The other day I saw a friend and her daughter walking to school. Both of them were laughing really hard. The kind of laugh where you hold you belly.
Then it hit me.
The person that I am, when I am connected to my authentic self and life itself, when I am aware that I am whole and complete, when I am happy and grounded in knowing who am I and that “I”, in fact, am an illusion of limitations. That person cannot exist in my family. My family does not know that person. My family doesn’t know me. My family may not ever speak my language. I have, in those moments, out grown my family.
Can you see or even comprehend how scary and lonely that is?
The only family I have ever known are a group of familiar strangers. In a sense I have no family. I can no longer turn to them in times of distress, I’ve missed that over these past few years and it hit me that this just cannot be. Sure they would be there if I asked. But the level of what I need is something they cannot provide because they don’t have it themselves to give in the first place.
What I have to hold onto is the faith that there will come a time when I can be who I am in my family, knowing that I am a part of my family, but not connected to them/enmeshed with them. I can be with them and not get overwhelmed by them. I can be with them and feel compassion for their individual journeys that has made them who they are.
Someday. But not now. Not yet.