Happy Birthday, Mom

A handful of people read our blog each and every week (Hi, Mom! Hi, Dan and Bill N. Hi, Dad!). In addition to a passion for finding ways to connect within our communities, we also share an appreciation for the emerging science around “mental fitness exercise,” a potentially transformative way of grappling with the challenges of our pandemic times.  Obviously, I also share DNA with a few of our most ardent fans. Today, I’m going to use these few paragraphs to celebrate one of them – my mom – who didn’t grow up with data points on the connection between attention, self-awareness, and emotional wellbeing but has lived her life as if she did.  

There is a science to connection, and while I haven’t come across studies that prove out this hypothesis, my own data tells me that the strongest connections are born from attention, reliability, and vulnerability. You can’t connect with someone who focuses on a phone or a screen instead of you. When I return home, to the place where I grew up, my mother comes to the door or out onto the lawn as soon as she sees my car pulling in off the highway. People always comment on her brilliant blue eyes. I think their intensity is fueled by the focus of her attention; when she holds you in her gaze, you know you are the center of what is important in that moment. I grew up in a busy household, the third child, second daughter of four kids, and our front door was always opening and closing to a steady stream of neighbors, my parents’ friends, cousins, the veterinarian, the local creative. Getting my mother’s undivided attention while she taught me how to roll out the Christmas cinnamon roll dough or corral the feisty 4-H steer showed me how good it feels to have someone’s full attention. I still grow taller when I get hers.

 We all know from personal experience that it can be done with practice, giving your attention in intense but infrequent bursts. Christian mystics, Buddhist monks, and cognitive neuroscientists agree that this can create connection in the moment, but it cannot build a foundation for lasting connection. In fact, it can impede the trust that is bedrock for connection, because infrequent or intermittent means unpredictable, and our brains have evolved to eschew unpredictable. It is simply too energy intensive, the constant need to monitor or decide, so the brain sorts from past experiences, and rates reliable and steadfast companions with the “safe and warm” seal of approval. Earlier this fall, my parents traveled to be with me for a celebration, and as my eyes found theirs at some point in the fanfare, my mind fluttered through hundreds of mental images of them at sports events, baptisms, recitals, funerals, holidays, challenges. We’d all three changed a bit since they showed up at my first piano recital, but here’s the unswerving truth:: My mom is predictable. If she says she will be there, she is there. If she asks how she can help, and you tell her, she does it. The scientists tell me why my brain likes this, the things it can rely on, not have to think about, not spend energy worrying about. My heart tells me what it feels like, looking across the room at someone who simply doesn’t look away, doesn’t shrink, doesn’t take the short cut. Her presence says, “you can count on me.”

 In my family of cowboys and streetfighters, vulnerability doesn’t come easily. We’re loud, messy, funny, creative, and strong. We’re not quick to ask for help or express how scary life can be or even admit to being mere mortals. But we’re getting better at this.

Recently, I had one of those messy conversations with my mom, the kind that has you reaching for the box of Kleenex (which we never have, because families like mine don’t even buy boxes of Kleenex, because, well, who the hell needs TISSUES?). My mom got up, walked away, and returned with a tissue box. And then, she trained her eyes on me and let me speak true sad things. True hard things. I had this feeling, like I did when she sat in the bleachers during my whole senior year basketball season. I was a starter on varsity as a freshman player because I was a hustler. I was a benchwarmer as a senior, because I was now the shortest player and, if we’re being honest, not really that good. She didn’t have many words for that season, but for four months she gave me the gift of her presence and attention, both of which branded into my bones messages of worthiness, of the ways I could rely on her and other people.

Happy birthday, Mom. You are a partner, an author, a mother, a leader, a rancher, a friend, an intellect, a beauty. But mostly, a central figure in the lives of those of us lucky enough to be participants in the connection research project that has been your life’s example. Give your attention and give it fully. Keep showing up, so people know they can count on you. Be confident to learn and grow towards connection, whether over shared joy or sorrow. If you don’t know where the Kleenex is, don’t give up. You’ll find it, and share it, and it will help.