We Are Somebody’s Child
Things are changing still as my sons have grown more independent of me, men beyond a mother’s sons and I find myself less tender towards the world. As I’m less expected to be the ferocious keeper of innocent charges than the matriarch of men, I am also becoming again, less patient with the sons and daughters of the world.
I wrestle with anger and I wrestle with passivity. Turn the other cheek, let it go, get over it is what I want to do because I hate conflict. On the other hand I feel weak and lazy for walking away. I will have to suffer the physical results of unresolved conflict. If I stand my ground and win, I worry about the feelings of the person exposed. If I stand my ground and lose, lose to someone’s dear child, I doubt myself first. I forget I am worthy and someone’s precious, fragile person as well.
I remind myself that discrimination is important. Speak what you feel, say what you see but don’t hurt the innocent. Think first so you can trust yourself to not be mean; to not be mean to somebody’s child.
A Parisian friend tells me that in Europe, people love to argue about deeply personal beliefs but differences in opinion do not make enemies. They make good conversation. In this touchy country of ours even our highest officers often act like children and adolescents. It’s not what we mothers dreamed of. It’s not easy to love your fellow mother’s children when they are no longer innocent enough to be fragile but immature enough to be dangerous.
What if we could trust ourselves to speak from compassion and trust the intentions of others to do the same that we might clearly hear? What if we could love each other, love all mother’s children. Why do we see the child as separate from the thing she grows into? Is that child not still there? Look how we coo over baby animals though the parents may be a nuisance. Can we not recognize the essence that remains? I wonder, if we could, even with our differences, might we garner the respect of the creator, the mother of us all?