Mother had always said that she didn’t believe in elderly parents living with their children; her own mother had “ruined” her sister's marriage with her household presence. When Mother’s companion of 20 years died on the East Coast, I invited her to come to Berkeley and live with me until we discovered a permanent living situation for her nearby.

As the days and weeks passed without her mentioning a move, I realized it was her intention to stay. There was no obvious reason for her not to. My husband, Peter, and I were living in the five-bedroom house our children had grown up in. We were in the not unfriendly process of splitting up, living as housemates in a house that was too big.

Mother joined us naturally. A well-preserved 84, she took vigorous walks and was sharp enough to index two of Peter's quite technical books. The three of us were joined by long habit, in a relationship that had more past than future. Living with Mother seemed the right thing to do.

Then Peter moved out to live with the woman he would eventually marry, and Mother and I were on our own. I felt as if I had stumbled backwards into a devouring past. I had taken early retirement from a long mental-health career and had no particular plans for what I would do next. The old redwood-paneled house was dark and memory-ridden. Shortly before Mother’s arrival, I had been ordained as a Buddhist priest and had taken the vow of “leaving home.” At 53, I had imagined leaving the house and starting fresh in the world. Eating breakfast and dinner alone with Mother at the long dining room table was hardly a new start. But I realized that “leaving home” in this case meant making the situation workable…

Excerpted from Turning Wheel, Winter 2001