What Empty Nest?

Over the weekend, my mother moved in.
She is seventy two. I was going to write that she is a fiercely independent person – but I don't know if that is true anymore. I know who she has been or at least what I have perceived in her to have been. Right now, she looks tired and drained. Stress has taken a toll on her that makes me feel sad. I've wanted my mother to be happy – to find happiness and love in her life – and for reasons that are tangled and complex, she is here with us today.
I was relieved when she seemed to be closing down the one chapter of her life with the abusive ex boyfriend and moving on with a man who seemed intent on worshipping the ground she walks on. That he's turned out to have his own special brand of emotional and physical abuse has been a shock. And yet, strangely unsurprising.
To love my mother is to not judge her. Her story is layered like an onion, filled with scars and memories; dreams and nightmares. I believe that we, as individuals, continually recreate the deepest mythologies of our lives.
And yet, in the end, what does that mean? The outcome is that she tried to move in with this guy – he became a possessive, unstable jerk – and she had to put her life in storage and suitcases. Now she sleeps in my daughter's bed. She doesn't bounce back the way she use to. It is as if the pain and loneliness are beginning to live on the outside of her skin. I'm sensing a change in her ability to cope and think through problems. I see how tired she is of having to do so. The drain on dwindling resources that ends up simply depressing her.
Part of me wants to yell at her – what were you thinking? You knew that he was a drama queen, that he was insanely jealous and had no sense of appropriate boundaries. Part of me wants to point out to her how good she had it – friends, activities and fun. Why did she need these two men in her world? Why is it always men that she wants? Why couldn't she just be content? I'm aware how selfish these words are. How judgmental I am being because I know my mother. I know that there are a hundred little ways that she helped co-create that moment - how she waved the red flag for the bull. That doesn't make her responsible for his actions – never! And yet, it seems as if she feels alive and precious when men are fighting over her. What an edge to walk when you are seventy two years old.
That part of me stays silent with her. She is no longer the vessel for my work. We are very different women who have a hard time understanding each other. Because I've gotten to a place in my life, where, for the most part, I simply accept that difference – we get along.
This complex woman who I have a complicated relationship with is now in my house. I've offered – we've offered – her a home. Not a temporary resting place, but a home for as long as she wants it. There is a part of me that has such mixed feelings and yet, how do I want to honor this deep responsibility that I feel to live fully in the circle of life and community?
I am resistant, yes. I am afraid that I will never know what it feels like to not be a caretaker of others. And that fear is all about the past, not the future. The future is not here yet and if I only allow my fears to inform it then I will live in the heart of despair.