bamboo moon

accepting what is, letting go of what is not


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Goodbye, Last Cat of My Marriage

I am a long time owner of cats.  Funny, really, because when I was a girl we had a dog:   Gwener, a Welsh Pembroke corgi.  She was Devourer of Table Scraps; Squirrel Chaser; Roller of, and with, Dead Toads; and Warrior Against the Demonic Vacuum Cleaner.  She was adorable, with deep brown eyes, a foxy face, and red and white markings.  She died during my college years; or rather, my parents had to put her down.  They loved her so much they have never had a dog since.   But she was there for my childhood and adolescence, and her passing was the end of that era.

After college, when I ended up getting a house with my fiance, we ended up getting a cat.  And then another.  And then two more.  Four proved to be unsustainable and we ended up re-homing the friendliest, and then there were three.  Years passed, we had two kids, three cats, a house with a stream, and a backyard with peonies and an apple tree.  There are different stories about that time in my life, but if you know me, you know that also ended.  I am divorced–I left the house, took one cat, split the kids, and never looked back. Though I only moved a town over (which is good for my girls, they deserve time with both of their parents), it was, and is, a whole different life.

People always get sad about endings, about changes, as though life is changing the rules.    Sometimes it can be sad when we’re not ready to let go–but life IS change.  Those are the rules, and there is no stopping it.  You can choose to try to plant your feet in stubbornness–and then be swept away against your will, in a direction you didn’t choose–or you can accept that this is the nature of being, and guide with the grain.

In the last year, those three cats have passed away.  Kiku, the eldest.  Kinoko, the middle that lived with me.  And last, Kashi, the sweetest.  They each lived to be about sixteen, the same amount of time I was with my ex, now my co-parent.  Both of the kids are in school–no longer as young as they used to be.

I cried over Kashi’s death today.  After all, she brought a lot of joy.  She was always a cuddly cat, the one who loved me pregnant.  My belly was so warm she would lay on my belly shelf, until Rowan would kick her off from inside the womb.  (Rowan was a feisty fetus, never still, and she didn’t like to be hot, even inside me.)  But here’s the thing–she was never meant to live forever.  I can love the memories of her without being bitter.  After all, once I put Kinoko down, I adopted immediately–because love and loss define another.  To know love, to love a pet, is to make yourself vulnerable by knowing that it ends.  It ends before you do, and it doesn’t matter, because it’s worth it.  Love, and risk, is worth it.

Today, I have two different cats.  Boys, both black, sometimes assholes.  Tearing up the screens, chewing electrical cords because they know it annoys me, breaking mugs and pushing glasses of water off the table, because they can, and they are young.  But also coming in the night to body flop against me, chewing on my fingernails (a sign of love, I swear), and sometimes I can hear the purrs and their heartbeats through my pillow.

And my girls–one growing into young adulthood, and one growing into herself.  Rowan and I were watching Parks & Rec the other night and with our sense of humor, we burst into boisterous laughter in tandem.  Rowan looked at me and said, “Do you think our neighbors ever get annoyed that we laugh so much?  Because we’re pretty loud.”  I thought about it, and it’s true, we are laughing about something every single day.  Not a day goes by where we don’t.  How freakin’ great is that?  And my youngest–she’s a queen of the side-eye, but I can still make her smile.  She doesn’t like to admit that she thinks I’m funny.

Those two, of course, came from my marriage and are one of the reasons I have no regrets about the past.  But someday, that will also end, by my death, or theirs. It would be better if I ended before they do–after all, that seems to be more natural, doesn’t it?  Having children makes your heart so vulnerable.  I’ve already decided not to worry too much if they go before me–I doubt there is a way to protect a heart from that kind of heartbreak. The only way to do so would be to distance oneself from love, and I have already decided that I don’t do that kind of thing.

It is the risk of all kinds of connection, human or otherwise.  The divorce was hard, make no mistake–I am fortunate that both he and I really did live up to our ideals of keeping the kids first, and it shows.  And I can’t say if I will ever marry again–though frankly, it is not something I dwell upon.  Because the greatest gift and truth of all is time–with our pet companions, and with our human friends.

