I just watched "August: Osage County".  I guess there are worse things than having your mother leave town forever when you are 19.

The cycle of abuse, the endless legacy passed from generation to generation, where, when and how does it end?

She left because she wanted to spare us the pain of her pain, the pain of her presence.

Shall I despise her for her weakness? In that case I shall also despise myself, for I am also weak.

Shall I despise her for her indifference? In that case I shall also despise myself, for I am also indifferent.

Shall I despise her for her judgment? In that case I shall also despise myself, for I too judge.

How can I ever be less than her? How can I ever be more than her? How can I forgive her with a forgiveness that will last for more than a minute, an hour, a day?   Is there a forgiveness that transcends the time it takes to rise from my knees in prayer and to turn and face the reality of my brokenness (and that of my siblings) each day?

Did she (or does she) feel the guilt of not being able to be positive enough to wish the past completely away, so that it blows away on the Oklahoma wind never to return?  I do, I feel it for us all.  There are times, for minutes, for hours, for days, even months; I know that I have done it!  I have finally captured joy and released the past! Who needs forgiveness!? I am clasping gratitude, love, and joy to my heart! Then one day I open my eyes: forgiveness and understanding fled in the night, dragging joy and lightness of being with it. Despair sits knowingly on the edge of the bed, grinning at me. I know then I am a fool, a blithe, happy-go-lucky damn fool. Everyone else must know it too. It is then I want to run, to go and go and go until there is nothing or no one who could ever be hurt by me.

She has 8 grandchildren she has never seen, the carriers of our ugly legacy. They are beautiful, bright shiny hopeful things full of potential.  They all weigh on my heart. Their beauty is so fine, so fleeting, I want to polish them all, to rub away all that we have weighed them down with. I look at them and hope without hope. Part of me whispers to let go, so that they all go their ways, struggling through the dark into the sun, dragging along their burdens just like me and my siblings did.  Another part of me desperately wishes I were a true hero, who could save them from themselves and from us, by sheer strength, intelligence, courage and fineness of spirit.  I am not a hero, I am my mother’s daughter.  I am flotsam on the river of life: summoning energy to move against the current of abuse mostly seems beyond me.

She left because she wanted to spare us the pain of her pain, the pain of her presence.  I chose (and am still choosing) to stay every day, and live with the pain of my presence, the pain of my pain. Over and over again I choose the joy of their presence. Over and over again, for fleeting bits of time, I grab on to forgiveness, understanding, love and I hold the sweetness of their being, my family. I pray that my pain will never be a burden to them, and that by some miracle, that maybe hoping without hope is enough.