Dearest Readers,
Much of my family has gathered together here in Montreal for the birth of my eldest sister’s first child. It’s a monumental event for all of us. First baby of the first born. First baby out of four women. First boy. We’re all a little mental right now. In a good way.
My mother arrived on the scene yesterday and with her brought baby pictures of my sister and me, her first two children, born 19 months apart. My older sister and I were very close and it was just us two until #3 came along two and a half years later. Many of the photographs show us hugging or sitting closely or playing together.
One picture is a wintry scene, taken in the Yukon in December 1973 when I was just two years old. Every Christmas we would head into the bush to find a tree for decorating. My father would chop it down and we’d haul it back to the house for trimming. This became a ritual that involved a number of families. I remember it fondly.
At least I thought I did. In the picture my sister is eating snow and looking quite content. I look… distressed. The caption on the back, written by my mother, says, “Celia is not too happy, in fact disliked the whole outing intensely.”
When the caption was read out loud I responded, “Story of my life.” My sister’s partner said, “Really?”
Really. I was not a very happy kid. I was a miserable teenager. In my twenties I tried to be happy but never really succeeded. So, yes, I really did dislike the whole outing intensely. The “outing” being life in general.
When did it change? When I hit rock bottom at age 27. I began to walk the Healing Path, which involved getting serious about a Spiritual Practice. Only this devotion to Higher Guidance has brought me what I never had my whole life but sought desperately to find: Peace.
And believe me, some days are better than others. When I’m overtired, as I was yesterday, that little girl, miserable and in distress, comes right back to front and centre stage, demanding attention. And so I must give it to her. I must honour her needs. After all, we were all babies once.
Inspiring Message of the Day: When I am miserable and in distress it is usually because one or some of my needs are not being met. I will go Within and find out what I need and then I will honour that need, as I would a crying child.
Hmm, good questions, Fawn. I think it’s sort of a combination of the two. Nostalgia is nice. The “remembering self” is a good friend. But relying on it completely is perhaps unrealistic. The “experiencing self” needs to be honoured as well. So I don’t feel it’s distressing so much as a reminder of the Great Paradox of Life. The Joy and the Grief are conjoined twins.
C.
Sometimes it’s easier to do that than others, isn’t it? My friend M has three kids under three and she was telling me that she thinks when she loses her temper and yells at her kids, it’s because HER own needs aren’t being met in some way. (Unsurprising that this happens when there are three little people unabashedly making constant demands!) Some days we have the reserves to take a deep breath and recognize what’s happening… other days, we discover exactly how deep — or shallow — that supply of patience is!
Isn’t it interesting that you remember something fondly although your experience at the time may have been different? I listened to a really interesting TED talk once about the experiencing self and the remembering self and how most of what we do, we do to serve our (future) remembering selves. But isn’t it rather nice to have that fuzzy warm nostalgic remembrance? Or is it distressing to realize that our memories, even about ourselves, are so unreliable?