Time reveals all: the true nature of things, the true being of animals, and the true character of people.  I love my cats.  If I didn’t have kids, I might have dogs, and I would love them too.  And I love my friends, my family, the souls that are my kids, and dare I say, my boyfriend.  I love the people I share my time with.  I do get frustrated with my mortal life, and I do get a bit worried by the magnitude of humanity’s problems, but there is still so much to love in this world, to love in this life.  I can accept the closing of doors, because there are other ones that are opening.  Change is a flow, life is a current.

So goodbye, another phase of my life.  Goodbye, another beloved pet.  I am grateful for the joy you brought, and thankful that I got to experience all of that.  Welcome, life.  I look forward to another, yet different phase.  Because I can cry and smile at the same time, and neither has to take away from the other.


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Choose your Future–Fear Or . . . ?

“I’m not a parent. So I’m interested to know how you feel. For those of you who are parents, are you concerned about your child’s future? Are you concerned about what sort of world they will be living in? What we are leaving for them?”

This came up on my feed on Facebook in the wake of the Orlando shootings.  Of course, I am concerned about my child’s future—but I would be in any place, and in any time.  Bad things have always happened in our world.  Our species is adolescent, and there is still the possibility that we could be stupid and exterminate ourselves.  Or get exterminated, even without our input.  Life is fragile and temporary.  You can get a stack of all good cards, play them all right, live a good life, but death is still the denouement.  You will still die.

When something unexpected happens, like a random death of someone we love, it is not just the loss of the person that makes it so heartfelt.  It is compounded by the loss of the dream of a future than will now never come to pass.  Disappointment is a bitter thing.  Often we make sacrifices in the present so that we can reap the dream in the future.  Letting go of that, that life has changed without our control, feels like a poor bargain.  It feels like a con.  And no one likes to be bested.

I hope, and pray, that my children will outlive me.  It is every parent’s fear that they won’t.  But because I don’t know the future, and cannot control it, I choose to enjoy the good in my life now.  I choose to love my children without restraint, even if my heart is broken later.  I choose to have pets, though I know they will die before me, because the daily joy of their existence is worth it.  I choose to make happy memories of happy moments, because this is life.  This is life’s longing for itself—in us, in our children, in our world.

There is always the choice to be fearful, to try to guard one’s heart against pain—but that is not humanity’s gift.  Our ancestors had the same feelings—what is the future of my children?  This world we live in, imperfect but with islands of light, is the future they worked so hard for.  We are here because our predecessors worked hard to change their present.  We are here because they worked hard to improve our future.  It is frustrating how slow change can be, but there has still been progress.  I don’t wish to live in any previous age.  I am grateful to live in this one.  I enjoy my life, I know love, and I understand that it can all disappear in moment.  But so what?  I will enjoy this moment.  I will love all that I can and love every moment that I am to receive.  If there is grief to come, I will deal with it when it actually happens, rather than try to deflect it by anticipating it—you cannot really protect yourself against loss.

Love your family, love your friends.  Bad things may or may not happen.  But in the meantime, enjoy what is—because right now, there is so much to love and so much light to give.


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So Long, and Thanks for All the Purrs

kinoko

Warning: Maudlin post ahead.

Back in January, I was having my brother and sister-in-law over for dinner, when C. noticed that Kinoko was dragging her paw.  The toes were curled under as though she was auditioning for “The Walking Dead: Cat Edition.”  I hadn’t even noticed–her gait was still pretty typical and she didn’t seem fazed by it.  But I made an appointment to the vet and then googled the hell out of it.  Was it diabetes-induced neuropathy?  Was it arthritis?  Cancer?  And what was I going to do about it?

I have pretty strong views on life and death, about how death is not necessarily the worst thing ever.  In a sense, it’s easier with a pet–after all, you can pay a vet to put an animal down if a lot of suffering is involved, and theoretically, it’s okay to do this.  I had thought I would be pretty pragmatic about it–with an old animal, don’t you have to be?

But we were able to treat her somewhat and she got better for awhile.  She enjoyed having wet food with prednisone-infused tuna oil (it was advanced arthritis).  And though I wasn’t going to spend a lot of money on end-of-life care, I did get x-rays after a month, because she seemed to be getting better.  I told the girls that she wasn’t going to make it to 2017, so in her end days, we should spoil her.

And then, about two weeks ago, it stopped mattering how much we spoiled her.  She’d pick at her fancy food, be unable to jump up to the laps she used to love, and ignore the open screen doors with their fresh air.  Yesterday, I heard her vomit in the litterbox–something that she never used to do, but is doing now–and watched her drag her lifeless back leg and herself into her box.  She doesn’t come out much now.  She doesn’t even meow much.  It was subtle because it was a slow regression, but when I started counting all the ways she is different now, I realized that it’s time.

