Mother

Maturity

I oftentimes wonder what kind of a person I will grow up to be. I am 25 years old, and I am way too young to say “I am a mature person”. In fact, I don’t know any person, regardless of how old or young they may be whom I would consider mature. Maturity seems illusive to me. The wisest of men (and women, of course) have downfalls. Not simply I think of immaturity as a flaw; sometimes I wonder if embracing the immaturity we all share is a key to life. Being mature seems to me to be the point after which the whole process turns into decay. There are other ways to look at maturity, I am sure; however different they are from mine doesn’t make mine less valid.

Mother

For a really long time I wished for my mother to be perfect. I’ve built illusions in which my mom was the purest human being that ever existed. Honest, courageous, funny, and beautiful. Wise woman who always has the right words to say. The longer I look at her the more I see that she is the furthest thing away from perfection. She, just like the rest of us are, flesh and bones, tears and laughter: a human. The “furthest thing away from perfection” may sound a little harsh but I cannot stress hard enough just how illusive and unattainable perfection really is. Perfection is something innate, magical, ethereal. The flower blooming, the clouds moving, the stars shining; these are all perfect in their movement through space, but as soon as you turn a 3D object into a still picture, you start to notice its flaws. The clouds may blur into one big grey gloom, the flower may have rips on the petals; my own mother can be ruthless and inhumane if I were to take a closer look at certain still pictures of her life.

So many times in my life I had diminished someone’s volume to a size of a pixel on a screen; my mother is not an exception. I’ve spent years feeling guilt, hate, misunderstanding, and mistrust. I looked upon so many people for worshiping: celebrities, friends, high school seniors. Anyone, really, but not my own mother. I refused to be anything like her for years.

I’ve lived in this state of denial for a while.

My mother has done many mistakes in her life. Show me at least one person who hasn’t. Being reckless, being immature, making all the wrong choices and being harsh to her loved ones; she’d done it all, and then she reversed and started to live as if she got a second chance. As if she got a gulp of fresh air for the first time in a really long time.

She has so rapidly changed in the last few years that I have to readjust my whole life system. She was a businesswoman, a love, a mother, a creator, a housekeeper. She was also a traitor, a liar, and a cheater. I know all of that about her and I, perhaps, wouldn’t be able to accept it if she hadn’t. If she didn’t own up to her mistake, and didn’t carry on trying to live the most interesting life possible with as much kindness and compassion to others as she can, I would not be able to accept her or myself for what we both are: women.

After all the storms she’d been through, she is choosing to shine every day. After all the pain she had suffered, she is choosing to focus on the pleasure. After facing the dead end in her life, she is choosing to turn 180 degrees and walk away fearlessly into the unknown direction with a smile on her face.

People oftentimes say: “Your own children are always children for you, no matter how old they are”. I find this statement to be ridiculously true about anyone you love, really. I look at my mother, and I so clearly see the child in her. Not in some selfish, spoiled way; in a pure, innocent way.

“When are you going to grow up?” Well, by the look at my mother, never. And it’s a good thing.

Being a Child

Being a child is being open and soft, vulnerable, emotional, and honest. It is being curious and excited about the world, it is being passionate about your life, it is loving with all of your heart, it is taking each day as this is the absolute best day that had ever happened to you. Being a child is playing more than you work; or even better: realizing that any work is play in its essence and having a kick out of it. Being a child is knowing who you are without ever having the need to ask. Being a child is trying fearlessly new things and doing even when not succeeding. Being a child is all about simply being, and nothing about becoming anything specific.

Being as childish as possible regardless of the age or social status; having fun from this crazy roller-coaster ride called “life” and not taking your own self too seriously is where I draw all of my inspiration from. Thankfully, I don’t have to go far looking for people who supply this kind of aspiration: there is one still living inside of me.

There is one living inside of you, too.