River of Time

by Naomi Judd

  I have come to a place of self-forgiveness for the hundreds of mistakes I most likely made as a very young single mother who didn’t have the resources to make great choices, had never experienced a mother’s love, and who was always struggling to make sure we all had food on the table and clothing on our backs. I’m well aware Wy’s and Ashley’s growing-up years were not ideal, but they also held times of great joy and always love.

  I hope someday both of my daughters will remember the good days as outweighing the bad. There is nothing I want more in the world than for my girls to be happy.

  As Wy told Dan Rather on his show The Big Interview early in 2015, when he asked if the two of us talk regularly: “Our last tour was devastating. We don’t talk much. It’s going to take time. I think because I’m a mom right now. And dealing with teenagers—and paybacks are hell. I miss her.”

  * * *

  After this dinner with Wynonna, I felt my own mother on my mind, and I began thinking of her constantly, picturing her in that nursing home in Kentucky. She had spent her life in the house I grew up in, the one my parents bought from my Judd grandparents, Ogden and Sally Judd, when I was four years old. It had become her avocation, her one true love. She was always redecorating: painting the walls and buying new furniture and housewares. She even entertained in the house after her second marriage. Now, everyone’s gone, her second husband having passed away years ago, and she’s in a nursing home. She knows the house, her masterpiece, has been sold. She can no longer amaze people with her cooking talents. She has to eat institutional food and live in a “home” with other people who are all strangers to her. The pendulum of my emotions continues to swing between sadness, pity, anger toward her, and, still, love for my mother.

  In my first book, Love Can Build a Bridge, I painted a picture of Mother as far more maternal than she ever was. I think I wrote it that way to gain her approval and give her some status in the community of Ashland. I wanted to protect and defend her, because her life was never easy.

  Defending her was something I did from my earliest years. When I was growing up, wearing a hat to church was the popular fashion. Mother worked in the nursery every Sunday, never sitting in with the congregation with us. She only had three dresses, so I figured that she didn’t want others to notice. One Sunday, a well-to-do snooty country club–type woman stopped me in the hallway before the service and said, “I never see your mother wearing a hat.” It bothered me deeply that she was pointing this out, loud enough for others to hear. After thinking quickly on my feet I responded equally loudly, “She doesn’t wear a hat, because she’s afraid your kids will knock it off.” The truth was, my mom didn’t own a hat.

  My mother spent so many years feeling both anonymous and humiliated about her difficult life that it wasn’t hard to understand how she became bitter. But even when things went her way, she was unable to be happy. She remained negative, judgmental, and harsh in her opinions of others.

  I knew how much she longed to be respected and admired. I used my name and endorsement in the late 1990s to get her elected as city commissioner, which was a point of great pride for her. She had a bit of power and could use her natural intelligence. When her term was up she wasn’t reelected because, by then, people had come to know her. She would say things that got her in trouble. The night she lost her bid for re-election she called me crying, “I don’t know what happened.”

  A number of years ago, when phones still had answering machines with cassette tapes for messages, I came home to find a rare phone message from Mother, who almost never called me. On the tape, she complimented me: “I know I don’t say this enough, dear, but I’m very proud of you. You make people feel good. You treat me so well. Thank you for sending me money.” I still have that cassette tape because I knew it might be the only time I ever heard affectionate words from my mother.

  When I began feeling more emotionally stable, I thought it might be an opportune time to connect with Mother. I also wanted to prove to myself that I could now cope with highly emotional situations. Larry and I drove the six hours to Ashland to take her out shopping to Kroger for food and supplies for her room at the nursing home. We drove her through Central Park, where my siblings and I played as kids, and from one end of town to the other so she could look at everything she wanted to see. Then we pulled into the Wendy’s drive-through for a chocolate Frosty, which is one of her favorite treats.

  At the end of the day we took her to dinner at her favorite restaurant, the Chimney Corner. People she knew stopped by our table to chat. She was in a conversational mood and began talking with us about family history. She lamented how dysfunctional the Judds had been and how much it had affected her on a daily basis.

  I decided to take a big chance and reveal to Mother what the last thirty months of my life had been like. I put my hands on the table, hoping she might reach across and touch me. After I finished telling her, she slowly dropped her eyes to her plate as if she was taking in what I had said, then picked up her fork and ate her last two bites of chicken. She looked up at me with a dismissive glance and asked, “Shall we see what’s on the dessert bar?”

  And that was that. Larry couldn’t believe her coldness to me. He put his arm around me and pulled me into his chest. When we took her back to her room, I stopped and turned at the door as Larry and I were leaving and said, “I love you, Mother.”

  She shrugged and answered, “Love ya.” Then, as I smiled, she sternly warned me, “Don’t talk about our family.”

  I have closed the door for good on any wishful thinking I once held tight that she might be capable of motherly compassion. It’s simply too late. On her table in her nursing home are a few photos of family, but in the most prominent place is the photo of her beaming next to Jack Nicholson that I took after the Grammy Awards. It’s still a source of satisfaction for her and she loves when people ask her about meeting him. She’s eighty-nine years old now and I will continue to visit her. I want her final years to be comfortable, no matter what our relationship can never become.

