The thing I really like about WP is that I can ramble on about things I love, things that bug me or anything at all, and only a few will read it. Words can pour forth like water, filling voids and finding levels of truth. I can reflect on this and that, reflect on my darkerst moments, post personal thoughts, notes and journal entries. I can even wonder what life is about and what is reality. The Velveteen Rabbit, reminds us that “real isn’t how you are made [but] a thing that happens to you.” Every moment something is happening and we continue to grow into who we re, despite our pasts.
Our lives, are made up of such small moments, some good, some bad, some mundane; moments strung together with the shimmering gossamer of the everyday.
The wind is howling, rippling between moments. Time is not only moments, it is a fluid vastness of eternity, which contains moments, moments without beginnings or endings. Moments morph one to another, as eons pass in moments spent. Between moments we search, but for what? For meaning? Whether or not we have a purpose is debatable, the illusion of life as something that can have meaning gives us some form of security. It pleases us to believe there is a higher purpose. But the truly meaningful comes with a heart too full for words in the stillness between breaths.
The moon is too real.
There is a keyhole to the inner self, a place where we see all and see nothing. A crack in time where all and nothing exist together and the darkness is light. The place between of being and not being, trying to materialise and freedom attained.
Every generation believes that it must battle unprecedented pressures of conformity; that it must fight harder than any previous generation to protect that secret knowledge from which our integrity of selfhood springs. Some of this belief stems from the habitual conceit of a culture blinded by its own presentism bias, ignorant of the past’s contextual analogues.
So many times in modern society, the poor, lonely and the introverts are not listened to as they should be, even though they have so many meaningful and profound things to say. Instead, it often happens that people much rather prefer listening to the loud and the extroverts, because their “noise” is more popular and less weird. Is more familiar and less distant. Is more cheerful and less sad. Is more alive and less…dead.
But, also because it is also more fake and less real?
A Time to Go, a time to Grow.
(From a time past)
I hold you not, my child
I let you go
There was pain in the parting
But I love you, so I gave you your freedom.
I could never hold you
My arms forever embrace you.
You are your own person
You came through me as a gift
I am blessed beyond words
I was the one chosen as your mother.
Grow daily my child
Life is your teacher
I, as your mother taught you,
You are strong of mind
Gentle in character
Loving in your being.
Always stay as you are,
Tender, compassionate, caring.
Remember me always as your mother.
Thank you for choosing me.