Turtle Bax, Tupperware, and Tears

It was Mother’s Day as I grabbed a sufficient amount of time to sit with the deeply personal, and profoundly honest Dramatic Dialogue poem of a writer/colleague/friend. This poem was her response to a recent hurtful encounter with her husband after the tip of his favorite fishing rod was broken off when she accidentally shut it in the car door in the pouring rain.

As is so often the case, I did not yet know how relevant the words I wrote to my friend would become for me later in the day.

My heart reaches out to both of you. For you, the value of taking responsibility for your own emotional safety, and for your husband his ability to recognize the larger value of a “person” over a “possession.”

This has been a learning for me in this lifetime, too.

For years I had a favorite ink pen at work. It was very unique. This pen didn’t have a round barrel like others, this one was shaped like a hexagon. The barrel was yellow, and the logo from Turtle Backs (garments) was worn nearly completely off.

I had purchased many refill cartridges for this special pen.

In a culture where people walked off with other people’s pens all the time, I liked this one especially because it was obviously “mine.”

I still remember the day my special pen was lost.

I was out to dinner on a Friday evening with my husband, his four adult brothers and their spouses and children, and my mother- and father-in-law. I know the exact location of the restaurant and the occasion for the gathering. And I remember it was my brother-in-law who borrowed my pen to sign the check.

It wasn’t until Monday morning that I realized my pen had not been returned.

My father- and mother-in-law are no longer in body. My brother-in-law is going through treatment for stage-four lung cancer.

It was many years later before I would realize I held myself responsible for not thinking to get the pen before I left the restaurant.

One of my spiritual teachers compassionately expresses the truth that all anger is essentially anger of the self.

Some days I still miss that pen, and when that feeling comes, I let my own tender underbelly soften. Today I shed a few tears for all the other times and other circumstances where we fail to forgive ourselves sufficiently to have compassion for another.

Just hours after this sincere reflection and sharing, the pattern showed itself in spades. My grandson popped some leftovers in the micro. I snapped, “NOT in that container,” as I grabbed it out, putting the contents into a proper bowl. I could see the emotional pain in his whole body. I apologized, but also had to make my point about other people in the family doing the same thing.

A few stressful words with my son-in-law were the rapid-fire result of my critical comments.

For that one moment I knew I had put possessions first. Fortunately, I also knew that is not my true value. I was instantly disappointed with my unwholesome behavior. The cost? Rather than enjoying time with people who are so precious to me, I had to give myself a time out.

Have you noticed that as your awareness increases, old patterns often show up in your life again so you can appreciate your progress? What a powerful Mother’s Day this one has turned out to be!

Tonight, I hold back the tears, but tears the overflowing love and gratitude for those in my life who forgive me when I am not at my best so I can forgive myself, too.

I am profoundly thankful to have had a sweet text exchange with my son-in-law earlier this evening. We were both able to affirm our affection and appreciation for one another. I signed off with the gospel truth, “I love you guys. You mean so much more than any stinking old Tupperware!”