That’s the sucky part about adulting.  I could just wait a few months for her to pass on her own, and let my own sadness stop me from making that appointment.  I could spend a bunch of money on a few more months, but that would be to make me feel better, not her. And though I feel a bit weird about paying someone to kill my cat for me, it’s up to me to do the responsible thing.  Because. . . what would her life have been like in the wild?  At 16, she’d already be dead, and probably in a messy way.

What I wasn’t expecting though was the emotional ride.  I knew back in January that we were in her end times.  I thought I would be ready.  I mentally practised.  But I find myself just crying.  Not constantly, but erratically, which makes it harder to predict.  I’d be fine for a few hours and then would break down.  I felt–well, I still feel–a little embarrassed.  K. came over yesterday and found myself not wanting to break down in front of my boyfriend–even though I’m pretty sure that’s what boyfriends are for sometimes.  All I wanted to do was just be alone.  So that if I wanted to burst into tears I could just do that, no imaginary judgment.  Because I know there’s no judgment but mine.

In the end, I took the day off and made the arrangements.  I’ve been spending this beautiful day either smiling at the chirping birds on my balcony (I’m a sucker for birds and their quantum movements–they’re just so darn cute!) and then crying over Kinoko.  Who sleeps in her box, unaware.  But when she slowly, slooowwwly drags her leg over the tiles to sniff her water and return back the box–I know it’s okay to let her go.

So this is my ode to old kitty Kinoko, who gave us a lot of years.  Her eyes are all atrophied crystalline fibers now, and she has the feline profile of a crotchety Bast.   In her youth, she had a mean volleyball spike that would bring down any bat that managed to make it into the living room.  She could jump 5 feet up in a vertical line.  Once she brought us a live garden snake, and once a live bird.  (Both survived to live another day).  She liked to meow-a lot.  A lot a lot.  If you stood between the kitchen table and the refrigerator, she would jump on unsuspecting people to launch herself on top of the fridge.  In the winter, she liked to cuddle in my armpit or between my legs.  She loved it when I took a shower so she could jump on my towel-clad shoulders and suck water out of my wet hair.

But my favorite story is the one where she got stuck in the goddamn ceiling.  Imagine, if you will, a refrigerator next to the doorway to the garage.  Above the garage is a storage cubby, high enough that even a tall person such as myself can barely reach.  Kinoko loved high places, so sometimes I would stand on my tippy toes to open up the cubby doors and let her jump up there.  But once, instead of sitting at the edge and crowing loudly (can a cat crow?  I’m going to say yes), she seemed unusually interested in the cubby.  So much so that I got off my lazy ass and pulled a chair over to see what was going on.

Up in the cubby, behind the 10 quart lobster pot, was half a cat.  See, cats are built in such a way that if their head can fit in a space, the rest of them can too.  Kind of a like a snake, when you think about it.   Her head and her shoulders and her front legs had disappeared into a hole that led into the ceiling above the kitchen.  And as I look in shocked, the rest of her disappeared as well.

Let me tell you, it’s strange to have a cat stuck in the ceiling.  I felt a bit like I was calling to Carol Anne in Poltergeist, “Run to the light, baby, run to the light!”  Except it was more like “Kinoko!” “[from the southwest corner] Meow!” “Kinoko!!” “[from the southeast corner] Meow! ” “KINOKO!” “[from the northwest corner] Meeooowwwr!”  (Sadly, there was no green portal from another dimension.)

And just when I was going to get an ax to chop up the ceiling, she deigned to squeeze back into the cubby storage space.  After which, we boarded up the hole so no cat could get stuck ever again in the kitchen ceiling.  Never underestimate the shenigans a cat can get into.

So, goodbye Kinoko.  You were sweet.  Also, somewhat bitchy.  But I loved you.  I’m glad I could provide a good home for you.  Thanks for adding to my life.

 

 

 

 

 


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Of That Which is Other

The interesting thing about dating a folklorist is that you get to borrow weird books from various academic presses.  We’re rather complementary – I like to read about possible futures and he likes discovering hidden things about the past.  Right now, I am reading Dark Shamans: Kanaima and the Poetics of Violent Death from his collection.  Roughly, it’s about cannibalism, but that word has its own connotations which are not always accurate or relevant.  Really, it’s about power, and what people will do to bend the world to their will, and their beliefs about how to achieve that.

