If my children are unhappy, it’s my fault, if they are struggling with money, jobs, spouses, it’s my fault; if life is not all it’s cracked up to be, it’s my fault.
When does this stop? Never. Why not? Because I’m Oz the all powerful.
Pull back and listen to this unceasing chatter in my head that says, your fault, your fault and confront these statements and say: No, not really, maybe a bit but not really. Sometimes I believe this more than other.
It’s expectations. Expectations hammered out, I think, by the dreams we feed ourselves and our children. It’s so sad; life as it is and life as we want it to be. If our lives don’t shape up around some image we have, then we blame ourselves. It is true that if we have no ambition to shape our lives the way we want them to be, then they may be shapeless, lifeless things that have no meaning. It is also true that a life without hope is a pallid thing. What a balancing act.
The realer I get, the better I feel. That may be true for all of us. Get real.
Our lives are finite. We can save neither our children or ourselves from that truth. What happens between birth and death is so complex, so varied, so “luck of the draw”, that our best intentions, our plans, and dreams are for naught.
Only love survives. Dreams die, grand schemes fall apart, just when you think everything is lined up, locked and loaded, it implodes. There is no certainty.
I worry about my children because I want them to have lives of no turmoil or unhappiness. But that’s silly isn’t it?
We chose to engage in the world as it is, and hammer out something we can live with. Be happy and grateful when times are rough and times will get rough, and put your head down and make it through when times are difficult. Make it work. Don’t take it personally. It’s not your fault that life is tough. It’s the nature of the beast.
And now simply because I can, a little something to make you smile:
Regrets.
Hello. Yes, this is Dog 