Learning to love the lost children

Empty chairs

Empty chairs

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.

So many parts of ourselves

So many parts of ourselves

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.

They answered.

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?

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11 thoughts on “Learning to love the lost children

  1. i have so much to say to that and it all would seem so unacceptable so i’ll just scream and try not to hurt anyone, though it does seem that no one is under any obligation not to hurt me

        • Thanks. I didn’t mean to wreck your blog again. Please delete these and I’ll write later if I cannot manage to work it out for myself. It is nice to hear one person say that they are sorry.

        • Elisa, you did NOT wreck my blog. I loved that your voice arose to share what it wanted to say. It added to my blog. But I shall delete if it makes you feel better.

          P.S. I will say I’m sorry again for the times I have not been able to unconditionally love every part of you (and the rest of the world, too.) However, still have many squelched and bruised children hidden in my psyche. It’s their pain which I haven’t been able to face until now–and sometimes not even now.

  2. Well, Kathy, seems I’ve given up on enlightenment…after all those years of yoga, all those years of meditation (what a disappointment to know I have to make friends with those damn kids!)

  3. Some of those lost children were banished, not because the mind wished them to leave, but they were asked, no, told, to leave, by others. That’s when the mind showed the children the way down the spiral staircase and gently closed the door on them. They all find their way out again though, eventually, and usually at the most inopportune times, and when we have forgotten their existence. I hope your lost children are not giving you too much grief Kathy. Be kind to them (and sending a hug to Elisa).

    • Thank you for sharing that, Joanne, about being asked to leave by others. I also like the way the door “gently” closed. That feels right, except for those inopportune times. My lost children have been giving me grief for 4-5 years now, Joanne, since my awakening experience in 2008. It’s as if they woke up, too, and all clamored to the surface, and I didn’t know what to do with them except stuff them back down. Only lately have I been able to invite them back up and get to know them better. Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts.

  4. What a wonderful piece, it really resonated with me. I also think of the ego (inopportune word) as a roomful of lost children having a tantrum that need to be loved and held until it subsides, rather than banished into a corner. Whatever you resist … persists. Or flares up when you least expect it.

    • Annanimm, thank you for sharing. You’ve described what the ego feels like. I so get the temper tantrum part and the holding. In fact, am holding one part of the ego right now and whispering gently to it. Thanks again.

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