The ritual itself is pretty much one of the worst ways to die–if you want to read the citation you can read it here, third paragraph,–but reading on, I had a couple of thoughts.  One is about switching the nature of things, and the power inherent in that.  The text talks about how in a typical person, the mouth is “incontinent” and the anus is continent–but this form of torturous death keeps the person from being able to speak, forcing continence, and unable to control their bowels, forcing incontinence.  And then the person dies from dehydration from horrible diarrhea–before being tasted to consume their force of life.

But the harder part to read was that this was a death that was inflicted on men, but now victims are often teenage girls or children because they aren’t able to defend themselves –they don’t typically have guns.  So, of course, the question becomes how could anyone do this to a person, especially a child?  It’s abhorrent and awful. (It should be noted that some of this information cited in the book came from a woman known as “Nurse”, who put her own life in jeopardy to shed light on this practice.  An act of courage, to be sure.)

The simple answer is that defining someone, or something, as “other” means that it is easier to hurt, or to kill, and to inflict prolonged death.  Even the Kanaima, the shamans themselves, will talk about their victims as animals.  But the type of “animal” influences the power gained by sacrificing one’s humanity in order to do such a thing in the first place.  It reflects the Western idea of selling one’s soul to the devil, except it’s more of selling a piece of one’s soul for power–feeding one’s devils, not The Devil.

In fact, we feel this power hierarchy even in our prison system – kill a child, and you are sick.  Killing a man is not the same.  Is it because of innocence and the loss of potentiality?  But when you look at serial killers, there is a complete lack of empathy.  Victims are “other,” the killing act is one of power, pleasure, and control over one’s environment, and power to disobey human laws.  It is an ultimate FU to society.

And of course, you can take it farther.  The inability to empathize with other humans makes it easier to wage wars and to segregate.  The inability to empathize with animals makes it easy to eat meat.  In Western culture, the idea of eating dogs, cats, or horses is an ugly one–we anthropomorphize and empathize too much with those animals.  Monkeys and apes are taboo, again, because they are too much like us.  And for people transitioning away from meat, there is definitely a hierarchy.  Red meat and pigs are worse than chickens which are worse than fish and shellfish.  The further away something is from human in the animal kingdom, the harder it is to understand.  The harder it is to care.

Which means that it will be really interesting to see how current AI work pans out.  We are just starting to understand that the first aliens we may ever meet are one that may spring into existence here on Earth.  We are so used to thinking of ourselves as individuals, that our bag of skin is a demarcation of what constitutes the individual, but with connected internet and new AI work, those ideas could be seriously questioned.  Many philosophical questions come down to “Who am I?”  We can analyze a brain, but the mind is still just an idea we create.  A construction held aloft by synapses, but we still don’t really know.  We are still creatures of ape habits.

As robots become more like us, our ideas of “other” will change.  Perhaps the Buddhist ideals of nirvana are inextricably linked to robotic AI.  Perhaps, in a parallel to Babylon 5, the idea of human souls reincarnated into a different form will surface as philosophical questions of how uploaded memories could constitute a true human existence.  And perhaps, veganism will finally get wide appeal as people chose to protect biological life over mechanical life and extend their circle of empathy.

But the fact will remain that while we are bound in mortal life, we will see things through a biological filter.  There may be intelligent life on other planets, but we can only see what we have receptors for.  Technology may change the world we live in, but we, ourselves, are not much different from our ancestors thousands of years ago.  I think it will be fascinating, frankly.  I’m kind of excited to see what happens.  It’s a new frontier.


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Of Rust Cohle and Njall’s Saga

Gunnard

I recently finished watching the first season of True Detective.  Wow, what a great show.  I really enjoyed it.  I like the murder mystery aspect, but also the relationship between the two detectives.  The character of Rust Cohle was the perfect epitome of Chaotic Neutral–or of the King’s Fool.    He was calculating and smart.  He had been good once, but in fighting evil, he had sacrificed part of his humanity.  He was willing to play the part of the bad guy in order to achieve his objectives–objectives for the greater good.

