Unfinished Business
During the pandemic I took up zoom meditation- you know, to cope with the anxiety of a forthcoming global collapse and whatnot. To make peace with the impending loss of human life, etc, etc… Let me be clear, though. By zoom meditation I mean meditating via a guided class on Zoom, not, like, speeding my way through a meditation. Which would admittedly be more my style, as you’re about to find out.
So as I was sitting there in this guided meditation, trying to focus my mind, my mom burst into the room. My first thought was reflexive. “Gah! It’s hard enough for me to focus on this dumb meditation, and now my dumb MOM probably needs me to fix her dumb printer or some dumb shit like that.” My second thought was self-critical, “Wow, Alia. That was not the reaction of a kind and loving adult daughter who meditates. My third thought was compassionate, “well that was just a regressive reaction, a vestige of my youth when I could summon unwarranted irritation just for the egregious fact of my mom’s presence in a room.” My fourth thought was sanctimonious: “Congratulations, Self, for being such an amazingly evolved grown-up person who can identify outgrown narratives and nip them in the bud.” Of course all these thoughts happened in the split second before I realized that something was actually terribly wrong with my mom. She stood in the doorway making these gurning facial contortions, a suspicious white substance dripping from the corners of her mouth. She was saying something to the effect of "I hink I yust ehh paint!" and my stomach lurched, for I knew in that moment exactly what had transpired, and it was ALL MY FAULT.
Lemme backtrack for a sec- when Covid first doom-struck, my husband and I petitioned my mom to let us rent her house and have her move into the granny unit out back. “Let’s consolidate our resources and then as the ship of society sinks, we can be one big happy family treading water together in the wreckage!”
Now we’ve all heard the adage “if you think you’re enlightened, go spend a week with your family.” And here I was, cocky enough to move right back in! But I was sure that if anyone could prove that creep Ram Dass wrong, it was me and my mom because we had a great relationship! The best! We were best of friends and this was going to go without a hitch.
A month after we moved in, she lamented that her backyard was still littered with our boxes and furniture. I admit I was still plowing my way through some minor renovations to the house. I wanted to zhoozh up my childhood home so that it would better suit my adult self. This was, after all, the same bathroom where I used to practice kissing the mirror. Also where I’d pop my pimples and fight with my brother about whose morning poo took longer or smelled worse. I wanted this move to feel progressive rather than regressive. It’s also possible I was working through some existential angst, and these renovations were my way of trying to control my immediate environment since the problems of the world were too overwhelming to bear. Doing the inner work to achieve equanimity took far too much concentration and stillness for my restless mind, so I spent most of my time focused on external transformation- stripping linoleum, spackling and painting, building shelves. But to create harmony and order you sometimes have to first create a little disorder, and I guess I could see how this could potentially create a little… er… disruption to my mom’s formerly peaceful, independent home life.
She began to joke that I was trying to kill her- apparently I was always pausing projects and leaving things out on the path between our units, creating trip hazards. And I was sure she was exaggerating until she sauntered in with a black eye from stepping on a rake I’d left face-up. Exhibit A. It turns out this was only one of many path infractions. The evidence was stacking up- sort of like those moving boxes. One day she sat me down and explained that I was unconsciously leaving a path of destruction and obstruction in my wake. She’s a therapist, and she very kindly offered me an unofficial diagnosis of ADD, topped off with a sprinkling of self-sabotage. Gently, but firmly, she said, “The problem with you getting in your own way, sweetie, is that it gets in my way too.”
Such ripe opportunity for self-reflection living with a therapist, but let’s go swiftly back to the aforementioned moment when my mom burst into my meditation, foaming at the mouth.
