There are a number of calamities that can befall a body. Sciatica is one that my mother suffered from. But the truth is, the diagnosis held no meaning for me. She said it hurt, and I believed her, but only from a distance. Irritable bowel syndrome plagues some of the people I care about. I offer condolences, but the bald fact is my stomach doesn't rebel. What do I know about suffering? 

 

The other day word meandered back to me about a fist full of complaints with my name on them. The heat between my ears made it hard to keep listening, and I mumbled an excuse to leave the room. The gamut of reactions made their showy appearances... defensiveness, blame, dismissal, hurt. 

 

Then after the smoke cleared, it occurred to me to remember how this felt. In recent history, I have been a witness to a muster of criticisms, pointed like arrows at people whose backs were turned. I have not been particularly brave about standing in front of weapons.  

 

Many years ago my mother made a simple statement that still moves me. Being manic, she was herself the target of slander, even if some of it was technically accurate. She was crazy. But she was also kind. The conversation I remember was between her and another woman who was belittling a third person who was not present. 

 

"She really likes you."

 

It stopped the tirade cold. 

 

My mother is impervious to contempt now. She neither dishes it out, nor has it flung in her face. That is a kind of freedom I aspire to.