Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Predictable Life

I have a pattern in my mind of how my life ought to be. This pattern is simple, uncluttered and linear. It goes something like this: I will grow up healthy, go to university, excel, fall in love, marry, have healthy beautiful kids, make an impact in my field, grow old and loved. I know I should have included "died", but remember that this is "ought to be", there are no deaths in ought to be.

You might have a similar pattern bouncing in your head. I wish I did not, but it is there. Even knowing that it is only a pattern--unreal and unattainable--it remains indelible. It eludes destruction. It has the ability to shine through my darkest moments. When all I can see is an all engulfing blackness of my utter incompetence--when my lights are at their dimmest,  fueled unrelentingly by what I have not been able to accomplish--my pattern shines at its brightest.

I try and ignore it, diminish and hide this internal light. Indelible, running like a stain in my otherwise imperfect rhapsody of colorful experiences.

Every aspect of life mirrors us, mirrors me. So there are aspects I do not like and which I try and grow out of me. Wash out the stain to leave the clear and predictable pattern. These themes conflict with what I want my path to be. They are impediments. Imperfections. And despite conscious attempts to be in the present I face these themes as barriers, as deflections.

Having children have made me look at the perfect pattern in my head and how unreal it is. I am lucky. I have two healthy bright active children. I wanted girls. I wanted my life to revolve around a nurturing loving family, cooking together, enjoying nature, the environment, books, art, and all the finer expressions of what makes us human. You can taste the seductive nature of my perfect pattern. Simple expressions of love, care and nurturing.

But healthy kids do not conform to such perfect visions. Healthy kids think that they are immortal, all knowing gods of cool and righteousness.

I always joke that only a woman could have written Frankenstein. I assumed only women could appreciate giving birth to another soul. An independent being with a will of their own. But I am wrong. I also see it. I also see how out of control their development is. I see my peripheral role.

Like Frankenstein, my kids are not real monsters, they do not threaten anyone but themselves. And Mary Shelley had an insight into this, except that she did not admit that the Frankenstein she wanted to create was a better version of herself. As I wanted my kids to be.

There is a reason for the enticing pattern. I am driven to repeat a pattern that has been engrained into my genetic path. We all share this pattern. Frankenstein is the anomaly of what reality is like. Yet, aberrations--despite their ostensible dissonance--is the musical theme of my life.

Look at your life, what has been unplanned, and unforeseen, remain pivotal moments of change, transformations and self realization. It is the pattern that is hiding the real colors underneath. Colors that are not predictable, and orderly, but are reflecting a greater wonder than a simple pattern concocted by beliefs, prejudices and simplicity. The colors underneath represents life in all its swirling and undefined brilliance. I have a pattern in my mind of how my life ought to be and it is about time I stop honoring it and looking away from the obvious and to start seeing the eurythmics of colors playing underneath.

No comments:

Post a Comment