Often, that’s the way it goes.  There is good and evil in the world, and some of each in all of us, but the ratio varies.  I am grateful to live in an island of light, where my children are not exposed to violence or cruelty.  I wish that was the way of all children, but sadly it is not.   And because it isn’t, there are people that take on evil to spare others not just of evil acts, but also of losing some of their humanity in the process.  But those that live on the border between both often have the most power to sway the balance.

In True Detective, there is a saying, “Time is a flat circle.”  That similar events have occurred and will always occur.  That in our four-dimensional lives, if you understand not just the space component, but also the time component, you would see patterns, the patterns that rule us and bind us all.

I am not quite so pessimistic.  I believe in a slow outward spiral, personally.  I think things are getting better, that humanity is improving, even if in a jagged and stilted manner.  That we are like a toddler learning to walk, but taking a step backwards in other areas–because a large improvement in one area means a small step backwards in another.  It is the pattern of the stock market, you cannot get obsessed with small time progress, you have to look at the big picture.

However, understanding the big picture means knowing who we are and who we’ve been.  How can we avoid the sins of the past if have no insight into our true nature?

I was reading this article about “Ask a Jihadi,” about an ISIS fighter.  What they’re doing is horrible, and yet it useful to understand why.  And perhaps it is harder to understand, because I for one, have not grown up in a war zone.  My childhood involved no bombs or war, so I feel unequipped to understand all of the threads of this.  But as the human race proceeds, we have to decide which road to take–that of vengeance or that of justice.

A truly just society feels uncomfortable, more than what you would think. Justice is not about the individual, but what is good and rational for society for a whole.  That is why in response to a murder, capital punishment is not always the answer.  It may fulfill individual justice, “an eye for an eye,” and all that; but it neglects the price paid by society to lower ourselves to that level.  Every life taken takes also a piece of our soul.  That is why you have iconoclasts like Jesus saying, “Turn the other cheek.” It is only by removing ourselves from the emotion of it all that we can change the future.

We have seen the past.  Just look at Njall’s Saga from a thousand years ago.  It’s widely seen to be historical in nature, but, of course, those who write history also get to define it.  One of the main themes is that of violence masquerading as justice, every victory demanding a price of money and blood.  This is our true animal nature, one that cannot see the long-term consequences, only satiating what we feel in the here and now.

But our potential lies in the boundary of reason and emotion.  Our strengths are our tools–we make machines be stronger than us, and computers to memorize data.  Wisdom, though, is all our own.  Knowing how to make tools, how to interpret data, how to feel our emotions without being ruled by them.  We have the potentiality of greatness if we can navigate all of this.  Otherwise, we’ll simply doom ourselves.


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Of Dreams and Fantasies

johnalden

I have recently been watching Salem on Netflix, due to a recommendation.  I’ve really been enjoying it.  It’s definitely not historical – it deals with an alternate history where there really were old-school witches and not just mass hysteria – but I love the sets, the light horror, and the men.  The hot men.  The character who plays John Alden, Shane West, omg.  The longer hair, the beard, the dark rasp of a voice; oh yes, it takes me back to my vulnerable teenage years.  Just to see him walk with that furrowed brow and those dark, purposeful eyes–well, mind if I don’t get the vapors.

It can be fun to get lost in fantasies.  For women, there are many classic ones; the rape fantasy (which is really about giving into dark desires without being responsible for your libido and without the trauma of real rape); the fantasy of the guy who’s pined and waited for you for years;  and the fantasy of the man who’s mostly wolf but only tamed by the right woman.  The man who is always in control but only loses it to you because he cannot control his desires–the facade of civilization crumbles away, and you know, dear god, it is me that rouses him so, it is I that has that kind of sexual power.  It is why romance novels are very explicit about their description of the man (so that you can choose what you like) and the description of the woman is purposefully vague (so that you can insert yourself easily into a fantasy).

But all fantasies grow tired and old in the end.  How many of us are a 10?  By definition, we are all mostly average.  I came from a different perspective so I am very grateful for where I’m at.  I grew up thinking of myself as Mary from The Secret Garden or Jane Eyre.  Wanting to be wanted and wanting to be seen.  When I was younger, I was also afraid of censure, but the nice thing about not being in my 20’s anymore is that I’m more afraid of not being heard.

The funny thing about when you end a long term relationship, such as ending up divorced, is that you go back to who you were 10, 15, 20 years ago, and try to see how that fits.  I thought a lot of it would no longer fit.  In fact, after my divorce, I vowed to date someone totally different from the kind of man I dated at 22.  And I did. . .for awhile.  I had some great sexual fantasies come to life.  In those moments, I was ecstatic.  I am different now, I would think, I have learned from my mistakes.

