My Mother’s birthday was yesterday, September 30. She was born in 1917, and died at the end of 2000, at the age of 83. She would have been 97 yesterday, had she stayed on the planet.
We had a rocky relationship right from the first time she saw me. Women at that time (1940) were sedated to give birth (!). The doctor in attendance had not seen an Irish baby before, with our Chinese eyes. So when my mother woke, he told her I was a Mongoloid – a child with Down Syndrome. And it was all downhill from there.
I was not (and still am not) content to sit quietly, being pretty and clean and sweet. That was my sister, born a year and a half minus a week later. My favorite picture of me is at 5 months old, on my tiptoes, reaching out for the entire world with a happy smile. That was not what females were supposed to do, and not what my Mom, or really anyone else in the family, wanted. It was a good thing that most of the time I was able to think I was a pretty groovy and interesting person. And that I wanted to be respected, rather more than liked.
My mother did not have a happy life, for many reasons – one of which was that she did not look at her life and ask herself any questions – like: what makes me happy? what changes could I make to enjoy life more? what would be fun to do right now? I am a terrific left-handed compliment to her – I have pretty much followed the path of – what would Mother do? and then done the opposite. I have had a lot more fun.
On her birthday, I meditated, sending her thoughts of love, happiness, light, joy, friends, freedom and forgiveness. I felt that we forgave each other. Definitely a good thing to do. No specific feelings or visions, but a beginning.