Childhood never seems to leave us. Those formative years
find their ways of popping out at the most inopportune times. The insecurities
that plant their seeds in those tempestuous days always find their way of blooming,
no matter how we spray insecticide to kill their psychological toxicity.
Humans have this incessant need to be affirmed, to be
accepted, to belong. We devise so many strategies in order to find a home among
a tribe that sees us, acknowledges us, esteems us. And the walls we build, dear
God, the walls we build, the ramparts that shield against the illumination that
could possibly shine upon the open wounds, the pulsing exposed nerves that
shudder when seen in the light of day. Oh, the shame of vulnerability, the horror
that our true intentions, our underlying motives are prosaically for simple acceptance.
We present our peacock feathers in a fury of vanity, hiding the nakedness that
reveals our every blemish.
In our journey to succeed, to accomplish, to shine among the
dazzling stars, we convince ourselves of higher motives. We believe that our striving
is for the greater glory of…name it what you will. But ultimately it comes down
to being noticed, to hope that we count in a universe, that in its vastness, if
comprehended, would swallow us in an ocean of insignificance. Thus, we scream,
NOTICE ME! See my uniqueness, admire my originality. Jealousy, envy, these are
the fuel that compels us along the path of delusion.
We demand our inheritance, the means to be ‘ourselves’.
Father, give me my inheritance. If spoken without filter, “Father, I wish you
dead’. Let me shine in the light of my own making. But alas, once the substance
of my own being is pulled from underneath me like a floor holding my weight, a terrible
tumbling into an abyss becomes my vertiginous reality.
I see my fall in the words I speak to protect my
vulnerability, my fear to expose my nothingness. My very being without Being
becomes a cosmic joke, an empty laughter. To prop myself on this illusion, I
look to create a world where others fall for my narrative of self-creation,
self-importance.
Alas, self-knowledge is an inconvenience. We become addicted
to the portrait we have created of ourselves and believe it true. Success, a
delusional prop confirmed by a culture happy to affirm its truth. And when the
admiration ceases, when the famine of adulation sucks away the resources of our
lavish delusions, we seek the slop of the swine. And when despair brings us to
the nadir of our existence, we devise a means to find a way out, even if it
means becoming the utter negation of our grand schemes for glory. Father, I am only
good for slavery, take me as your slave.
What is this? Who is this that runs with glee, with joy,
with rejoicing towards my ravished ego, my soul stripped of meaning and
purpose? Why does he look at me this way? Why is he embracing me in my unwashed
filth? This is what I unconsciously left home to find, this is what my heart
desired beyond all imagining. Why did I go to far off lands where I was convinced,
I would find that which was always here, in my home?
My childhood haunts me. My need for approval abounds. I do
and say things that hide the underlying desire to be loved, to be affirmed, to
be accepted. I have looked, and will likely continue to look, in lands that
will be exposed as deserts, barren, waterless. But the Father runs after me.
The Father runs after me. I am safe. I am loved. Awake my soul. See, your redemption
is near.
