Reflections On the Memorial For My Mom: She Overcame Much To Embody an Awakening Heart and Beautiful Soul, Radiating the Miracle, Beauty, and Power of Love

In Memory and Honor of My Mother

Nancy Moesta Strong

 

She Overcame Much To Embody an Awakening Heart 

and Beautiful Soul, Radiating the Miracle, 

Beauty, and Power of Love

The last seven years of my mother's life were extraordinary. That is when the impossible became possible, when the power of love overcame a lifetime of fear and unattended grief, of separation and shame, of trauma and loss. After being compelled to push away love for nearly the entirety of her life, my mother's heart found an opening to allow the vulnerability of love to enter.

And everything changed.

I did not come up with the words for my mother's gravestone alone. It was my beloved husband who gifted me with the words "she overcame much." Ron knew that it would not be the truth if only these last seven years were what was spoken of in memory of my mother. Ron knew both sides, both mothers that I had had. And he knew the value of speaking and illuminating the truth.

Yes, there were absolutely countless treasured moments with my mama from when she first moved here to the Pacific Northwest to live by her family in 2013 and until her death in 2020. The pictures below are just a tiny glimpse into so much that was shared, at times with great-grandchildren and four generations present. So precious. So indescribably precious.

 

I will probably be processing this miracle for the rest of my life....

Ron towers over my petite mom

Mom and her oldest grandson Brian

Kevin with his grandmother

Mom and Matthew

One of countless times holding hands and soaking in the preciousness of each other and the peacefulness of the garden area of my mother's assisted living.

Mom with Ethan and grandsons Kevin and Matt - 4 generations!

Spiritual practice involves, on the one hand, acting out of 

concern for others' well-being. On the other, it entails 

transforming ourselves so that we become 

more readily disposed to do so. 

— Dalai Lama

 

There would have been no memorial ceremony honoring my mother, no seven loving years together, no mutual healing and moments of gazing deeply into each other's eyes, no treasuring of our time together for my mama and me had I not spent years first attending to and healing my own heart. 

 

In many ways, and unknowingly, before I began my journey of gradual awakening I had been unconsciously following in my mother's footsteps — and even though I had sworn to myself that I would never be like my mother. Yet, here I was suffering from so much that had plagued her and our family for so many generations — the ruptures and disconnections, the addictions and distractions, the depression and anxiety, the shame and unworthiness, the image management and perfectionism, the isolation and fear of vulnerability, the secrets and silence, the projections and harmful beliefs, the endless judgments, the suffering alone, the untouched grief and loss. The rage.

 

The doorway into an open heart was no where to be found. 

 

When I first got sober and began the long journey from addiction and disassociation back into my body and the depths of my heart, I came face to face with more and more of the buried horrors of my childhood. And that is when I thought that I could never forgive my mother. Never....

 

* * * * * 

 

My dear husband commented towards the end of my mother's memorial how there had been a time when he did not understand how it was that I never just walked away. He knew firsthand how bad it was, how brutal this first mother of mine could be. And Ron spoke at the service of how it wasn't until he first met my mom on the locked psychiatric ward of the hospital in Grand Rapids, Michigan, — a forced hospitalization which followed a suicide attempt — that he was able to first experience my mother as human. And not just a heartless, cruel woman.

 

This journey of the heart, this healing of generations of heartbreak and loss and trauma, is not easy. It is incredibly difficult. And the greater pain, however, that I have discovered is remaining numb, disconnected, shut down. What I know today is that as we grow older, we're either expanding or contracting. Our capacity to trust, to love, to be our authentic selves shrinks or expands depending on how it is that we respond to life's pain and sorrows. Are we attending to our hearts, and finding the support we need to do so, or not? I spoke to this in the memorial for my mom and our family.

 

And I shared how it is that I will always be eternally grateful for all of the loving and wise support, the resilience and fierce commitment to healing for myself and my children, and the Grace that has empowered me to recognize and step by step dismantle the barriers that I have built against love.

 

To quote Jennifer Berezan in her stunningly beautiful song A Blessings for All Beings, "Let sorrow be the doorway into an open heart." (I played this song at my mother's memorial: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DzPTHstpJ2I.) 

 

What a profound gift it is for all of us who are able to transform what has caused so much harm into the exact experience which ultimately opens our hearts and expands our capacity to know compassion and be love.

 

Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek 

and find all the barriers within yourself 

that you have built against it.  

— Rumi 

 

 One does not become enlightened by imagining 

figures of light, but by making 

the darkness conscious. 

 — Carl Jung

 

At my mother's memorial, I knew that I would need to speak to and honor both mothers. I also honored my father, Jack Strong, and my twin brother, John, and the truth of their strengths and struggles. I had been moved to also briefly include my dad and brother because there had been no memorial service for either of them following my father's death in November of 1975 and John's suicide in January 1978. My mother had not been well....

