35
2002
“Mom, one last thing: When it comes to portraying Grandma Ella, you can rest assured that I'll describe your mother as a fun loving, God fearing woman—whose passionate nature and early-life experiences led her to develop a strong defense system and an iron will. I’m describing Grandma as being as human as every other good, caring, intelligent person, I know—like you, Dad, Will and me. *I’m writing about emotional conflicts, which are intensified by the fact that change is the only constant in life, and as change frustrates peace of mind—especially change that we'd not freely choose—every generation absorbs and passes forward mixed messages, which mess with our minds much more often than we know. If I whitewash those times when conflicting needs create unrest, my ego would be writing our story, and if that proved true, there'd be no purpose to my writing, at all.2014
Grandma had been Janet’s caretaker and mine whenever Mom and Dad went out. As very little had been known about SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) and as common sense suggests that an overwhelming sense of guilt took a gargantuan bite out of Grandma's peace of mind when Janet died on her watch—and as Grandma feared the wrath of a righteous god—well—the tragic circumstances, which followed in the aftermath of Janet's death, were in keeping with Grandma's fearful, negatively focused, bordering on superstitious, religious beliefs, suggesting that someone had to be at fault for the baby's death—and being that Grandma's defense system was huge—she made certain to point the finger of guilt at someone other than herself ..."
A note to my friends in cyberspace:
I made a decision, a while back, to ignore grammatical inconsistencies in the interest of remaining true to whatever train of thought is chugging toward the light at the end of a tunnel until my stream of consciousness feels complete, thus pulling into each next station, at last. In the past, here's what would happen each time I'd go back to clean up sentences and paragraphs, including punctuation, like quotes, commas, etc.: My mind would get so caught up in clarifying complex thoughts that I'd miss mistakes in punctuation and spelling, repeatedly. Eventually, that self imposed task taxed my time and patience to the point of my letting go of that perfectionistic tendency in favor of going with the flow, meaning that I'm working to accept the fact that grammatical mistakes may remain overlooked...
As to changes in line spacing and indenting, those inconsistencies are due to this fact: Many stories were written and saved in files at least a decade ago. As that which had been saved in my hard drive does not match my blogging style, today, I've chosen not to clean up those differences for this reason: Life is short. It's enough to spend time cutting, pasting and simplifying complexity of thought as streams of consciousness connect my conscious mind with subconscious motivations that surprise me each time I find myself confronting feelings that my defense system had tucked behind my defensive wall. It's more than enough to know that my fascination with the brain is renewed each time I sit down to write and watch the puzzle that makes me whole come together, piece by piece. As each train of thought chugs out, and stories unfold, word by word, onto my screen, no one is more surprised to see every insight that my memory has contained than me ...
BTW: Mom and I did not sit and swing and converse about all of these topics from sunrise to sunset in the span of one day. I've been making good use of creative license to splice together many conversations, for this reason: Each conversation that we have with a specific person proves to be a continuation of whichever conversation we'd engaged in before, because emotion has no concept of time passing ... and as Mom and I spent every day, together, for two years after Dad's passing, we covered a lot of conversational ground before I felt the need to spend less time connected to my mother's unrelenting grief, more time reconnecting with enjoying my stage of life … and once my need to revitalize my spirit conflicted with Mom's need of me, the first crack in our adult friendship led us into a maze where that unfathomable chasm—which defied understanding for quite some time—eventually developed.
As you shall see, confusion reigned supreme until I mustered the humility to ask for astute guidance, and thank goodness, over time, I gained insight into the fact that this painful crack in our relationship, which had slowly developed into a chasm, swirling with confusion, following Dad's death, was similar to that which had taken place between Mom and me after we'd lost Janet—suggesting that while swinging back in time with Mom, my subconscious was working overtime to encourage my conscious mind to search ever more intuitively into the past until a self defeating pattern, concerning my relationship with Mom, clarified, at last.
Once that surprising pattern emerged, I worked hard to muster the courage to think for myself, while offering Mom compassion each time she'd let me know that I'd added to her unhappiness … and each time my therapist coached me to accept the fact that I was repressing anger, I'd respond: I know it's not healthy to internalize frustration, but my mom is in her nineties, so I can't relieve my frustration, because any confrontation that arises between us increases Mom's unhappiness. Needless to say, after Dad's passing, I'd felt a compassionate sense of responsibility for Mom 's welfare, and as her welfare and happiness seemed conjoined, that perception made me hold myself accountable for both. As Mom and I had enjoyed a mutual admiration society, suggesting that we'd shared countless reasons to smile at each other over most of my life, neither of us could fathom that which had changed between us once I felt the need to enjoy more time with my husband and friends after having spent two years consoling Mom, every day. Once I developed the need to wean, a conflict of needs cracked the life long bond that, over time, expanded into a chasm, swirling with confusion, which assaulted peace of mind, thus causing an undertow that confounded us both for quite a long time ...
When I created The Line Of Control to teach my sons to resolve conflicts peaceably, I had no clue how often that communication tool would stop me from flinging frustration at anyone, who remains blind to this fact: A chasm develops for sound reason, based in this fact: As a self respecting person, I am left with no choice other than to take another reluctant step back each time the negatively focused perspective of a loved one makes me scapegoat for their pain. Much more about piecing together the bigger picture of this puzzle as my life story unfolds …
As to that flamingo/ostrich—still can't get it to show up—but no worries—I know who to ask for help.
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