I have what feels to me to be an important post to write. It feels too important, so important that even thoughts about trying to write this post feel too intense for me to find what I need inside of me to write it.
As I sit outside penning on paper these words (a process I rarely use these days of computer keyboard speed) I realize I have lines of words to say that are not tangled up with one another but rather seem to coexist in a kind of hierarchy in time and space.
In other words
What I wish to say is alive in me, a living part of me. Multi-faceted. Multi-dimensional. All are a “one thing” as a whole.
It seems that to write I would have to break this whole apart. Crumble it into pieces in my hands so I could then find a way to pull what IS whole — through into a different world — this world — where the pieces would take the shape of words.
Inconsequential — words.
In some ways I would rather just know this wholeness exists in me — just the way it is. Do I fear that if I tamper with it I will break it?
I tell myself, “Linda, if this is whole and right and true, you cannot break it.”
I wrote two emails to my daughter this morning about breastfeeding. She gave birth to a beautiful healthy son last Friday. Today — right about now — they are leaving the hospital and going home.
(They live 1,700 miles away. I will travel there in about a month to visit.)
I wrote to her about a perfect world where the best possible actually exists for a newly born human being. My daughter and her son are in that world right now. From here everything in that newborn’s life moves forward as he interacts with the world outside his mother’s womb — the only world he has ever known — until three days ago.
It is here as I write that words disappear. I exist in this body with a feeling I don’t want to try to describe to myself — or to anyone else.
Time seems to stretch backward to the beginnings of our species. Time reaches forward far, far, far into the future of how we will become.
At every single point along this line a baby is being born to its mother.
In this world that I wish only to be aware of at this moment, every perfect baby is being born to a mother who takes care of her child perfectly.
At this moment I know this is possible. It has always been possible. If we look at the best of our past, the best of our present as we anticipate the best of our future we know that within our nature we exactly know what best is. We have been designed this way.
All that impedes, interferes with and interrupts the best that we are designed to experience from the moment we are conceived — and born — means that some form of trauma is present.
Humans are designed to be flexible, to respond to minor disturbances that always happen to us in this material world, and to adapt. Change is life.
There is a range of wisdom for us here where what is truly ‘not best’ can be easily recognized so that in a world where best is accepted as real, ‘not best’ can be prevented.
As soon as I contemplate what ‘not best’ can do to us I see what really is “a fall from grace.”
A newborn held close in its healthy mother’s loving arms — yes — perfectly — is in a state of perfect contentment that exists beyond time, yet in it. It exists in a world beyond words.
Every human being deserves to know what this feels like because we need to. I personally never experienced anything close to this with my very sick Borderline Personality Disorder (abusive) mother. Yet I find in these moments I know what this state is because I know my grandson feels this with his mother. Nothing I could think of would make me feel more deeply happy.
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