We are born, and then we die. Things happen in between. How we turn out is influenced by many things. How were we conceived? In love, lust, indifference, convenience or violence? What happened during our mother’s pregnancy?
When we were born did either parent, assuming both were present (which may not have been the case), exclaim “I wanted a girl/I wanted a boy” and the opposite happened? Were there complications, and what happened afterwards?
What genetic blueprint did our parents gift us? What cellular memory did we come with from our ancestors? Were the planets sympathetic to our birth and did we get dealt a good hand? Is there such a thing as karma or are we all powerful angelic beings who can call the shots?
Were our “natural” gifts of telepathy, “second sight”, curiosity and insight encouraged or denied? Were we abused?
Were we loved? Were you a mistake?
So, everything is solid. Logic rules. Our genes determine our disposition towards illness and misfortune during our lives. We can buck the system through hard work and a modicum of intelligence. We need luck. We need the breaks and the opportunities. Hopefully it all works out. When it doesn’t, when we are abandoned, betrayed, humiliated and shamed we either pick ourselves back up, carrying the damage for life (or work out a good coping strategy) or we allow ourselves to be crushed and we begin the slow steady decline. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. What doesn’t kill us gives us a hidden psychological limp. We cope, we get by. Life isn’t bad except when it is.
And then we plan our funeral or an “accident” deprives us of that luxury.
We take steps to ensure our children get a better deal than we did. We invest much of ourselves in making sure they do. They rise to it, they flourish or they squander the opportunities, God forbid.
We nod, and pay lip service to the dreamers. We wonder why only the good die young. We watch, aghast, as the bastards win again. We grin and bear it because after all it’s only for life.
We carry on. By occupying ourselves with routines, work, chemical crutches and busyness we sail on, like the swan or the duck, seemingly gliding serenely but with our feet going 20 to the dozen. And yet despite all this we serve. We make a mark, and the world is infinitely better for our being in it. Some of us, paying attention to the splinter in our minds, are intrigued by the dreamers.
We realise, deep down, it is impossible to get through all this without love. But our own experience of love at a personal level colours everything we do.
Did our parents tell us we were loved? If they didn’t tell us, did they show it? Did our parents love each other? Were our parents some kind of anomaly? Was one parent, or no parents enough?
How did we learn to love? Is it ever too late to have a happy childhood?
To be continued. Clue to the answer to the last question. It is never too late.
Imagine. Have an absolutely wonderful, love-filled 2020. You are richly blessed.
Jack Stewart, January 3rd 2020.