I just had to take a moment today, the day after Mother's Day, to belatedly express my admiration and gratitude for my own mom, who raised five children to happy adulthood. My mom is a joyful giver, donating food from her plate, clothes off her back and endless amounts of time to any of her children who require(d) help. When I was a child, I took her generous expression of motherhood for granted; when I was a teenager and young adult I was a bit shocked by her generosity. Growing into fuller expression of my childhood selfishness and informed by our culture (whose motto may as well be 'there ain't no such thing as a free lunch') I felt that she let us take advantage of her. I vowed that if / when I had children I would not give them so much, would make them work a bit harder for their pleasures, if not their daily bread.
I still battle my selfish demons, though having children brought me around the bend insofar as it's surprisingly easy to want to give to your children. I still grumble at their endless demands (and my husband often fears to express even a modest demand) but I am working on my generous giving; certainly any parent knows not to expect a return - at least an instant payback - on services rendered to their children. As I read The Living Gita last night, I was startled by this comment: "sometimes the Sanskrit term is translated as 'miser' instead of 'result-seeker." In other words, giving for any reason at all other than pure generosity makes you a hoarder of results, a miserable person - especially when the feedback is not forthcoming. On the other hand, if we give freely and expect nothing, we cannot possibly be taken advantage of.
Remembering my mom's capacity to care made me smile on the treadmill this morning as I ran into oblivion. She was famous in our family for stashing food in all locations - the car, backpacks, purses, briefcases, even coat pockets. After raising three starving teenage sons she was adept at purchasing whatever food items were on sale, even to stashing away a hoard of 99-cent cheeseburgers from McDonald's. One fall morning, mom pulled out a coat that had not escaped the closet since April. She dug into a pocket hoping to find some gloves, and instead pulled out a petrified cheeseburger that had inexplicably made it past the gauntlet of hungry teenaged mouths. We laughed until we cried at her expression, which was merry and a bit self-mocking. "Just write a book about me someday," she said, "call it 'A Cheeseburger in My Pocket and Other Stories." I haven't tackled the book, mom, but you are the star of this blog entry, for sure, and a star in the constellation of giving. Thanks~!
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