The once precious child, born of innocence, compassion, honesty, acceptance and creativity is pushed inside by expectations placed on it.
Had a fantastic weekend – weeping, lecturing, rebelling, pacifying, giving sage advice to myself. Not that anyone noticed. It all went on quietly in my internal dialogue, with a few points jotted down. This exercise was triggered off by re-reading Richard Bach’s “Running from Safety”, where he meets nine year old Dicky and tries to befriend him. Dicky is mad he’s been locked away for fifty years.
I, Senior Citizen Ursula Mistry, am mad because Ursel stands there trying to get my attention.
What do you expect me to do? Love that innocent little child? You must be joking.
It is amazing how many memories came crashing down on me. Just when I was ready to blame my parents for the miseries of my childhood (Richard Bach calls his “the toughest, cruelest, weakest, loneliest years of his life”).
I came across the passage quoted in the beginning.
My parents are no longer here, but the expectations placed upon me are no less. My parents did the best they could, as did their parents before them. Now I have taken over from them, running the internal dialogue. Ridiculous?