Constellations Colliding

Previously quoted, posted, appreciated, re-stated and applicable always and especially today:

“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.” Anaïs Nin

My world has roiled lately with backlash (my back gave out, a regular event in my life for over 2 decades now, fortunately only every 2 years) and more backlash (constellations colliding). I’m amazed, in spite of 45 years of living, at the seeming contradiction of realities residing in one individual, including myself. And multiplied across the planet almost exponentially: Loving, giving, punitive, manipulative. Unable to see it as such. Wait. Whiplash. My back hurts. Not that I’m perfect. (Shhh) Not that there’s any such thing.

But why? Why do people feel it acceptable to push others into a corner and call it motivation? Frown on anything not rigid, not controlled by fear of judgement, not bending to narrow-minded perspectives and, as they frown, self-justified, turn and declare the one-not-cowed “immature,” why? It’s not only heartless. It’s illogical. (I see this in the media everyday. I roll my eyes. But when it knocks on my door. WAAH!)

( And as I analyze and deal with this fact in some situations, if I continue to go after all that’s wrong about it I refuse the truth I’m embracing in this quote. o.O )

We had an event in my home this week. Not directly. But definitely involving a huge victory for my oldest and youngest children’s robotics team followed by this smashing crash with bits and parts flying everywhere as constellations collided in a pile of relationship flotsam. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t love. It was ridiculously confusing. (And still is.) It amounted to a refusal to see the acceptable humanity in another and a sad, rigid perspective of behavior with resulting punitive elements thrown in for good measure.

After a crazy scramble to salvage what can be salvaged, I land on this Anaïs Nin gem and can only comfort myself with the fact that some things can’t and won’t be reconciled. Not logically. But heartfully…

the heart is another matter, residing on planes and resting in soil refusing sometimes to ruthlessly record the wrongdoings and unjust goings on but deciding instead to remember the love (not that this is always the best approach, mind you!), growing a harvest hopefully nourishing soul. We know we won’t be able to fathom the motivations or stated justifications since we don’t live on whatever planet some live on but we do fathom the love regardless. The love we feel in spite of it. The investment made and the hopes nurtured. Somehow smashed bits of relationship flotsam can be pieced back together. For now.

I’m left with a deeper appreciation for the fact that one facet (or say, 20!) of any one person is not all there is to know and what we choose to embrace in our challenging experiences with those less desirable layers will reveal and deepen our capacity for love. If we allow it…but the backlash can be challenging.

As it turns out, we all know each other as well as we know outer space and the mechanisms and multitudinous intricacies of mitochondrial function and the core of the earth. And. Ad Infinitum. And the certainty of uncertainty. As much as I’m able to accept that anything is possible from person to person, that some people suddenly change their pattern of behavior (without doing drugs or having a psychotic break) because this is the way it is, there are still times when I’m blown away by the sudden turn of events. And the backlash is surreal.

The point of maturity reveals itself in how skillfully we discern which situation calls for a broader vision of tolerance and which scenario simply cannot allow us to continue the dance. And even then. We don’t always know what we think we know until the songs are over (or until the metaphors are finished roiling in the oven of transformation, threatening to stink up the post in a confusion of impressions!).

So, we shall see.