I wept today. Music did what music does and took me back to
a MDA trip I had with some of my loved ones. My intention for the trip was to
get an answer to my question, “Who is my audience?” (regarding writing.) The
answer MDA and my loved ones synthesized for me that day was, “our children.”
Its 6 months later and the truth of the realization hit me
today. Hence the glorious weeping. My life I live is for my children.
I’m going to write books. I’m actively working everyday
towards this goal. I’m obsessed by what is fundamentally the urge to help
people heal themselves. Before I feel adequate in giving advice, I need to heal
myself, heal my Self. And this is no short order. And honestly it is not a goal
with an end. Life is a constant growing.
I don’t know what caused it exactly, but the tears were more
a culmination of a few things. On one side, the human condition is abundant in
its suffering. On another side, my personal luck staggers me. Like most of you,
my childhood was full of trauma large and small. All of ours are. Our parents
were all parents of child abuse. Most of this abuse was well-intentioned naivety.
Trauma it was regardless. The third side is the experiential fact that the adaptation
and fortitude of the human condition is greater than almost all trauma. There
is hope and growth and healing available.
This hope consumes me. I live in it every day. It breaths
purpose into my body. My existential void from adolescences is filled. The
answer is, I do it for my children, and all the children of those I love.
Honestly, I do it for everyone, but my closest cloister of proximity is that of
my loved ones. I do it for our children.