It’s a funny thing.
They are not me. I am not them. We are all one. Different flavors of source. My frustrations regarding them appear to me once I am again able to breathe.
I broke a chair today. One of our oldest. Those of its kind have been creaking and cracking anyway. At least that was the justification I gave for picking it up from its place in front of the computer and slamming it down on the floor . This followed several episodes of crossing boundaries today in our household. Testing the waters and pushing limits. And so it continues in its various forms.
Here’s what I know:
If I open my eyes to the beauty right in front of me there is so much to want to share. Saying “I love you” to my children is not enough. At least it always feels like an inadequate way to express how I feel about them. To them. So I look for other ways. To be kind. And generous. And accepting. And when I see something that looks dangerous or risky around my children I do my best to protect them. I struggle with certain things because in order to really teach my children, I have to feel like I KNOW something. I have a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology. (Is that even supposed to be capitalized?) And the only thing I know for sure is that I know nothing. And what I mean by that is there is so much more to see and learn about this world. More than you can learn in school. It’s much RICHER. And lighter and brighter. There is no One right way. There is only one source and infinite possibility. And that, I know for sure.
I let the details of that truth unfold in my life. That is my mantra for the moment, I suppose.
I let the details of the truth that we are all one, and I am everything, unfold into my life in a way that serves the highest good. May <this> be a part of that process.
And THIS becomes whatever you want in that moment. Whatever you want to be or dream or do, you do. Right now I want to write myself back to innocence. Back to a time and place where I felt SAFE to be me. Where I was cared for and protected and I could safely express myself in the means of the time. I wrote stories, then. And I write now. I feel those things NOW. I was able to relax into the feeling of safety. Most often times in front of the TV. There is something about it. Something hypnotizing. It suspends our perception of time. We are drawn into another world. And as I start to awaken to the deeper truths behind the movies and television shows I grew up with I mourn a little. But I also feel relief.
I no longer have to identify with them in the way I used to. I can simply watch them as if I haven’t watched it before. Or not watch it at all and never watch it again. Either way it doesn’t matter.
What matters is the story. The one no one has heard before. Or one that reminds us of who we are. And what we could be. If we wanted . Or the one that motivates us to be MORE of ourselves. More of each of us and everything that is good. If we wanted. I add that part, “if we wanted,” because sometimes I get the feeling that there are forces out there who don’t want peace and harmony in the world. Even I question it sometimes. How is that even possible? What would peace and harmony, everywhere, present, even look like? Because I have a vision of how things could be better in my neighborhood. But that involves cooperation with neighbors we have lived next to but never really truly interacted with for nearly 5 years. Oh, except for the couple times Sonic wanted to play with the kids across the street. And the time, several weeks ago, that a neighbor helped me push my car out of the snow. And then I think to myself, “ I’m not quite sure I’d want to know them.” And then I fear everyone thinks that way. A valid thought and feeling. And I pursue the potential no more further.
But I remember that I am doing radical things here. Things I’m still quite unsure of. I’m trusting the process, because that is what it is. But I still experience periods of frustration and anger and confusion and loneliness. But they don’t rule me. I simply let them come and go.
And I pick up the pieces of the chair that Luna keeps pointing to saying, “dat doooe” (uh-oh). I know I broke the chair. I broke the chair and Luna watched me do it.
I sigh a big sigh. The phone rings and I pick it up. It’s grandma and we make plans for the day. Life calls me. The present snaps me to attention. No use feeling guilt and shame and wallowing in it. I scare myself sometimes. I can be scary. I know this about myself. But I can also be awesome. So I forgive myself. My kids already have.
And I continue to remind myself that my frustrations aren’t really about them. They are about me. Baby Jessica. And about how she grew up and was taught to believe in this world. And about how we are finding our way back to each other. That’s the true work. It’s a process. And the little people in my life, all of them, being me and NOT me- all at once, are my greatest teachers.