But sometimes our 16-year-old self knows us in ways that we don’t want to admit.  At 16, l had just read Stephen Hawking’s “A Brief History of Time.”  I loved it.  It broke open my mind and I was in love with feeling the perimeters of things I didn’t know.  I wanted to be an astrophysicist, but I wasn’t as smart as half the people in my class.  What could I even contribute?  So I gave it up and went into Chemistry instead.

I also read tons of fantasy novels, all about beautiful exotic women and wild, yet logical men.  Mostly men with pointy ears and long, flowing hair, and then I would wake up to the reality –what could I possibly give a man?  Look at me, I am tall and gangly with big feet and a big nose and no boobs.  Wow.  I’m really going to win the American Beauty Pageant on this one.  But I did not realize how much control we have over our own reality.

What I wanted at 16 was a life that was full of interesting possibilities.  I wanted to unlock the secrets of the universe and I wanted to be desired.  And I figured it was useless to want either of those things because I knew so many beautiful and smart people, and it either arena, I was merely average.  Always average.

But most of us are in the same boat, and we all have the same problems.  We are flawed, but we want to be loved and respected regardless.  We are not a Nobel Prize winner, but we still want to feel smart.  We are not as hot as Hollywood, but we still want to know that we are sexually desirable. We want a life worth living, and if we are honest, worth envying.

The problem, of course, is that life is messy.  We focus too much on results and feelings.  There is a lot of life that is just slogging through annoyingness.  Life doesn’t owe us anything–not to be fun, or hot, or interesting.  We have to build that into our life by design.  We have to know that we are animals just reaching sentience–it is wonderful and horrible because we now we can see and interpret patterns beyond facts.  Each of our internal lives is different.

It is fun to read books, or to watch movies about interesting lives that our not our own.  But at the end, we each get our own reality, bounded by our beliefs.  We have to wake up into who we are, and make due with who we are.  But it is satisfying, and often surprising, what we can do with our own mundane lives if we just give it all we’ve got.  That the boundaries we give ourselves are mostly imaginary.  That we live in story-tale fables and give up on our own greatness when the only difference about who we are and who we want to be are our own blockages and glass walls.

 


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Of Gratitude and Thanks

Magical forest

I have been musing lately on love, like, and sacrifice.  This time of year is one of my favorites – the grey skies, the sharpness in the air – but it is not yet the unending cold of winter.  It’s a time for watching sunsets and moonrises from within a warm house, grateful for the beauty of the skies without and home within.

I went and had Thanksgiving with my proxy parents.  They are really my brother’s in-laws, but then again, I consider my brother’s wife my sister, so it all works out.  I have family by blood and family by spirit, and both are important.  I try to spend my time with people I love, in whatever strength of love that happens to be.  I hear horror stories of people having to get together during holidays and faking intimacy and I feel grateful that there is little of that in my life.  The people in my life now are mostly there of my design, the result of my conscious yes or conscious no to spending time.  I don’t want my life to unspool one thread at a time in unconscious decisions.

But what is love?  What does it mean to love?  And I think it comes down to whatever you are willing to give for the person you love.  My girls, for example, I love them beyond all.  It is the curse and the grace to love children the way parents do.  In the beginning, I didn’t even know them, and yet even then, I would have died or killed for them.  My life or my humanity, the most I have to give anyone.  Luckily, I have not needed to give either.  Instead, I give my time, my patience, my silence when my brain is too annoyed to be nice, and my smiles and kisses when I cannot hold back on how much I adore them.

Taking that as the upper boundary though, everything else is a gradient.  I am graced and fortunate that I have good friends – friends I will gladly give my time and my effort.  I can say that I love them – not to the extent that I love my daughters, but it is still love to me.  It feeds itself, because I want to feel good about the person I am, and some of that is taking pride in making other people happy.  I want to make the people in my life happy.

And all of life is like that – what is it that you want?  To be altruistic, to be a visionary, to be smart, to be rich?  What is it that you’re willing to give?  Your time, your money, your weakness, your morality?  And are you disciplined enough to hold on to what you want most rather than giving in to what you want now?  Are the people you love the ones that build you up, make you more of the best of what you are, or do they bring out the worst of what you can be?

 

 

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