This One Is for You, Mom

As I was meditating, my mom came to mind. I saw her face. It took a minute, though; at first I felt her, but her human presence took longer to appear. A blur turned into her warm smile in front of my eyes, and I felt a long breath leave my body. The thought crossed my mind: What if I could not remember her face? Thank God for pictures and videos, I thought. I’ve heard people say that after years of their loved ones passing, details of their faces begin fading away.

And then, during meditation, she came in—not my mom, but a girl showed up. Her life appeared as if I was playing a movie, or watching life in front of me right before death.

This girl was young, very poor, and she did not live in the present time. There were no smartphones, Wi-Fi, not even cameras invented yet. She made little money working day and night as a maid, but that secured her a roof over her head and three meals a day. On Sundays, her only day off, she would go to church and pray. She thanked the Lord she was kept by the family her mom worked for. They were kind to her, and her family had worked in their home for generations. The daily routine was demanding, and all days seemed the same—up at dawn and to bed after the family had settled in at night. There was no time to grieve her mother’s passing. There were some nights when she cried all night, curled in a wool blanket her mother knit for her. She couldn’t afford to think of her and how much she missed her. Life moved fast for her; it was really moving past her.

One Sunday at church, she felt her mother’s hand caressing hers, as she often did when they sat next to one another on those big, cold wooden benches. Her mom often touched her slowly when her eyes drifted to the tall church ceilings. She did this when the sermons felt longer than usual. Her mom’s warm touch would bring her back to reality.

And now, on this particular Sunday, her mind drifted away to the top of the ceiling, right where the chandeliers met the bolts holding their weight. She thought that if it wasn’t for that bolt, it would all come crumbling down. She wondered if the sermon talked about the strength of that small bolt holding it all together from crashing down, she would be far more interested. And it is no coincidence that she felt her mother’s touch then. This time it was different; when the memory came to her, she couldn’t see her face. She couldn’t remember her eyes, her mouth, her hair. How could she forget her smile?

Years passed by, and she made her own family. The struggles she lived as a child and youth subsided. She was lucky to find a good man who provided for her and their daughters so they didn’t have to live the sacrifices their grandmother and she did. And as she grew older, she lost her husband, and her daughters took care of her. One of them took her into her home. She served her day and night, as she once did for the family she worked for. One morning, she felt a cold breeze sneak through the wooden windows, and her daughter noticed when she heard the cracking of the old frames. She came to warm her up with that wool blanket, the one her mother made for her; it was the only one that kept her warm on days like this. As she came close to lay it on top, she saw her—not her daughter. She saw her mother: her smile, her eyes, her hair so soft, her cheeks so bright. Her mom looked at her and grabbed her hand like when they sat at the cold church. Her mother wanted to call her attention, I guess, but she was in awe of her face. I see you, Mom, she said. I see you again.

The Invisibility Cloak

At the beginning of the year, I attended a spiritual workshop. During the retreat, the moderator spoke about the different types of mirrors in life. Among many things, she explained how sometimes, when we meet someone who becomes close to us, what attracts us at first may be something we believe we’ve lost within ourselves—or something we think we don’t have at all. Discovering it in another is a way of reclaiming it.

My eyes were closed as I absorbed this idea when she instructed us to think of a characteristic that came to mind when we thought of a close person in our lives. If the connection was romantic, she asked us to put aside looks and attraction and focus on more practical qualities. I immediately thought of my husband and the many things I was drawn to when we first met, but one stood above the rest: his discipline.

My husband’s discipline is worthy of admiration. If discipline were a person, his would be carried on shoulders after scoring a goal in a stadium; mine, on the other hand, would be met with a chorus of boos. This isn’t self-deprecation, nor am I fishing for encouragement. It’s simply a fact—at least so far in my life. Discipline and I don’t have a lovely relationship. It’s mostly love and hate. When I’m disciplined, I love myself, and when I’m not… well.

He has it—discipline in his art, his work, and his spiritual practice. I thought about how incredible it feels to meditate, to write, to connect with myself, and how little I actually practice those things. And how he, rain or shine, sick or sad, gets out of bed at 6 a.m. every single day for his yoga practice. Meanwhile, I can think of many—trust me, many—reasons not to do what I know makes me feel whole.

So I said to myself, I like this mirror, and I’m claiming it. I will practice yoga with him, rain or shine. Let me clarify: in Miami, “shine” can mean 98-degree weather that feels like 104 with humidity. Just saying.

Proudly, I decided to join him every morning, waking up at dawn when my entire body feels made of lead—bricks tied to my ankles, like I’m about to be dropped into the ocean by a mafioso with a heavy Jersey accent. Moving feels nearly impossible, but I rally.

On weekdays, his yoga practice is at home. I place my mat behind him and shadow his movements as best I can, struggling to keep my balance. On Sundays, he attends an outdoor class on Miami Beach, and I’ve been tagging along, always making sure we don’t set our mats up front. He’s an expert; I need to be right in the middle so I can watch the person in front of me and follow whatever they’re doing.

Being in a group class isn’t my comfort zone, so when the instructor asked us to find a partner we didn’t know, my husband and I exchanged a smile. A little white lie wouldn’t hurt anyone, I thought, and it felt cute to pretend we were strangers. As we did the exercise, I looked around and noticed how shy people seemed, especially since it required sustained eye contact.

When the exercise ended, the instructor asked us to wave at the people across the space. It took me straight back to childhood, to the many Sundays spent at church with my family. During the sign of peace, I dreaded turning around and finding people who somehow managed to look everywhere except at me. It happened so often that I began to believe I must be invisible.

That feeling of invisibility followed me through life and slowly became my comfort zone. Eventually, I even started to think of it as a superpower.

So there I was, in a yoga class, now in my fifties, looking at a group of people and feeling relieved that they were at a safe distance. I connected with one person, then another. And suddenly, she appeared—my inner child. She grabbed my arm and started waving at everyone. She took over my face, too, stretching it into an excited smile. What did I have to lose, after all? I still had my superpower—my invisibility cloak.

Except everyone was waving back. Not only waving back, but doing so with genuine excitement. They didn’t see the guarded adult I thought I was hiding. They saw the child who had taken over.

That’s when another mirror revealed itself: my inner child had awakened theirs.

But how could they see me? The invisibility cloak must have fallen. A split second of panic stung me, followed by something entirely unexpected—relief. It felt refreshing and new. Who would have thought that searching for discipline would lead me here? To a moment of deep awareness. It all lasted only seconds—five at most—but even one second of being seen that day felt like being discovered by the universe itself.