That morning I had poured some off-white paint into a yogurt container and mixed fungicide into it, with the very good intention of painting a recessed bathroom cabinet that tended to get moldy in the winter. But then I realized my meditation class was starting so I rushed into the other room to log into Zoom. Meanwhile my mom passed through our kitchen, saw the yogurt pot out on the counter and decided to prepare a tasty yogurt parfait for breakfast, with maple syrup and blackberries. Was the yogurt perhaps TOO creamy? If so, she didn’t notice, and so it happened that she swallowed an enthusiastic mouthful of fungicidal paint before stumbling into the living room. And now you’re up to speed on how I did a very bad thing and poisoned my beloved life-giver.
The second I grocked what happened, I went into drill sergeant mode: “END ZOOM MEETING”- “SIRI PHONE POISON CONTROL!” “YOU, DRINK WATER. RINSE AND REPEAT. GO, GO, GO!”
I explained the situation to the guy at poison control and he was like:
“How much fungicide was in the paint, ma’am?”
“I don’t know! A splash or 2… or 3… or maybe 4?”
“And… like, the type of paint?”
“Swiss coffee.”
“No, ma’am, not the color. What was the base of the paint?”
“Oh right! Water-based… um… latex…um… semi-gloss?”
“And how much of it did she eat?”
“Um… a generous mouthful?”
“Well that should be no problem, ma’am, she should be just fine. Just make sure she drinks a lot of water today.”
Was it just me or was he being far too chill about all this? I wondered if maybe it was his last day on the job and he simply wasn't putting in the effort. “But there was FUNGICIDE in it!” I cried shrilly, “Shouldn’t we be pumping her stomach or something?” No catastrophization here. Cool as a cucumber, I was.
And he was like… “Nah…you’re good. Drink water.”
I hung up only vaguely reassured, and I fussed and mother henned around her until finally she shooed me away. I was no longer just a nuisance. I had proven myself to be a god-honest menace. The proof was in the… yogurt.
Well, a couple weeks after this, my mom, who is NEVER sick, started having stomach pains so severe that I had to rush her to the ER. On the drive there, I steered with one hand and laced her fingers tightly in the other. She was doubled over in pain but managed to gasp out, “Just in case this is the end, I want to tell you that you’ve been the very best daughter I could have ever hoped for.”
I nearly lost my shit right then and there, but I just squeezed her hand tighter. She was dry heaving as they whisked her away in a wheelchair. Meanwhile I was dismissed back to my car, per the new covid regulations, and had to sit there in an agony of fear and guilt, thinking I had been the cause of her demise but also thinking of all the things I should've said to her in case it was indeed “the end.” I should have said “I adore you! I’m so proud of who you are! I so admire your heart, your art, your activism, your mothering. You are the very best mother I could have ever hoped for.” Eventually I was able to breathe and acknowledge that everything I wanted to tell her, she already knew. Our only unfinished business was that pile of boxes in the yard that I - heh heh- still hadn’t unpacked. And maybe also the fact that I’d probably poisoned her with fungicide.
In the days she was in the hospital, I feverishly worked my way through all the unfinished business around the house and yard. And when that was done, I committed to doubling down on a meditation practice. Each time I had an urge to grab my circular saw and start a new project, I would force myself to put my butt on a cushion and bear witness to all that unfinished business of my inner world.
I didn’t, like, fix my personality quirks, but I did take a good honest look. And you better believe the path to her cottage was clear when she came home.
Turns out she’d had a twist in her guts- very serious, but apparently nothing to do with eating paint. My presence may have been an inconvenience at times, but she’d said it herself- I was the very best daughter she could have hoped for! Not only that, I’d added value to her house! I was doing okay, despite being the occasional rake in her eye and fungicide in her yogurt.
Just as this home improvement business is never ending, so too is all the self improvement malarkey. We’re all just masterpieces-in-progress. And all the relational chaos and friction- more brushstrokes on the way to mastering love.
God, these fucking life lessons are so incessant, so rich. As rich as a bowl of paint. Life, so precious and tenuous. If you think about it, we could all be more like my mom with that yogurt, utterly enthusiastic and trusting. I ask you, considering the certainty of uncertainty, what else is there to do but dig in?