I hate the day of birth – Reflections on how to heal our lives, feed our soul and fund our dreams

I hate murder day. Terrible though it sounds, I've hated my mother for a very long time. I've been guilty of it. I also know it's not politically correct, so I haven't said it loudly. But it's time I admit. I hate the day of birth.

I hated it first when I was in my twenties. I felt hurt and angry with my mother for many things she had done or not done that had hurt me. The more I looked, the more I saw it. I didn't want to be hypocritical, so it was hard to say all the sweet, happy things on the greeting cards. How could I be dishonest and say what I didn't find?

What I know now is that I was mostly angry with my mother for not being a perfect scholar mother. She did not fill the shoes of the Fairy Godmother or Mother of God or the Great Goddess. She was just a person, dang-it. She made a mistake, she had a weakness. I was scared. She had great gaps in who she was and what she could accomplish and do for me and for me. And I annoyed it. I wish she was Virgin Mary, Fairy Godmother and Great Goddess all packed in one.

I also hated a murder day because I was angry with my mother. She was stiff and perfectionistic, judicial and impatient, and I couldn't and didn't want to live by her. I was also afraid I would be like her. Terror of horror, I saw myself in it. We had a similar mood and personality style. She was infrared and perfected, and when she learned or threw something, she thought it was used for everyone around her. She wanted them to follow it too. She had a strange humor that could hurt others when she wasn't aware of it and didn't seem to think so. Oh, shoot. I'm just that-all. I was afraid I would hide her weaknesses and no strength. I didn't know what her strengths were. All I could see was her obvious weakness. Somehow I lost because she was also a cruel reader, thoughtful, caring, creative and delicate. Hmm. Somehow, she also suited them with me.

I have also hated a murder day because I was afraid I would make some of the same mistakes my mother made. She married someone who seemed rough, loud, angry and scary when I visited them as a young child. She had lived in poverty much of her life. She died young in the 1950s. She asked for big issues for her seven children and three sons for sexuality and female roles and little self-esteem and I didn't want any of these bugs. Mother's Day bought all this for my attention.

Then my mother was a sister. I was also afraid that I was like her and struggled with depression and little confidence and lived on the low side of life as she did. I didn't want to have a disturbance in the attitudes and habits of the money she had, or emotional and physical sensitivity and trouble in relationships she made.

When I had children on my own, I hated even the day of murder. I knew I didn't live up to what I needed to be as a mother. I knew I made a lot of mistakes. I could see where I missed the mark. I have a lot of gaps in who I am. I know I have not been there for my children in a way that has had a negative impact on their development. I have passed on to many of the family who have terrified me. In my many attempts to make the same mistakes my parents made, I turned the coin over and did the opposite. The majority of these thoughts could be on the edge, but the Day of Mood would pull all of that taste into consciousness, front and center.

I've hated the day of birth, too, because everything I always wanted for a day was a holiday. I didn't want another bouquet of flowers or any other family appreciation. It wasn't that I didn't like them. It was that I wanted a day off (if I was thinking big) weekend away, to me – all by myself. I never had the solitude when my children were small. That's what I longed for more than anything. And I didn't know how to get it.

Now that my children are grown up, the Day of Murder is very complicated. There are three or four generations and children with a spouse to balance timetables and emotional needs. This is something common to all families; how can it be so difficult? Why can't we just gather and celebrate life and love and mother tongue and the mystery that life continues despite our mistakes, bumbling, ignorance, immaturity, and defects?

When I reflect on it, I see now that I have had a lot of my mother and all of my bodies. Despite their impossibilities, they have also passed many wonderful things. My mother's mother, along with her husband, found a clinic that is now a hospital in Juliaca, Peru, on the shores of Lake Titicana. She was a risk man who took her six-month-old daughter from southern California to the high Andes. She paid a lot of money in her own health and also in the loss of a baby son who was born and died while living there. She and my grandmother both had significant health problems while living there and then again after only one job period and left the jobs they had started to continue. She was in love with risk factors, passion for service, for pioneering new ways of helping, and serving others I now carry and live out.

My other grandmother? She had wanted to attend college but became pregnant before she had the opportunity to leave. She is soon pregnant again and again; She bore ten children and took others to raise as she was. What did she do when her goals were swept? She loved her great love and learned it. It still burns brightly in grandchildren and grandchildren. Most of her children attended university; several of them have advanced degrees. Her children have been around the world as teachers and missionaries. She did not live through them, but she taught them and encouraged them. I also remember the letters that came regularly when I was a child. They would describe the flowers that grow in their garden, the birds and what they were doing and what was happening to other family members. The love of nature and the gardening was taken up by my father and asked for me.

Did either my grandmothers, my mother or my niece know she was talented? Probably not. The term was not known to them. Some knew they had high I. Q, but there wasn't much room in the consciousness. They all had the responsibility to use whatever talent they were given to honor God, serve others, make this world a better place to be, and most of all, prepare us everything for the next. They had a world view that this life is only a small part of the overall reality. For those who made the events of our daily lives small compared to the big picture. I'd do well to remember this more often.

I have trudged with, with all this luggage, inserted into it on every maternity day. I didn't want to admit it. I was embarrassed and ashamed to have it. I hadn't known what to do with it. Now that I've digged it, I've discovered it's more than just the eye. As I looked at the surface of my ancestral imperfections and myself as a mother, I found great blessings and deep roots of love, creativity, intelligence, and sensitivity.

I find that my ancestors lived a service and blessed others even though their lives had not continued as they had originally planned. They had the ability to see great potential, but they were able to escape their high and high hopes and be happy with what they could really do in this life. Not that they achieved nothing, but they betray their perfection development enough to do what they could, even if it was less than they would. They buried deep enough to tap into life itself and bypass it. There is something to remember, celebrate, and imitate. In this sense, I no longer have to hate it; From now on I can say, I love the day of birth.

When we are ready to open our minds and hearts, we can observe the flow of our thoughts and feelings until they reach resolution. It is only when we are ready to dig deep enough to debride and cleanse our inner wounds that we finally find the buried treasure necessary to heal our lives, feed our souls, and fund our dreams.


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