.

Last night we had a good talk about it, hugged and then we all watched the new animated movie from Marvel, Dr. Strange. (It was very cool.)

It bothered me all day at work and then I thought about it an awful lot last night too. Why can I not control my anger at home? Why is it that my kids are the ones that see my anger while I can remain calm with any one else?

I would rather spend time with my children than with anyone else. They are wonderful, they still see the everyday-magic that the world has in so much abundance. Sometimes I like to watch them play when they are not aware I am there, watching from the corner or across the lawn. They are amazing.

Yeah, they are hard on each other, fighting about toys, who sits where and which one of them gets to spend the night at the grandparents house. But they are so kind and loving too.

Last night before we went home and watched the movie I took the kids to visit my grandfather. He was sleeping when we got there, and barely woke to see us for a bit. After he dozed back off the kids sat around with me, watching him and being quiet for as long as they could. When we left his room they all took turns, one by one, giving his cheeks kisses and hugging him as best they could around the hospital bed and they IV and wires. It was sad and wonderful. They love him so much.

I can learn from them… something for me to think about.

I sat for a couple of hours with my grandfather recently. It has been a long time since I was able to spend so much time alone with him. When I was young I would spend entire days with him as he drove here and there working and looking for the bargains that he cared so much about. I would spend an afternoon with him in the yard, digging this or that, him with a shovel and me with his World War II Army issue entrenching tool. You know the little one that soldiers get to dig fox-wholes with. It was mine and I loved it. I loved that it folded, I loved that it was small, but most of all I loved that it had been his and now it was mine. I need to find that shovel.

I was sitting with him now because he is in the hospital. The blue faux leather chair creaked as I tried to get comfortable while he slept there beside me. He’s ill and his mind isn’t doing him justice right now. He knows me, knows the family including my small children, and I am thankful for that. But he can go from speaking to me about the kids and their school to trying to pick a peach from a tree which isn’t there or telling my grandmother she missed the turn-off to number 12.

I wish I knew what number 12 meant to him.

The bed is his passenger seat in the car and where my grandmother was sitting is the driver’s seat. If you insist that there is no car, that we are in the hospital, and he needs to get better he is incensed and tries to get out of bed and to the driver’s seat. That doesn’t help much at all.

I love him so much, and it is very hard to see someone so strong and virile reduced to this feeble state. He needs you to feed him, to wipe his mouth and to help him find a comfortable way to lie on the bed. He is irritable and cranky, and I would be too.

I stood there with him a few nights ago after my grandmother had gone downstairs to the car. I tried to calm him down as the nurses places mitts on his hands. If he’s left alone right now he tries to pull the IV out of his arm, the oxygen and pulse reader off of his finger and to get out of the bed. None of those are good things.

When the nurses came in to get the mitts on he was infuriated with me, told me terrible things and told me to leave and that I need not return. The nurses told me to forget about what he said and that it wasn’t him; I already knew that.

My grandfather is a kind and loving person. The kind of guy that tears up when the little ones are sick and the kind of man who hugs people the first time he meets them. Yes, he is human, and like all of us he too is capable of anger and words said that he later regrets.

While he was reaching for some cantaloupes which he could clearly see in front of his face I wondered what this was like to him. He is seeing people and places from his past. Speaking about Marion Kansas where he lived for 8 months in 1950 when my father was born. Asking us all how much longer until we get to Missouri or back to the house. These things are real to him, even though the television is on and we are all standing around his bed in the ICU.

It made me think of the ‘thought-moments’ that the Buddha spoke about. The knowledge that every thought that enters our mind causes a change in us and a lasting difference in who we are and how we view the world.

I wondered about the thoughts, the memories, that were bubbling up in to my grandfather’s consciousness before me. He was talking about his car for a bit, so worried that a man had it and he needed it back. He told me to make sure I had his car and I knew where it was, that it was safe and secure.

What is the world like to him right now? What is his reality as he has these hallucinations?

My grandfather is a treasure to me. He is full of wisdom and knowledge and kindness. He is a huge part of my life, the lives of my entire family, and the lives of my children. You know, I don’t think he missed a baseball or basketball game my brother played in and he only missed a few of my son’s, when he was ill a few years back. His family is the most important thing to him, we are his treasure.

As our nation ages I wish our culture viewed the aging as the national treasure they are, not as a burden. It is true that this is hard to watch, this is hard to handle. Costly in time and money I know, but can you think of a better purchase? Spending our money on the comfort of our elderly is something we should do with love and kindness, with respect and warmth, not regret and bitterness as so many seem to do.

We might all end up one day in that hospital bed, wondering about the peach tree growing in the room with our family. If I do, I hope my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren gather around me and ask me about my childhood like we are asking about his.

I don’t have much in the coffer, but I have a treasure nonetheless.