Mother, Daughter

by Kristina and Kaya Lukawska

Mother

I was thirty when I gave birth to my first child. My son died after three hours of fighting for life. I felt completely devastated; I lost meaning in my life. But I was also flooded with an ocean of questions. What’s the purpose of birth and death? Why do people suffer? What’s the meaning of suffering? Why do some people seem to be happy while others are not? And many others. An imperative for spiritual practice became keen.

Two years later I had my daughter, Kaya. The great happiness and excitement accompanying her birth did not eclipse my need to search for the path. When Kaya was one year old I found the Zen Center. The first time I walked into the zendo, I felt like I found my lost home and family. There was no doubt that it was my place and my path. I started to practice ardently and I tried to do anything to be a “good Buddhist.” “Great is the matter of birth and death...Don’t waste a moment” -the words rang in my head, and I took them very literally. I stopped using any make-up, cut my hair very short, and started to take showers (in Poland we used to take baths instead of showering). When I heard that our desires cause attachment and thus suffering, I started to get rid of books and different objects from my house. My clothes started to look monochromatic - “dharma clothing.” A plain look: no jewelry, no belts or other decorations, no perfumes, no deodorant. I eliminated TV and worthless books. There was a long list of “don’ts.” It was like I was pretending that I had already achieved selfless purity. I also wanted to be a “perfect Buddhist mother.” I became obsessed with a healthy, vegetarian diet that was only homemade. I made flour by myself and I was angry with my father when he tried to feed my daughter meat. I only believed in natural medicine. When my daughter got fevers we wrapped her in a wet, cold sheet. There were many fears behind those acts, from the fear of not being accepted by the teacher or other Buddhists, to the fear of not being able to achieve enlightenment.

From the very beginning my husband and I took our daughter to many Buddhist ceremonies, so amongst her “Mother Goose” poems was “Kanzeon.” Hearing her sing “Kanzeon” in the doctors’ waiting room I laughed and I felt happy. When she was between two and four years old, she got up every morning, put on her clothes, and played silently until we finished zazen. Almost all our friends were Buddhist, so for my daughter being a Buddhist - whatever that was supposed to mean - was as natural as it is for most Polish kids to be Catholic. When my daughter was four I came to the States. After a few months my husband and Kaya joined me, and a week later our son, Max, was born. During our first years as immigrants our family had gone through a continually serious and painful crisis. I stopped practicing.

Those years were difficult for all of us. Only very slowly was I getting back to the practice of Zen. It was then that my family became my practice. Never before had it been so clear that it was thanks to my family that I could verify my practice, face my ego, shortcomings, and blindness. Again the Buddha’s teaching sounded in my head, but this time it was “I resolve not to indulge in anger” - anger that I often found uncontrollable. I wanted to let go of this self-defeating bad temper, but it was difficult. Determination to stop my anger was enhanced through teachings from my kids. Once while driving with my son, I became incredibly angry with him. After a few minutes I said, “Max, let’s kiss each other and forget what happened, okay?” He smiled and gave me a kiss.
We drove in silence for the next several minutes, then Max said, “Mom, but I still remember that.” I became saddened, it reminded me of my mother who had a really bad temper. She yelled a lot and threw objects at me. Sometimes I was really scared. I didn’t want my children to ever be afraid of me.

One of my greatest lessons came when I was with my daughter at the lake. I was getting out of the car while my daughter started to run towards the lake. She ran into a man on roller blades and wiped out. I panicked, ran towards her, and began screaming and yelling that she had not looked around. As she was getting up quietly, she looked into my eyes and said, “Instead of hugging me you are screaming at me when I am hurt,” then she got up and walked away. I felt very bad. I knew that I couldn’t just run after her and apologize. It was too serious. I had to change something first. I profoundly and visibly realized that I was the one who caused this suffering and I was the only one who could stop it. I promised myself that I would never act that way again.

“Endless blind passions I vow to uproot” was echoing in my head. I was learning to stand back from my rage and to change my attitude through gratitude and forgiveness. With persistent practice I have started to cleanse my heart of hatred, anger, and passion. Three years ago, the day after I returned from a seven-day sesshin, my son made me extraordinarily upset. I was growing furious and feeling the hot burning throughout my body, when suddenly I was completely peaceful. I responded calmly and adequately.

“All beings I vow to liberate” chimes in my head. I have asked myself, “How do I encourage my children toward spiritual adulthood?” “ How can I include them in my practice?” They have participated in Jukai and many other ceremonies at the Zen Center. A few times we had the purification ceremony at home. Each time, the kids were involved and they enjoyed it very much. They’ve learned how to bow, do prostration, light incense, and clean the altar. Their friends at school go to churches and temples; they have barmitzvas and first communions. In some way it meets their need to belong, concurrently allowing their search for meaning.

When my friend died a few years ago, we were all moved by her sudden death. My son asked me to help him prepare a small altar in his room. He put a small eagle he had gotten from this friend on it and lit incense. We did the Memorial Prayer for her and he joined us. It was a very moving experience, one of the most beautiful ways to share our grief.

Every day of practicing with kids can be a challenge and a lesson. The phone was ringing; “Just answer and tell them I already left,” my daughter pleaded. I was reluctant - I don’t like to lie. Sensing my reluctance, she ran to the front door and stepped out, closing it behind her. She came back in when I hung up the phone. What mystification! I’m pretending to believe that she has really left as she plays out a role to help me lie, cleanse my conscience, and liberate the guilt that follows. There is no guilt, but a lie remains a lie. There is still a lot of work that needs to be done, and there is beauty in it.

Daughter

As a two year old I chanted “Kanzeon” in a doctors office and since the shocked and confused looks did not phase me, I continued. When I was younger this would have been easier to write; being the child of a Buddhist meant I was different. Try explaining to a group of children that your mother can get rid of bad spirits by running through the house with a series of bells. Christmas meant nothing more than presents, and my third grade wisdom rationalized the pestering by my classmates as ignorance. Growing up I learned to accept and embrace the peace that my mother found from staring at the blank white wall in front of her. I thought maybe she saw things there that I didn’t. However, it is difficult to write about it today when it is every day that I must learn that it is not the blank wall she is staring into, and furthermore that I’m not really aware of what it is, nor whether she is really staring at all.

In conflicts I look first for rationale and later for revenge. My fear turns to anger and hatred instead of to sympathy and kindness. Our attempts, as people and as a nation, to fight back after the bombings of the Twin Towers faced us with much hatred, animosity, and fear, as we hid behind our American flag. I looked to my parents for explana-tion, and had to find that like most others, they had none. My mother cried for the suffering that the bombings had caused and the consequences that would follow for years to come. I justified many of the discriminations that society developed, and it angered me that she felt we should refrain from anger and break the chain of hatred.

Being a teenager my frustration is catalyzed by her peace and calm. My anger is outraged by her serenity. Imagine feeling the greatest emotional trauma and having someone tell you that emotions are not real. I’m at a time of emotional development, a series of self-inflicted psychological traumas: every headache is a brain tumor, every disappointment the end of the world, and someone is to blame for every problem.

My discipline is developing, though; I haven’t broken an alarm clock in well over three months, and I think I may actually finish writing this piece. I’m amazed every morning to wake up and find my mother has been meditating for an hour as I have been fighting the dreaded first beep of the alarm. Her forgiveness and constitution are incredible, and I grow and derive strength from her practice more often than I’d like to admit.