THINGS CHANGE. HOW QUICKLY CAN YOU?
A monk asked Ummon, “What will it be when trees wither and leaves fall?”
Ummon said, “You embody the golden breeze.”
—Blue Cliff Record, case 27
There is an illusion that this startling way of life will go on, a new and lasting world order, so complete is the upheaval. But things change. Just about the time you find your footing, fooling yourself with your hard-won aplomb, circumstances change again. Your child changes minute by minute. No, even faster: second by second. She is airborne and unburdened, hurtling through time and space. She is the future revealing. So are you, for that matter, but do you realize it?
The early stretch is full of false-bottomed plateaus, cruising altitudes that lull you with their predictable rhythm of sleeping, eating, and changing diapers. I can do this, you think. I can do this forever. So profound is the illusion of permanence, so deep is our resistance to change, that we hold on to anything, even the things we can’t bear. The good news is things change. Babies grow out of everything. The bad news is things change. Can you? How quickly can you accept change? How gracefully, how even-temperedly can you pivot and twirl, move forward or step backward? Or are you paralyzed by obstinacy?
A few months into motherhood and you’re hip deep in the eternal human struggle, made worse by your own clever timing. Many of us consciously schedule motherhood for a time when we think we are done changing. We have arrived. We are stable. We’ve figured it all out. No more uncertainties or ambiguities for us. These are the years when we are likely to affix to a career, a partner, a home, and a hairstyle. With enough willpower and self-discipline, we can seem to forestall change for years on end—maintaining our chosen looks and pastimes, our precious privacy, our patterns and preferences, our way. We adopt beliefs, ideals, and convictions. I know who I am, we tell ourselves. I know what I need. This is the ego talking, the ego walking in a phony swagger to scare off the inevitable threats to its supremacy. Look out. Things change.
The mother of a teenager once said to me, “I remember when they’re about eight months old and their ego begins to develop. It’s not pretty.” Neither is your own ego, and you don’t have to wait eight months for it to appear! I can see now how much of motherhood, from the very first hour, carries the early warning signs of ego warfare. I want to sleep. She wants to eat. I need to do this. She needs to do that. Not again. Again. It can feel as though someone were eating you alive. And what is being eaten is your ego.
It seems ridiculous to talk about infant care as combat. Your baby’s needs are pure and uncontrived. They are not manipulations. They are not strategic assaults. They are just assaults, relentless and evolving, against the way you want things to be. You love your child, yes, and yet you flail and roar, you cry and whine and tremble with the terror of life beyond your control.
As babies grow into toddlers, the conflicts with mom erupt and spread. Children have arms and legs and, later, words to fling at you, which they will: getting dressed, getting undressed, eating a meal, going to bed, getting in the car, getting out of the car, taking a bath, brushing teeth, and so on all day long until you both retreat, defeated, back into the night. The trick is to see the battles coming, avert them whenever possible, do what is necessary, and make peace. You can do it, you know, you’re the mother, and you have infinite capacities.
I’m not talking about the parental need to impose rule and routine or to keep things safe—that’s your job. I’m talking about the shocking realization that can come to you, many times a day, that you are duking it out with a ten- or twenty-pounder for no other reason than to have it your way. And your way means not budging an inch. This is deep stuff, but you don’t have to dig to find it. It’s right there in the craggy surface of the pits and falls of your mundane life.
The day breaks and I create an agenda. It may not appear to be self-serving, but nearly all of it is. Between the items that certainly need to be done are so many that I simply want to do because I think doing them will make me feel better, more worthy or productive. Accomplishing them gives me a sense of control against the chaos. These are false feelings, and fleeting. If I were more highly evolved I would know that everything is perfect as it is whether or not I empty the dishwasher. There is nothing wrong with wanting to empty the dishwasher. But how far will I carry this flag into the fury of the fight?
Some days, very far.
When my daughter was nearly two, for a brief and troubling time she was a head banger. Our battles would reach a pitch, sometimes instantly, and she would throw her forehead to the floor. I did the same thing at that age. She is my daughter. My mother told me about the first time it happened. “I was washing the dishes and you wanted to be picked up. What could I do? I needed to finish the dishes.” And I am hers.
In a certain sense, we are all still head bangers. If your ego is unchecked (it is), you will contrive a self-serving outcome from any set of conditions (you do). Your methods of achieving this are perhaps more subtle than those of your child. Your means may seem invisible, especially to you. But for the purposes of self-awareness, what is a more repulsive and revealing representation of the ego force within each of us than a two-year-old hammering her head against the unforgiving hardwoods? No, it is not pretty.
Your child may not be the sort with a rock-hard head. You may not be either. But just for the record, there are many things you can do besides finish the dishes. Here are two: first, take a breath; second, tell yourself, I can change.
You can change in an instant. You can change your mind. You can change your timing. You can change your approach. You can change your words. You can laugh instead of scream. You can hop on one foot. You can step away from the fray instead of stepping in. You can give up, give in, and go in a completely different direction than you’d like to. You can do the dishes later. What then? What next? The Zen master has told you, “You embody the golden breeze.” You are change. You have infinite power to relax, to release, to change, and thus to change everything. If you find that you don’t have the energy or the good humor to do so this time, I will understand. There will be many opportunities afforded you.
Your child is a tireless teacher, constantly probing your self-imposed limits and boundaries, your self-centeredness, your sheer stubbornness. It is a thankless job, and who would want it? But each day your child comes to work again, taking up the monumental task.
You must be a teacher too. Of agile exits and negotiations, of quick turns and pirouettes. Of all the inventive ways to go through life instead of banging it head-on. There is a deft elegance to the mother who has mastered this dance, the dance with no choreography. She is fluid and round. She smiles and laughs easily. She breezes along as though anything were possible. Like a child.