By Nurturing Our Natural Kindness
I wanted to reach out in the spirit of my mother, who passed a few years ago and for whom I will always carry a quiet torch. In many ways, she was the great love of my life—a spiritual guide, a dear friend, and a near perfect mom. Trudi, as everyone knew her, was a relentless acceptor of everything in life, including me—her damaged, broken boy soldier, ever faithful, yet rarely grateful.
Like many children, I accepted her for the blessing she was, but never realized how rare that was, or how lucky I was. If there is any part of me that is loving, kind, and accepting, it is my mother still alive in me.
We grew up around a tight-knit Pentecostal church. She was the preacher’s kid, and the only boy who could reach her was a rough, arrogant Spaniard with a world to conquer. Everyone loved “Boy,” as he was called—charming in the way of men for whom the world is opening. Years later, I found a new familial community rooted in an American form of Tibetan Buddhism. My mother cried as she drove away, leaving me at a mountain retreat center blanketed in snow.
In Tibetan Buddhism, we speak of mother and father lineages. While equally important, they are understood differently—not as men and women, but as essential energies within each of us.
The father lineage is seen as creator and protector. The mother lineage as nurturer, holder, and the great agent of understanding that speaks from heart to heart. In many traditional cultures, men traveled and taught, while women held together the fabric of family and community.
My family, unknowingly, echoed this. My father traveled—first as a soldier, then as a businessman—while my mother, who also worked, carried the responsibility of raising us. It was not an easy life for either of them.
I lived in Baltimore during the riots, and as dangerous as those streets could be, the violence often softened when grandmothers stepped out of their homes. I still remember the image of a grandmother scolding a cowering grandson. The mother lineage need not be overshadowed by the father. Ideally, they work in tandem.
During times of difficulty, returning to the sense of protection associated with the father, and the nurturing and connection associated with the mother, can be deeply supportive. This is something we can carry within us.
The image of my father as protector, while potent, also evokes a sense of competition within me. This may be natural for boys and fathers of my generation. But I never worked well with competition. I tried to best others and spent a lot of time in aggressive disconnection. That was not necessary.
I saw my parents as separate and never appreciated how they might be conjoined. As a result, those energies have not been fully integrated within me. I feel deeply and care deeply, but I also fight and compete where it isn’t needed. Perhaps learning to unify these is my life’s task.
It is my view—and the view of the practice I’ve been given—that we begin to resolve the masculine and feminine within our own minds. We do this by recognizing the generosity of these energies, and how fortunate we are to have known them through others.
When times are difficult, we do not have to forget the softness, kindness, and compassion of the mother. When times are generous and forgiving, we do not have to forget the discipline and uprightness of the father.
I want to offer the idea that we can find calm in the storms of our lives and in the storms around us—that this calm and openness is itself an expression of strength. We can rely on our strength without losing our heart, and open our heart without losing our strength. The union of mother and father is strength.
The openness of the mother, protected by the strength of the father, allows us to find stillness in the midst of turmoil.
In remembering my mother, I feel again the presence of that balance—already here, already alive within me. I feel held, reminded that I do not have to do this alone. Something softens, and something becomes steady.
