This is just one of many cliches concerning our arrival on this planet; you may be able to think of many others which are similar, such as "we are all born equal", etc. If you stop and think for a while, I'm sure that a number of doubts will arise as to the validity of these sayings...
I would like you to consider a theory I have, and that is we live multiple lives - each life is like a term at school. Each "term" comes with its own unique set of lessons (experiences), tests and exams (ie how we deal with the events in this particular life). If we "pass" we move up to the next "term", each life enhancing our awareness, wisdom, compassion, consciousness and spiritual dimension. If we fail (and that includes being "expelled" by suicide), we have to come back and "re-sit" that term, perhaps over and over again until we "pass". I also believe that it's possible through observation and analysis, to determine an individual's approximate "school year" and therefore, their level of consiousness/awareness.
Simply put, we start in "kindergarten", progressing term by term to the "university" of life. Our destination? To become "one" with all that exists, understanding that our spirit is an integral part of the infinite matrix that connects everything within an eternal cosmos.
The "tools" we are given at the beginning of our new "term" vary greatly; some are presented to us at birth - the state of our physical and mental health, the geographical location and social position of the family we are born into, and of course, the "tools" which are hereditary. For example, besides many "positive" tools, passed down the family tree to me and some of my siblings, were hereditary "negative" tools - depression (from my father) and laziness (from my mother). This is a dangerous combination if not dealt with; to be depressed and lazy at the same time means that when you feel down, you can't be bothered to do anything about it, and wallow in the mire of self pity, preferring to shut yourself away from your responsibilities; eventually, you use depression as an excuse to shy away from reality. It took decades of effort for me to find a way to "cure" myself; I can only apologise to some of my previous partners who had to put up with this. Some of my siblings are still seriously affected by these traits, and my brother Mark still has great difficulty dealing with the problem (and he is now in his 40's).
I can recall at which age depression first manifested itself; I was around 7 or 8 years old at the time. Suddenly, this happy go-lucky little boy became sullen and moody; things were so bad, I was taken to see a psychiatrist in an effort to find the cause. He was a kindly, fatherly Polish gentleman, who actually seemed to care about me (there wasn't much love in our family, and we were brought up to be competitive against each other and tease each other mercilessly - in fact my father gave us all rather cruel nicknames, which we used regularly, thinking that it was sanctioned by our parents and was the right way to behave). "Dr Polish" (as I called him) asked me to draw pictures, and I took advantage of this opportunity for attention by drawing pictures of war and people being killed. I was given medication in the form of little purple heart-shaped tablets - "happy pills" as I called them; my mother gave me one a day, and kept them on the top shelf, well out of my reach. I became somewhat addicted to these, and quickly found a way to reach them! My mother didn't notice how quickly they were disappearing until only a few remained. My medication was changed to bitter white tablets which mother used to crush and mix up with jam (and at the same time, being extra cautious with the location of the remaining pills). I can remember searching for them for hours whenever mother was out of the house (and she invariably was); I found them in the end! These events I suppose, were my first experimentations with drugs...
Anyway, the treatment suddenly stopped one day, as it was proving too expensive I think; either that, or mother realised I was hooked on them. But one bad lesson I learned from the experience, was that in order to try and gain attention and care (love?) from teachers at school, all I had to do was walk around looking sad! I was so lazy I couldn't be bothered with my homework and slid from the top of the secondary school grading system (Upper 1A), down to the "B" stream. I seriously lacked motivation, eventually leaving school with no qualifications whatsoever.
Life at home was almost like living in a war zone at times; my father was very much a traditionalist (ie - he was the bread winner, and my mother tasked with looking after the home, and us kids). My mother was almost always out talking to her friends, leaving us for the most part to fend for ourselves. We never had breakfast before school, and we went to school hungry and scruffy (we all used to hang our clothes on the floor), and often with holes in our shoes. When my dad saw signs of our neglect, he would explode, and we would cower in terror in our bedrooms, wondering what was going to happen next. I remember one night when I was only around 3 or 4 years old, my dad came back drunk, slapped my mother around, and then burnt all her sheet music in the fire place. There were (I think) only the first three of us born (Me, Jane and John) at the time, and mother bundled us off to stay with our "grand parents" (explanation for the "" in a later post) in Nottingham.
Despite everything I said about my father, I loved him dearly, and I think that in his own way, he loved us too. My father and I spent hours walking the footpaths of Derbyshire and the Yorkshire dales; in later years he took me into his confidence about the world and our family from his perspective. When I was around 13 or 14 years old, my mother suddenly went blind; an amazing co-incidence because the switchboard operator at dad's work was a blind guy called Fred Orpwood. My mother was fascinated by him being able to work with no eyesight. Around five or six months before she allegedly lost her sight, she sent me to the Royal National Institute for the Blind in Nottingham to buy Braille paper, punch and metal frame, in order for her to learn to write to Fred.
My dad went to his grave believing mother was pretending, and I have to admit that she made a few slip-ups which us kids noticed immediately; these we reported to dad, which only added fuel to the fire, already raging out of control. Eventually the family was split forever, as we were forced to take sides with one parent or the other. Our friends and neighbours also doubted the situation with mother, and we endured suspicion and shame. I have learned to live with it, but the true circumstances are still unknown and we sons and daughters go along with whatever mother wants...
Having no qualifications from school, my only escape from intolerable home live and certain doom in a factory, was to sign on as an apprentice with the Royal Air Force; and so, aged fifteen and a half, I departed Long Eaton (my home town) to a new and very difficult life at RAF Hereford. At Sawley Junction railway station my father displayed some rare emotion; there were tears in his eyes as he shook my hand as I boarded the train - all of a sudden I had become a man, taking with me the "tools" and experiences which would give me my start on the journey into adulthood and interaction with the big world...
Pause For Thought:
1. Which "hereditary" negative tools (if any) were passed down to you?
2. How do you think they affected your life, and those people around you?
3. How did you manage to overcome these hereditary negative traits, or are you still having to deal with them?
4. Do you think that without these hereditary negative, your life would have been better, or worse?
5. What "positive" hereditary tools were passed down to you?
No comments:
Post a Comment