I had a quick thought this morning regarding my talk about death with my brother when he was three and I was two. Mom had just told us our grandfather had died which was how the topic of death got introduced into our awareness. It occurred to me to wonder why we went out to our hidey-hole in the backyard to talk it over...why didn't we ask Mom our questions?
What I found telling was I immediately saw that Mom was to blame. She had just dropped the death bomb on two mere babies and walked away. It was her fault I was victimized by life itself.
I'm grateful from my toenails up that I know when I start with the blame and shame that I'm going down that wrong road again.
I had to laugh because my memory does not include her even telling us that Grandpa had died...I was able to put it together chronologically by the fact we were living on the farm and moved from there when I was three...Grandpa was the only one who had died during that period. So, in truth, Mom might very well have sat us down, lovingly explained death, nothing to fear, going to play with the angels, etc., and we still went off by ourselves to mull it over...i.e., interpret it our way.
Again it proves true: It is not what is said to me, it is how I interpret what I hear that counts. That is what colors my thinking, feeling, doing, being. Learning to take responsibility for what I hear, not to mention how I interpret what I hear, has sure saved a lot of wear and tear on my friendships.
Thank You.
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