My grandfather, mom's father, was a judge. He was also an ace chess player. When I studied law, I would sometimes call him up in Cuttack and ask him a few questions about what I was studying. If I prepared for a moot Court competition, I would go over my case details with him.
He was very strict code though. One night at dinner, he did not let me have dinner until I completed understand a particular part of the Civil Procedure Code.
When we played chess, he would flare up sometimes because I was not strategizing enough. Often he would tell me that to win a case, to arrive at truth or justice, and to trump at chess, you had to question, not guess. It's in the subject matter of the questions that a lot of success lies. Much later I came across this quote. I think it's by Voltaire or some French philosopher. "Judge a man by his questions, not his answers "
I think of this because today is Friday the 13th and my day didn't begin well. I had a conversation with someone who said something so cruel and went on and on about it. Or maybe it wasn't cruel. Maybe if the same thing was said to him, he wouldn't mind it. But, well, never mind. I wonder if something about me gives the impression to random strangers that it's acceptable to talk a certain way. Anyway, I don't have answers to any of that. But I felt like crap and I just stayed in bed for a major part of the day. Had two work calls...one with a client who was so vague that it was unclear whether he wanted copyediting or cake.
When I woke up, I noticed that I was clutching the bedsheet, the way I would clutch my mother's nightie when I would sleep next to her. It reminded me of one afternoon with Mom.
Her health had started failing and she had stopped eating. She had had a bad fall and was in pain. If any of us tried to move her or change her, she would cry out in pain. Sometimes she would get angry and scratch. And then throw away the food and go off to sleep like a baby. Later when she would wake up, she would feel very contrite and sad about how she had behaved. We would make her listen to some music and she would away a little bit and go to sleep.
One afternoon I sensed that she was not sleeping. This was around the time that she would sometimes not be able to remember something. The way Ma was sleeping, the way she looked, she reminded me of my grandfather.
I asked her if she was sleeping. I could see that she had heard me but wasn't replying because she thought that I would force her to eat something. Then I pressed her tiny, soft hands. She loved massages. She extended her hand a little. I don't know why I asked her that...but maybe because I thought of my grandfather and how he had always insisted on asking good questions. I asked her if Ma knew that she was loved.
She nodded. Strongly and surely. She said in a voice that was the clearest that I had heard in a long time. She said, "Yes, I know."
For the rest of the days here, I think I will be very sensitive about my mom. The pain is unbearable. But it's unbearable now in a predictable sort of way. So I suppose that is the first step to healing?
But I can't explain the deep peace and joy I find in this little incident. That at her weakest...at OUR weakest...my mother knew that each one of us loved her.
That is a good way to go.
He was very strict code though. One night at dinner, he did not let me have dinner until I completed understand a particular part of the Civil Procedure Code.
When we played chess, he would flare up sometimes because I was not strategizing enough. Often he would tell me that to win a case, to arrive at truth or justice, and to trump at chess, you had to question, not guess. It's in the subject matter of the questions that a lot of success lies. Much later I came across this quote. I think it's by Voltaire or some French philosopher. "Judge a man by his questions, not his answers "
I think of this because today is Friday the 13th and my day didn't begin well. I had a conversation with someone who said something so cruel and went on and on about it. Or maybe it wasn't cruel. Maybe if the same thing was said to him, he wouldn't mind it. But, well, never mind. I wonder if something about me gives the impression to random strangers that it's acceptable to talk a certain way. Anyway, I don't have answers to any of that. But I felt like crap and I just stayed in bed for a major part of the day. Had two work calls...one with a client who was so vague that it was unclear whether he wanted copyediting or cake.
When I woke up, I noticed that I was clutching the bedsheet, the way I would clutch my mother's nightie when I would sleep next to her. It reminded me of one afternoon with Mom.
Her health had started failing and she had stopped eating. She had had a bad fall and was in pain. If any of us tried to move her or change her, she would cry out in pain. Sometimes she would get angry and scratch. And then throw away the food and go off to sleep like a baby. Later when she would wake up, she would feel very contrite and sad about how she had behaved. We would make her listen to some music and she would away a little bit and go to sleep.
One afternoon I sensed that she was not sleeping. This was around the time that she would sometimes not be able to remember something. The way Ma was sleeping, the way she looked, she reminded me of my grandfather.
I asked her if she was sleeping. I could see that she had heard me but wasn't replying because she thought that I would force her to eat something. Then I pressed her tiny, soft hands. She loved massages. She extended her hand a little. I don't know why I asked her that...but maybe because I thought of my grandfather and how he had always insisted on asking good questions. I asked her if Ma knew that she was loved.
She nodded. Strongly and surely. She said in a voice that was the clearest that I had heard in a long time. She said, "Yes, I know."
For the rest of the days here, I think I will be very sensitive about my mom. The pain is unbearable. But it's unbearable now in a predictable sort of way. So I suppose that is the first step to healing?
But I can't explain the deep peace and joy I find in this little incident. That at her weakest...at OUR weakest...my mother knew that each one of us loved her.
That is a good way to go.
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