Of all the relationships we decide to enter into, only one is beyond our power to choose.  Paradoxically, the one relationship we have no control of initiating has the greatest influence in our lives and can very often affect all other relationships we do choose to create.  The depth of intimacy we have with others and the esteem we hold for ourselves - all are rooted in and stem from the mother/daughter bond that was made outside the realm of our free will.  

This relationship’s power in our lives is like the heart in our bodies. If the heart is strong and healthy, it’s repeated and rhythmic patterns pump our life force into all other parts of the body.  Its make-up is comprised of cells interconnected by bridges and is responsible for the current that stimulates a single cell and all its neighboring cells. While reading the encyclopedic description of the heart, I was looking for words that related to the unique mother/daughter relationship.  Repeated patterns. Life force. Interconnection.  Bridges.  Current.  Stimulate.  Strong and healthy.  The parallels are so closely drawn it seems they were made to be defined as one: a healthy heart is a healthy relationship with one’s parents.  The opposite is equally true.  Just as a diseased heart can stall the body, a broken parent-child relationship can thwart the spirit.   Moreover, as heart disease is the number one killer of women in America, a suffering mother-daughter relationship is the number one disrupter of the peace in a woman’s heart. 

This seems to be the case in the film A Story of Being, a documentary directed by Gabrielle Levene.  The impetus for viewing this film was personal which is true for most of the media forms I consume.  There’s no mysterious formula that determines my selection process.  It’s quite simple. If I’m feeling down, I watch comedy to lift me up. If I’m frustrated or stressed, I choose to escape by reading fantasy. I’m rejuvenated by Christian non-fiction. My courage is boosted by spiritual warfare fiction.  When I’m particularly perplexed and feel like giving up, I watch the testimony of someone else’s struggle to put my own in perspective.

The latter was my state when I selected Valerie and Simone’s story, a mother and daughter who suffer a strained relationship.  I looked in on their dis-ease for help in assessing the dilapidating bridge between me and my own mother.  Just a day before viewing this film, I had ended a conversation with her that did not go well.  It was all in writing, sent via e-mail so at least I was able to express myself without interruption.  Unfortunately, she did not agree with my expressions, and the ensuing comments thrown back and forth served only to aggravate the symptoms of an pre-existing condition in our mother/daughter relationship.  An analogous diagnosis of our current state of health would be touch-and-go, stable but always at risk.  We suffer from closed valves: once we believe we’re right, we close off the flow of any thought for the other person except to accuse her of being wrong.

A Story of Being opens to reveal that Simone and Valerie suffer from the same illness.  It is a familiar setting.  The tension is like walking in on an open heart surgery that has gone awry.  The patient is flat lining, doctors are frantically digging around in the chest in search of the problem.  In this scene, the operating room is a moving vehicle.  The instruments used to cut and slice are words and tones: angry and condescending, loaded and petulant.  Oddly, the familiarity was somewhat comforting.  Having been through this procedure before, I felt a sense of camaraderie. A connection was made immediately.  Though a mother myself, I automatically related to the daughter Simone. I wanted to sit next to her, close enough so she could draw on my breath to loosen the tightness I know she was feeling in her chest. I’ve been in this car, in the driver’s seat, losing control of the conversation but refusing to pull over, determined to drive the road despite its leading nowhere, going downhill fast. 

What is remarkable about this film is it’s objectivity.  Levene doesn’t take sides.  She simply allows both mother and daughter to speak without fear of being discredited or devalued.  This liberty sets them both free to flush out the clogged arteries, so to speak.  As a result, each has a chance to have her words heard.   Too often a person may hear another person, but in his mind he is creating a counter argument while the other person is still stating his case.  Active listening allows for pause between statements, a pause that is used to reflect on what is said and then, if necessary, respond.  When debating an issue, or fighting to win an argument as is so often the case, there is no room for pause, no opportunity for concession.  The only motive is to prove the other person wrong.  A Story of Being does not prove anything.  It doesn’t judge, it merely records the testimony.  Levene lets the story be, creating opportunity for the all important pause.

Though mother and daughter each share their account, Levene seemed particularly drawn to the mother, Valerie.  This is understandable.  I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose both a son and a husband within a year’s time.  The process by which a woman would heal from such grief would be a deeply private matter.  Presumably, time granted Valerie some distance from the traumatic period, so she is able to talk about her process openly, exhibiting a sense of peace with the pain.   Yet, there is something about her openness that feels a bit staged.  Perhaps it is her history as an actress that carries over into the delivery of her reflections.  There are several thoughts that are followed by a pregnant pause which results in a stillbirth of the next thought, as if her heart, torn out by tragedy, has been replaced by a pacemaker; though it is functioning, it beats artificially.  This masks the sadness that is palatable in her tones, especially the ones she reserves for her daughter.

