41. Who We Are

It’s Monday. I begin again. First waking thought: I’m grateful for my life, grateful to be who I am.

And next, thoughts about how we are all, each in our individual lives, like a cell, with a “permeable membrane” as my physiology book says. A part of, but never apart from, the body. Each of us a conscious cell in the body of a conscious universe. And now, some of the most brilliant minds of our world have told us that there actually exist other bodies — other universes.

I think of us, each a conscious being, and yet how different. Like the cells of the body, each has a specific function and purpose for being. I have said we all come here to this mortal life both to teach and to learn, whether knowingly or unaware.

Myself, I have often blundered and stumbled, but mostly moved innocently and trustingly along. There have been some dark and painful times. When I came through them to the other side, I found that I was stronger and wiser because of them. There have been many times too, when I danced and laughed and loved, beautiful and young. In this lifetime, I think I  may have been too much alone, and yet I scattered my love anyway, like wildflower seeds, all along the way. As a child I rejoiced, running through the rain.  As an adult, spiritually, I still do.

One of my sisters (the family saint) has lived her whole life like a child, not consciously aware. But she is good and kind and happy. Ignorance can indeed be blessed. She lives in a tiny town, active in church and community. She is a simple flower in a small protected garden, never exposed to very much life. She is a daisy who believes she is a rose, and so she is proud and satisfied. Believing is the master key, and it’s the capacity that most shapes our physical life and experiences. Whether the belief is false or true, it becomes our truth, and our perceived reality. Our lives play out from these core-beliefs, most of them learned in the first 5 years of life.

My brother never knew who he was, and now never will. Not like anyone else in the family, he has always been unsatisfied, believing that life and people owed him much more than he got, and no matter how much life gives, personalities like his are never satisfied or truly happy. My brother spent his whole life, since the moment of his birth, supported and sustained by women even though he could not love them, nor his children, nor anyone. Always a parasite, always a clever manipulator, a bully, a controller, and perhaps unknowingly, a predator. Maybe he learned this as a primary life-lesson when he was a small child, but I wonder now if it went deeper than that. Maybe even a life-role decided by his soul before birth. If so, I am so grateful that my soul did not choose that life.

Our birthmother– my book is a hymn of compassion for her. Life was not kind to her, and she deserved better. I never really knew her and she never knew me, and it seems like her purpose in my life was to give me a physical portal into this world, and my first great wound, of unwantedness. There was no conscious decision on her part, no chosen intention to do either of these things.

And Mother, my rescuing Angel, who did not give birth to me, but gave me life. She was always meant to be my mother, and truly was, and is, and evermore shall be. I am so grateful for this immense life-gift of grace, my loving mother. My heart aches with joy at the thought of it, the remembrance of her love, and the certainty that it still goes on even now.

My Dad, a good man, beautiful both in body and soul. Always a private person, nobody knew him well, except Mother. Her love brought him out of his inner solitude into a new openness and expression of himself to all of us who loved him.

I could name, if I chose to, all the people who came and went through my “permeable membrane” of existence here. That would be too many books to write in this brief lifetime. Besides, all that they taught me, all that they gave me, is absorbed and assimilated into my Being now, some of it consciously, and some only into silent spirit.

Oh Life, what a magnificent mystery you are. with infinite numbers of stories. Some are beautiful and some are tragically not, and only Life itself, the Author, knows their full meaning.

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