Self-compassion

"The writer is a person standing apart, 

like the cheese in the 'Farmer in the Dell' 

standing there alone but deciding to take a few notes. 

Your job is to see people as they really are, and to do this, 

you have to know who you are 

in the most compassionate possible sense." 

Anne Lamott

Recently my world has been a bit darker-than-usual place.

Grateful and relieved, I seem to have turned a corner.  

There are moments I am convinced,

without a doubt, that my life has been one big fat mistake

and that my kids would be better off and far happier without me.

Where does that nonsense come from?

And how does it manage to come back once I wade through that slime.

I guess it's like the main drain that is seriously cracked, shifted,

keeps filling up with tree roots and

threatening to flood the basement twice a year.

I put it on my calendar now, with my six month teeth cleanings

So it is now a preventative ritual 

rather than an emergency service call.

Is this learning to be compassionate with myself

or just learning to be an adult?

My hope in leaving my last marriage 

was to transform the tidal waves and dramatic whirlpools 

into barely perceptible ripples in a slowly moving stream.

Not only I tired of being banged around in the storms

I didn't want to watch my kids being slammed by the waves, 

gasping for air, 

wondering when and where the next downpour would occur.

Swimming in Pensacola, my son got caught in an undertow 

that scared him out of the water for the rest of the week. 

He forgot everything he had learned about relaxing 

and going with the current.

Panic and terror set in, 

and he lives with the memory of feeling overwhelmed 

and out of control.

It isn't wise to mess with Mother Nature.