  I found a lovely apartment close to where I live in Tennessee, with large windows and a huge veranda. It was handy to a grocery store, shops, and good restaurants. She could also order anything she wanted and have it delivered. I put down a deposit and had it painted her favorite colors. I arranged to have furniture delivered and I called Mother to tell her that I knew how badly she wanted to be out of the nursing home and I had arranged a solution.

  She refused the gift. She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to remain in the gray and dreary town of Ashland, steeping in her memories of a life gone sour.

  * * *

  As I focused in on my dialectical behavior therapy, Diana helped me to recognize that I was starting to think and react in a more healthy way. I began to extend myself a bit more with each passing day, and the challenges I faced didn’t make me feel as hopeless thanks to my new skills at regulating my emotions which brought a welcome shift, uplifting my down-in-the-dumps perspective. However, there were still triggers that could set off a depressive spiral or overwhelmingly strong anxiety. For example, I was in the waiting room of a doctor’s office, and feeling pretty good, when “Clair de Lune” was piped in over the speakers. I was instantly overcome by a profound anxiety. I had to leave the building and go outside into the sunshine. I found myself leaning against the brick wall next to a couple of employees who had stepped outside to smoke. I began to sob uncontrollably.

  My mother, September 2016, with her treasured photo of posing with actor, Jack Nicholson, backstage at the Grammy awards.

  I had a distinct sad memory of an interaction with my father from when I was seventeen and had found out I was pregnant but hadn’t told anyone yet. My piano teacher had called the house to find out why I had skipped two weeks of lessons. I had been memorizing “Clair de Lune” to play at the next recital when my life changed permanently with my unexpected pregnancy. Previously, I had never missed a lesson. Playing piano was one of the few joys of my chil
dhood and I would even put on my Sunday dress at home, place a lighted candle on the piano top, and open the windows to serenade the neighbors as I practiced.

  Daddy had heard that the teacher said, “Naomi could be a great classical pianist, but I can’t get her to practice anymore. It’s a shame if she gives it up now.”

  Daddy confronted me by complaining, “I work like a damn brute to come up with the dollar fifty a week for you to have those piano lessons.” The disappointed look on his face crushed me, but more than that, it was the first time I had ever heard Daddy use a swear word. At age seventeen, it felt like nothing would ever be okay again. Hearing “Clair de Lune” triggered the same feeling of being a failure because I couldn’t overcome my depression and anxiety.

  I told Diana of my emotional reaction at the piped-in music in a waiting room. I expressed my fear of being caught unexpectedly in public having an overwhelming response, because my emotions felt so unpredictable.

  Diana reminded me, “How many public places have you been in your life without any issues? How many hotel lobbies, waiting rooms, movie theaters, lecture halls, and restaurants? You’ve been fine many, many more times than times when you’ve had an issue. Right?”

  I had to admit she had a good point.

  She smiled and then offered me this piece of advice: “When you feel weak, anxious, or frightened, say this to yourself: ‘I’m Naomi Freakin’ Judd and I’ve got this.’”

  One afternoon, I was with four girlfriends in a small café. We were all catching up when suddenly I could feel a rising panic in me. My heart started to race and my palms became sweaty. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but I wanted to get up and go home immediately. My girlfriends gathered around me with concern. I knew that it wouldn’t help me to give in to the anxiety. Larry was out at a rehearsal and I really didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be around my friends. I applied the mindfulness technique I had learned at Promises and started taking long, slow breaths. I told myself: Look around. You’re in the village. You’re at a café you’ve been to many times. You are safe. You are with friends you love.

  I looked at what was right there in my environment. What was the design on Helen’s blouse? How many beads were on Rachel’s bracelet? Then I started thinking of what I liked the most about each of my friends. Soon the distraction helped my overactive amygdala settle down. For other people, successfully getting past a panic attack in this manner might seem trivial, but for people who have them, we know we just reached the summit of Mount Everest. No easy feat, but I’m Naomi Freakin’ Judd, and I’ve got this.

  I began to read again. I wanted a different perspective on the idea that I would be forever stained with the genetic legacy of mental illness passed down to me.

  My friend of twenty-five years, Dr. Francis Collins, one of the world’s leading genetic scientists, and I have spent quite a bit of time talking about his work. One evening during his visit to our farm, I told him I was curious about what he knew about our inheritable predispositions in our genes and if they are set in stone or can be changed or influenced. He explained to me the theory of epigenetics, where a gene can be altered through environmental factors, both in negative and positive ways.

  New findings are providing evidence of transgenerational epigenetic inheritance and that the environment can affect an individual’s genes, which can be passed on to the next generation. This left me to contemplate that if genetics could predispose a person to a 50 percent higher risk of alcoholism, as has been proven, could it also work for optimism? Could qualities like gratitude, good intentions, being nurturing, and having a positive attitude change the structure of our genes and be passed down to the next generation, too?

