So many parts of ourselves exist!
The controlling part, the angry part, the loving part, the spiritual part, the part that loves munching popcorn, the part that wants to recycle and save the planet, the part that feels inferior, the part that thinks someone else has it “all together”, the part that makes snap judgments against you, you, you.
We’re composed of parts, aren’t we? Those parts all join together into a conglomerate we sometimes call a “personality”.
We’ve squelched some of those parts, sent them underground, perhaps because their effect proved too painful. We banished them to underground caves in the psyche where they languish and hopefully die.
Yet they don’t, oh they don’t.
Those lost children of ourselves–the ones filled with anger and hate and despair and vulnerability–shoot arrows into our everyday living. They quiver forth, ruining the best laid plans. They detest the “parent” who refused to love them, who locked them in the basement and threw away the key.
Thank goodness they refused their death sentence. Thank goodness they wreak havoc in our lives. Thank goodness they did not heed the controller in the mind who insisted life be this way, the perfect way.
The mind kept promising, “If you’ll be good, if you get it together, you’ll finally be happy, you’ll finally be loved, you’ll finally be OK.”
The children despaired. With wolf’s teeth they bit your heart, over and over again.
“Pay attention to us!” they howled. “Love us, love us, love us!”
And finally one freezing cold winter, a winter that never seemed to end, and lasted at least six years and maybe 56 or 96, something inside relented and the lost children climbed the spiral stairway toward the heaven of everyday life and reappeared with their wining, their petulance, their shin-kicking despair.
One by one you met them with fear in your heart and asked, “What do you want?”
You asked at dawn, before breakfast, when you shoveled the front porch, as you added numbers, when you lay exhausted, while you wrote, as you talked with friends.
You didn’t always like their answers.
But you kept the door opened. You only banished them at nighttime, when you needed sleep, and even then you didn’t hide the key.
Oh the lost children we banished! Slowly, slowly, slowly, they begin to blossom beyond pain, beyond suffering, beyond compulsion, beyond despair.
Slowly, slowly they began to thaw that ice around your heart. They played in the scar tissue and healed it.
They still troop up the spiral staircase, and they may until you die, but you will not spank them again, you will not shut out their tears and autism. You will not turn away because the pain seemed to much to bear.
Tell me again. What do you want? What are you trying to say? What am I not hearing yet?