The Book I Wanted to Buy My Mother

What is it we really want to give the woman who gave us birth?

For many years I wanted to buy a book for my mother — a book that would explain everything to her— what I hadn’t or couldn’t explain since I had been old enough to notice that my mother really wasn’t all that happy and, Lord knows, I wanted my mother to be happy and if not “happy” per se, then at least aware of what it was that made me, her God-seeking son, happy — the “thing” that, for so many years, she thought was just a phase I was going through and, even worse, some kind of heartless rejection of her and her way of life.

Yes, I wanted to buy a book for my mother – a book that would explain it all to her— the whole “consciousness” thing … the whole “guru” thing… the whole “it’s-OK-I-don’t-eat-your-veal-parmegiana-any-more-because-I’m-a vegetarian” thing.

Somebody must have written that book. Somebody must have noticed the market niche of mothers over 60 who worry why their high performing sons have suddenly gone spiritual.

And so, I went looking for the book. Like some people look for God.

I looked all over, but never found it, though I did manage to find some reasonable facsimiles — cleverly titled tomes displayed by the check out counter, conceived by marketing mavens who…