Amazing gifts from my child. So much that I don't grasp, which only becomes clear before my son's eyes. Amazment with a butterfly or spider's web, or anguish from a block's inability to defy gravity. All speak to things buried deep within, lost to sunlight, yet still real, deeply real. Perhaps I can rebirth that, bring it forth into the daylight. Try and see the world simply, in all it's joy and pain. Perhaps what children offer most to the world is not their abilty to experience unbridaled joy, but their grasp of pain. This pain felt so deeply, unhidden by convention or stigma, at things WE can't allow tears for, though we still long to spill forth sobs. Perhaps it is this, and our ability to allow that grief which is the greatest gift.
Driving along in Kirkland , home of the modern yuppie, I’m passed by a new Mercedes. Lovely, silver, shiny, new, bling-bling; a part of me loaded with insecurity twinges while I purr along in my Toyota. Why? How come this is a metric of my self-esteem? Am I being unfair to myself, being upset by this train of thought and it’s influence? Consider, please, how much this viewpoint is drilled into us. Look at how often this imagery gets pushed into our faces, and how long that’s been going on. It shouldn’t surprise me, really, that I sometimes feel this way. Though my conscious values oppose this, the lingering thread of this programming has threads into the depths psyche.
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