 

Without understanding this larger picture — the miracles that had occurred, the deep sorrows and trauma that was the truth of our history, the exquisite and infinite power of love, the consciousness of how great healing and transformation is possible — none of this would have been understood.

 

In addition to my husband and many beloved friends, present at the memorial were my three sons, Brian and Matthew and Kevin (on zoom in Victoria), and my two grandchildren Oliver (7) and Eleanor (2). One thing that I know in my deepest self is that ancestral and cultural patterns are perpetuated on through the generations as long as there are family secrets that are not given the light of day. Given that, like countless other families, we are a family impacted by generations of unattended harmful ancestral and cultural legacies, breaking the Don't Talk, Don't Trust, Don't Feel rules is essential. Absolutely essential. There can be no solutions for problems denied and held in silence, denial, and isolation.

Before speaking at my mom's memorial, I checked in with my son Brian and daughter-in-law Marita the day before, seeking feedback for how much to share or not share in the presence of my two grandchildren who would be attending. I was given a green light and told that now is a good time, an appropriate time for openness. And given that Oliver and Eleanor are held with so much love and tenderness and compassionate support by their parents, I knew that sharing more of our family history was important for everyone.

 

Next to where I spoke, were three empty chairs with pictures of my mother, my father, and my brother. I shared about the Grandpa/Great-Grandpa Jack that none of my sons or grandchildren have known. I spoke of my dad as being a closeted gay man, his love of sailing, his sense of humor and, most of all, my father's kindness — a depth of kindness which lives on in me in an ever expansive way.

I shared about the tormented life of my twin. Yes, John loved sailing, was very smart, and also tragically never found the doorway through the barriers that had been built against love in our family and around his own heart. At my mother's memorial, I shared this poem my brother wrote before his death:

If Only

I love to be loved

I need to be loved

And I am angry when I am not loved

And when I am angry, I am not loved

If only I weren't angry about not being loved

Maybe I could find the love that I need.

― John Strong

3/25/51 - 1/30/78  

 

As so much was slipping away, what remained was love.

I also shared, of course, at length about my mother, both mothers. 

 

There was so much trauma and loss. There was the first mother, whose severe narcissistic mental illness was exasperated when she became overwhelmed. There was the alcoholism that permeated our whole family — although I didn't know this until I began to learn about addiction in 1983. There were the ruptured connections and excruciating suffering that had to be buried outside of conscious awareness to survive. 

 

And then were was the birthing of my second mom, for which I served as midwife. Through the treatment of her mental illness with antipsychotic and other medications, through the illness of Alzheimer's and just enough memory loss to forget what my mother could not have bared to remember, and through the immersion in love — from all this came the miracle.

My mother had only been living near us for maybe three months when she asked once again why we had not seen each other for 14 years. I had been avoiding answering because I was afraid of triggering her illness. But now, as Ron and my son Matt and I sat in my mom's assisted living apartment, I decided to answer. I kept it short. "Mom, you were pretty angry with me. You didn't like my hair or my clothes or my politics." My mom sat in silence. Then she responded. "There must have been something in me that I was taking out on you." These were the words of an 87 year old woman who had been severely narcissistic for most of her life.

Now, in the early months following her move to Vancouver, with her sobriety and the dying away of her narcissism, the coin was flipped. And all of the self-loathing and shame and endless criticisms and unworthiness were no longer projected outward. My mother was flooded with thoughts that haunted her. Here it was, a lifetime of buried pain finding its way to the surface. 

 

And Mom would repeatedly say things like, "I'm just trouble." I knew that this was a very old place, one that she felt as a child with her own mother. I was able to listen, take her hand, and over and over again look deeply into her eyes and respond, "Mama, you aren't trouble. You are my treasure." And, again and again, a smile would sweep her face as she gradually took in what I was saying and allowed my love to permeate her heart. And the woman who had never felt treasured, who had learned to push away love, who had long ago rejected herself and all those around her, in time came to this place of gazing into my eyes and telling me, "I love you. You are my precious darling."

Compassion and enduring love for my mother, and the awakening of myself and the partial awakening of my mother, would not have been possible had I not first rooted deeply into healing my own heart. Everything that had been buried so deeply and for so long remained lost until I was able to find this doorway where it became possible for sorrow to be the doorway into an open heart. And that is when, gradually, and over many years, the truth was revealed. Under it all — the flailing about and harm that we cause to ourselves and others — under it all is this:

 

Our true nature

is a beautiful jewel

in a lotus flower

floating on a lake

in the center

of our heart.

 

 

There is no greater example of this that I know of than my mama. Once I thought my own mother to be a monster. And, indeed, she did monstrous things. But that was never who she was, not who her sacred holy self ever was. My mom, more than anyone else, illuminates the truth of our sacred being, that under all of our unconscious acts and ignorance and separation, under our deepest wounds, is our true nature. It is here that we discover the love that will not die.

