Sorrow pours out so easily. One slight, one violent statement, one snub, one slap… The reaction is immediate. A hole in your heart, a sinking feeling in your gut, a river from your eyes. But sometimes the storm doesn’t abate.
Working for the money means that you live life in short gulps. You go through the motions but your heart is not in it. The end justifies the means but it’s tough to fool the mind. It resists, and tries to escape.
We have a memory box that we rattle from time to time. Out comes the scents of our childhood, the comfort food that our mothers made and which our taste buds haven’t forgotten, voices from the past (joyful, anxious, drowned in sorrow), the bitter memories of lost loves, friendships that unravelled, the lazy, carefree days that passed in a summer haze.
Things which remind me of my mom are everywhere. Like markers. Like the trail of light that emanates from a lighthouse. The smell of bread, a mashed potato sandwich, every feminist I meet…
But tolerance is not a nice word, it implies a partial understanding of people, that we are ready to tolerate them, let them live in the periphery of our understanding, but not consider them our equal.
And no matter how much we try to be different from our parents, it’s amazing how we end up behaving just like them.
They say it feels better when you cry, but it actually doesn’t. It just feels barren, empty, a sky devoid of clouds, soulless.
Buddhism tells you that change is inevitable. The Bhagvad Gita that you should not expect any results from your actions to be spared the grief. As a child, these concepts seemed so simple, hardly the precepts of two great spiritual paths.
It has been a tough couple of days. Layoffs are happening and it feels like I am a contestant in a game show.
It’s not just us who are changing, evolving.. but also our parents. It takes years to realise that they didn’t know any better and did not deliberately set out to traumatise us. That they don’t have all the answers, no one does.