Weird… or Unique?

I have been writing quite often lately. It has afforded me to step outside of myself and reflect on what is churning and perhaps look at my circumstances from a different perspective. My son Caleb, (at the time almost 9) has taken notice to this. I have been writing on my tablet and my iPhone because I can immediately release a thought when it occurs rather than displacing myself from my surroundings. Today for about the third time, though for the first time that I really let it sink in, he came into the room and asked “Are you writing your weird story again?”  I couldn’t  help but to let it fill me and laugh. “Yes, Caleb and you are a part of it”. We all have weird stories, if by weird he means unique. Though we are as different from one another as we are the same. My tales and perceptions and reactions to things can come in an infinite number of combinations, as does everyone else’s. The emotions that emanate from my unique circumstances are common, however, to all. Though we all have different degrees of identifying with our emotions most of us are wired to feel them when presented with our own distinctive concoction of life. It is never beneath me to empathize with a person even if (maybe especially if) they made a mistake. For me, the pain that is caused by beating myself up  amounts to more than anyone else could inflict. While it’s true that my pain is mostly triggered by the unsolicited judgement of others, it is me that permits the intensity to which I am feeling it. Perhaps I can recognize the humanness in another person when they make a mistake and maybe that sends a message that I have permission to err as well.  It can take me awhile to diffuse my tendency to defend. This defense mechanism carries  a big red flag. Lately, I’ve notice that there are words on the flag that say “opportunity.”  Sometimes I welcome the awareness that there is something that needs to be worked out in me.

Example of Caleb’s Perception. One of Many!

At other times I am like “Ughh. Again?” After a big exhale, (because I know that I am going to need to navigate the abyss), I begin to  prepare myself for the long journey down to my soul.  The pain comes from my history, usually my learned coping skills from childhood that unless I am willing to challenge, are not going to disappear. My son thinks I am weird because I often speak with him from an uncommon perspective and he is extremely perceptive.  So while I have never really said to him that I am writing a story, he is used to hearing his mommy talking all weird to him and that is what he is sensing is taking place as I write. “Weird” talk. “Weird” writing. Perceptually, he is right on.