I shared this poem at Mom's memorial:

The Love That Will Not Die

 

Spiritual awakening is frequently described

as a journey to the top of a mountain.

We leave our attachments and our worldliness

behind and slowly make our way to the top.

At the peak we have transcended all pain.

The only problem with this metaphor is

that we leave all the others behind --

our drunken brother, our schizophrenic sister,

our tormented animals and friends.

Their suffering continues, unrelieved

by our personal escape.

 

In the process of discovering our true nature,

the journey goes down, not up.

It’s as if the mountain pointed toward the

center of the earth instead of reaching into the sky.

Instead of transcending the suffering of all creatures,

we move toward the turbulence and doubt.

We jump into it. We slide into it. We tiptoe into it.

We move toward it however we can.

We explore the reality and unpredictability

of insecurity and pain, and we try not to push it away.

If it takes years, if it takes lifetimes,

we will let it be as it is. At our own pace,

without speed or aggression,

we move down and down and down. 

 

With us move millions of others,

our companions in awakening from fear.

At the bottom we discover water,

the healing water of compassion.

Right down there in the thick of things,

we discover the love that will not die.

― Pema Chödrön

 

  * * * * *

What I understand to be true today through my own lived experience is that, with perseverance and loving and wise support, we can come to embody our holy sacred selves, and no matter how lost we have been. It is also important, I believe, to remember the true nature of us all. And to look more deeply to find the compassionate understanding and wisdom that our families, communities, nation, and beyond so hunger for. 

 

Not all can make this soulful journey of the heart. We can hold with compassion those who are not able to find the doorway out of their suffering.

 

And there are those of us who are capable of healing our hearts and transforming the harm and sorrows that we have experienced. Part of this journey asks us to do the deep work of claiming the gifts of our ancestors. At least this has certainly been my experience. 

 

I also shared this poem at my mama's memorial ceremony:

Ancestral Treasure

Your ancestors have passed down

their wounds like a growing collection of gems

for your inheritance—

don't resent this.

 

They weren't ready to be mined and collected,

they weren't ready to be valued.

 

You have the technology now.

You know how to dig deep.

You know now how not

to fear your worth.

 

You know that within every bright, shining wound

is a nugget of compassion,

a jewel of wisdom.

They have saved up for you.

Now feel deeply blessed

to be driven, finally, into these inner tunnels

of self and history.

 

Cashing in on this trove

in the sacred chest of your heart

will alchemize all old, shameful stories

into diamonds of laughter and tears.

 

Cashing in this trove

will transform the heavy bag of sorrows

your ancestors carried

into tokens of priceless light.

 

— Chelan Harkin

From Susceptible To Light

 

 

Knowing that the suffering that we experience and are witness to in our lifetimes, that when tenderly embraced and healed, is the birthplace for deepening our capacity for love and compassion and kindness, this is one other poem that I was moved to share:

 

 Kindness 

 

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken

will stare out the window forever.

 

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness

you must travel where the Indian I a white poncho

lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he too was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans

and simple breath that kept him alive.

 

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak to it till your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,

only kindness that ties your shoes

and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,

only kindness that raises its head

from the crowd of the world to say

It is I you have been looking for,

and then goes with you everywhere

like a shadow or a friend.

 

— Naomi Shihab Nye

 

 

There is one more prayer that I was moved to share at the memorial ceremony in honor of my mom, our family, and beyond. This gift is from one of my longtime teachers. May it touch the hearts of us all.

 

My Simple Prayer

 

My simple prayer is that in all things I learn to love well.

That I learn to touch the ever-changing seasons of life

with a great heart of compassion.

That I live with the peace and justice I wish for the earth.

That I learn to care fully and let go gracefully.

That I enjoy the abundance of the earth and return to it

from the natural generosity that is our human birthright.

That through my own life, through joy and sorrow

in thought, word, and deed,

I bring benefit and blessings to all that lives.

That my heart and the hearts of all beings learn to be free.

 

— Jack Kornfield

 

 

"Loving Connections" - Stones I had made for giveaways at my mother's memorial ceremony

I am moved to share these reflections today in the hope that we all, over the course of our lifetimes, may come to increasingly embody an awakening heart and soul, radiating the miracle, beauty, and power of Love. These stories that I share today and at my mother's memorial ceremony one week ago are all so much larger than my family alone. Indeed, our culture and our world is awash in ruptured connections. May we all engage in an ongoing and ever expanding way in the healing heartwork which helps us to transform these disconnections into loving connections. May we let sorrow be the doorway into an open heart.

💗💗💗

With love and blessings,

Molly  

 

Portland Insight Meditation Center before the memorial

River View Cemetery, Portland, Oregon