Most mothers can say they know their children.  A mother has intimate knowledge of the experiences that created the content of her child’s character and is therefore the most qualified outsider to assess her child’s inner well-being.  Of course, this also means she knows the very specific button(s) she can push to trigger a response in her child.  It would be interesting to see the results of a poll that studied the correlation between mother/daughter closeness and the frequency with which the mother intentionally pushes her daughter’s buttons. I would guess that the more the button is pushed, the greater the distance in the relationship. Some mothers are careful not to push it.  Some intentionally strike it with a sledgehammer.  Others are more subtle, touching with a tone: belittling, patronizing, contemptuous, and haughty.  A tone, though subdued, can can turn an irregular heart beat into a full blown heart attack. 

Throughout the movie, Leven returns to the car scene and it is here where tones speak louder than words.  When they are alone to themselves, Simone and Valerie both articulate their perspectives with ease, each different but not necessarily opposing, as air and water.  When together in the car, however, the tone in Valerie’s air stirs up Simone’s depths, and the distance between them is filled with emptiness only slightly less vacant than the void left after the loss of the men in their lives.  This tone sets the pace of the film, tied and taut, like a tennis championship between Serena and Venus.   Yet, the two women in A Story of Being are not equals.  The viewer knows this.  We expect the mother to win in the end simply because of the nature of the relationship.  Being a mother is the tie-breaker. 

As valid as her feelings are, Simone does what most daughters learn to do: suppress, withhold, and defer.    Daughters also learn to be ignored.  I suppose this is why I am so concerned for her.  Not wanting to burden what remained of her family, she kept her own sorrow and anger to herself.   Her mother did the same, though she did eventually find an outlet to vent her grief.  Both mother and daughter coped as best they could, but they did so separately.  What could have been shared and diffused was instead pressed down inside and concentrated.  As any specialist will tell you, high pressure is not good for the heart.  Recovering from the inevitable heart failure will make one oversensitive and always at risk of another attack, or as my mother would say, an emotional “fit.” Renaming it diminishes it’s power, trivializing the episode which only serves to prolong the recovery period indefinitely.

Like Valerie and Simone, my mother and I are not close.  It’s not as bad as it was; in my twenties we couldn’t have a meaningful conversation without a facilitator!  Now, we are at least civil, settling on the most comfortable exchange: the periodic status report, delivered to inform rather than share intimacy.  In depth details she has come to know through my writing. She is not a fan of these writings.  She is not the heroine in my story.  Quite the opposite.  Though she was not the wicked witch of the west, she was (and still claims to be) a witch.  As such, she is a push-button artist, saying precisely the one thing that will bring out the ugly in me.  In the end, I must surrender and give her the last word, though each time the battered bridge between us loses another plank. 

I write this knowing that in all likelihood my mother will read my words, so I have tempered my tone, not because I don’t think she can handle raw honesty.  She is accustomed with what she calls my “rants.” I suspect she still has at least one or two of the letters I have sent through the years, proof of my failed attempts to unclog the arteries and stimulate healing.   I write carefully because I’m not a surgeon, I don’t have the emotional detachment to make the proper cuts without causing more bleeding.  Fortunately, Levene takes on this responsibility, bypassing sentimentality that can easily dirty the wounds or hedge around the root cause of injury.  Even with this neutrality, mothers and daughters are still likely to view the film subjectively, with eyes tinted the shade of the love or pain in their own hearts. 

This is why I chose not to contemplate too critically on this film; the scales on my eyes have yet to fall.  I am biased, a blindness that makes me question my own motherhood. Am I doing better than my mother did?  Is this the goal?  What do we pass on?  What do we let go?  How can we make these decisions objectively when the heart is so thoroughly fused in our thoughts on this matter?  Can dissonance harmonize?  I suppose it depends on how long one can hold the tension.  The answer for me, then, is rather bleak.  I can manage stress - pressure is what turns coal into diamonds - but when I’m in my mother’s presence the strain pulls at more than just my mental capacity.  I can feel it in my body.  A mother/daughter bond, solid or in flux, is inherently primal.  There is a core current beyond our conscious control.

Of course, there are spiritual philosophies that suggest that we choose our parents before arriving on earth, selecting the two people who possess precisely what we need in order to become who we are destined to be in this life.  Though contrary to my belief, this is an attractive notion because it gives us some say in the matter.  It opens up the opportunity to take what we love and throw out what we don’t like.  Yet, if we follow this “customized” line of thinking to its inevitable end, we are left with selfish, conditional love, the opposite of what I understand a mother to be.

What, then, is the best advice?  I’m sure each mother has her own words of wisdom.  Here is mine: daughters should love their mothers as they have been loved, not by their own mothers necessarily, but by the Creator of all.  God is both mother and father and it is upon this model I must set my sight.    In this way, I am able to detach myself from my role as my mother’s daughter, and stand firm in the love I receive as a daughter of Christ.  When I do this, my vision clears and I see: an earthly mother is a daughter’s grind, sharpening her to master self-control and humility.  Right or wrong, daughters must thank mothers for this much at least.  For those of us who have not reached this level of mastery, let’s work on becoming tone deaf!  It’s a good exercise for the heart and it may serve as a better surge protector when blood currents rise.