Another story ran parallel with our present. Where was I at this age? How did I feel? What curative powers were there from this place of observation? Was I really “not a cuddly baby” as my mother put it? Why did I need to protect myself, so young? Was there really a psychological perspective from which to view my incompetent cervix? Deeply buried were complicated questions about my mother’s love: had I undermined or destroyed it? Was anyone really close to her?

Spiritually my time with G felt like a dual existence. We played with several toys that were once mine including the doll to whom I made my tearful solemn promise that I would be a different mother.

Yet I started to see my mother’s point of view, how hard parenting each day could be. Through the mists of time, I sensed my mother’s dedication: how she cleaned up before I learned to do it myself, making the room inviting for the next day. How she selected soft colors and toys mostly in fabric and wood, made me healthy delicious snacks and diluted juice drinks with water and surprise grapes at the bottom. She loved me. As long as I was good.

Long ago, my mother was my everything. She worked tirelessly toward my advancement, and I did everything within my power to be worthy. While I wanted to break the cycle of fear and negativity in my past, I didn’t want to slam the door on all of the goodness too.

How can one live up to the God-like esteem a child has for utterly flawed parents? The power of a child’s regard is breathtaking and humbling. It shocked me that G saw me in such a positive light; she re-circuited me into believing I could love and be loved. She seemed to relish my humor and closeness. Warmed, I reciprocated with more, filling unfurnished space within me. Hers was the first fully unconditional love I have ever known. Observing her I knew I had that love for my parents, too.

And it is why I kept coming back to my mother. Believing she knew. How could she not have known? I can only answer: because she did not feel that same way about me. She felt it about her mother.

G brought out a newfound vulnerability in me that felt raw out in the real world, even in this less judgmental place. In my imagination, I could design an ideal intimacy, but in practice, I felt rejected before applying.

I started to see what baggage I was dragging along and began to unpack. What came up first was my sense of isolation even in a wonderful community. My perennial sense of comparison was nurtured from a young age. Conditioned to compete rather than support, what did I expect to receive? I recognized my latent distrust of others and knew I needed to address this nucleus before dealing with its greater ramifications.

New to New England, my senses were sharpened. I had no past here; I could ascribe it no blame. I had no choice but to live consciously. Was this how the Puritans defined new lives for themselves and their progeny? No memories haunted the rooms. Southern California’s traffic, smog and lifestyle used to be easy targets for my frustration, obscuring an inner conflict hidden deeper within me. Playing alongside my Zen guide, when clouds hit my face, I could only acknowledge them and try to understand.

On a day of existential wonderings, I shared some of my thoughts with our elderly neighbor. “You think motherhood will change your life,” she answered, “What you don’t realize is it will change you.” She was quiet for a few moments. “It happens again in grandparenthood. You have the chance to witness childhood a third time: your own, your child’s, and the next time almost omnisciently.”