My mother, myself

I love the photo I have posted for my profile. It was taken by a street photographer (remember them?) of my Mom (l) and me (r) from about 1970, during a happy lull in our tempestuous relationship. Me, off to class at the University of BC, she, dressed for downtown. We did that, then, of course. It went without saying, even in the days when everyone thinks we only wore body paint and long hair.

Despite the tempestuousness, it was a very deep love and from her I (eventually) learned that you could love someone unconditionally and yet be angry at them and hurt by them. And of course, get through it and past it.

I have no clue how she figured this out, but she modelled for me how it is possible to judge the behaviour, not the person, no matter how unfairly I treated her. She was the brunt of all the blame for everything that hurt me, most of it misdirected from the real source, of course. And still she stuck around and worked it out. I know this experience was the foundation on which my ability to be in relationship and work in community was built. Facilitative leadership in an apron.

I love the photo for many reasons, but I posted it as my profile image because in it SHE looks THEN like a young version of ME, as I look today. I miss her, but catch glimpses of her every time I look in the mirror.

Seems appropriate to share that sense of continuity with this community.