I'm afraid I've been reviewing my life, never a good idea. Worrying about choices or paths is irrelevant, unless I learn something from the process. But I've done all the worrying the law allows, and now I'm just churning up guilt and responsibility about things over which I have no control. I'm miserable, but it's a cosy kind of misery, very familiar and comfortable. I have this delusion that comes and goes: that I can fix other people's lives. I have the rescuer complex. My Buddhist teacher made me buy a toy ambulance and put it up on blocks. Out of commission. But the temptation is still alluring. I don't like to witness other people's suffering. I have trouble sitting with it and not jumping up, running around and busy myself being thoughtful.
A friend of ours is dying. Not the first. But I feel wretched. Nobody deserves this kind of suffering, and it is part of living, but nevertheless so hard to bear. I feel helpless, useless, and boy, do I hate that feeling. When my kids have problems I want to come out of my corner like a boxer ready to kill. Yet, these are adults, and my days as an activist mother are over. They have to face the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune on their own. Yes, I can listen if they choose to talk, maybe even give some perspective or advice, but it's their ballgame, their park, their world. I have no power to protect them. I just hate that. I have trouble accepting the obvious.
So. Letting go. Trusting that others know what they are doing and will ask for help if they need it. Knowing I don't really have any solutions or brilliant ideas. Just loving them and being here on earth as a witness. Wow. It's hard. And it's the right thing to do.
No comments:
Post a Comment