  Out of curiosity, I explored this subject further, and found the work of Bruce Lipton (The Biology of Belief), a research scientist with radical ideas about how our genes can be influenced. His theory is that while we are predisposed genetically to have certain abilities, strengths, weaknesses, and diseases, including depression, these attributes are not necessarily our fate through heredity. Through his studies and research he noted that our environment and our perceptions of our circumstances equally influence our cells. Genes are not destiny after all. It’s very possible, and is being proven more and more through research all the time, that the mind can control matter at least as much as matter controls our minds. What fabulous news, especially for someone, like me, with mental illness in the family.

  According to epigenetic research, one-third of our genetic makeup is controlled by heredity, but the other two-thirds are influenced by our environment and personal choices. So perhaps more of my biology was in my control than I thought. Maybe I was less doomed than the original recipe of my DNA was predicting. Put simply, it seems that if we can rethink and release any long-held beliefs that we are doomed to be sick or weak or are stuck with a batch of bad genes handed down from mom and pop, then we can change the subconscious mind and our genes to help us heal. But we have to replace the bombardment of negative beliefs with positive thoughts and conscious actions.

  Dr. Rosenbaum and I would talk by phone. He even gave me his cell phone number. Like a broken record, in every phone call he would remind me about the importance of exercise. I understand why. If I lie on the couch, I get into trouble. My thoughts spiral into dark and hopeless places. When you exercise you are active, and so are your thoughts. There is inarguable proof now that exercise produces endorphins, which trigger a positive feeling in the body. It’s not always easy to feel like exercising, especially when you are in emotional pain. What I found the most helpful is to have someone I could look forward to seeing while I exercise.

  My Pilates instructor, Tara, is more than an instructor. She’s a healer for me. Every session with her starts and ends with hugs, support, and words of inspiration.

  Pilates was developed for maintaining flexibility and strength in your core muscles, like your abdomen. Even on days when I don’t feel like going, I know that I will leave feeling dramatically better. On other days, I take walks with my dogs as my form of exercise. That is therapeutic as well. It makes my dogs happy and that makes me feel happier. I’ve found that any type of movement gives me a better chance of improving than doing nothing. Larry and I even signed up for a line-dancing class with several friends. The music, the movement, and the laughter have healing powers.

  I understand completely how exercise may seem overwhelming if you’re depressed. On my worst days, Ashley would have to coax me fifty feet to the old oak tree in my yard. But even that amount of movement would change my perspective.

  One benefit of having lost about twenty pounds from not being able to eat much was that I could wear some fun clothes. One weekend I called my grandson, Elijah, and said, “The Rolling Stones are in Nashville. My manager has third-row seats for you and Haley and me. Let’s go!” I bought a fringe skirt, donned one of my show wigs, did my makeup, and off we went. We had an absolute blast. Elijah and Haley were blown away watching Mick Jagger strut defiantly across the stage at seventy-one years old. Seeing his ageless energy made me feel hopeful. I danced for the entire two and a half hours of the concert.

  When I returned home, Larry was watching the late night news and I stopped in my tracks when I saw footage from the concert. The camera zoomed in on me, my arms raised in the air, cheering, whooping, and hollering. I heard the news anchor report, “Our own Naomi Judd was at the concert tonight, dancing away down front.”

  I was feeling very happy about it all. I’m Naomi Freakin’ Judd, and I’ve got this.

  Chapter 20

  The Toothpaste Is Out of the Tube

  “Make every effort to change things you do not like. If you cannot make a change, change the way you have been thinking. You might find a new solution.”

  —MAYA ANGELOU

  Maya Angelou was my solution to finding a maternal role model. She mothered me for years because my own mother didn’t know how. She became my spiritual mother.

  The first time I visited
her comfortable home in North Carolina, I was nervous about meeting this venerated wise woman.

  In her book I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Maya wrote how, during her childhood, the big treat on Christmas Day was to enjoy a can of Dole pineapple. I dared to bake her a homemade pineapple upside-down cake, which delighted her. Maya washed it down with a glass of Johnnie Walker Red, her lunchtime drink of choice, proving her preferences were always true to the South.

  Over the years we would sit in her beautifully planted colorful garden and talk about all manner of things. Her slowly enunciated speech enraptured me and I would take in her wise advice to my questions about the complications of family relationships.

  When the sun would spill over to where we were lounging, she would put up her parasol. She would admonish me that I should always carry a parasol to protect my “alabaster porcelain skin” from the sun’s harmful rays.

  The last time we parted, I teasingly warned her that on my next visit I was going to bring her a puppy. Without missing a beat, Maya snapped back, “Fine, I will have another daughter waiting for you.”

  A year after she passed away, a package arrived from her estate. It was the white lace parasol she used while meditating in that garden. Now I can sit in my own garden, under this precious keepsake, replaying our laughter and conversations.