Thoughts on a bad cliché

I was doing some pottery in my dusty, cold, dark basement today. My fingers are chilled to the bone, and the poor lighting made me mistake my long-cut bangs as movements in the shadows just outside my field of vision on more than one occasion.

While working on my long neglected petal-themed pots, a small thought popped into my head while thinking of how practice can sometimes help improve your skills.

When bad things happen, some chalk it up to circumstances beyond your control, and put responsibility in the hands of bodies that are higher up on the spiritual prayer chain. But when good things happen, it’s because you worked for it, and not necessarily due to the willful hands of a universal idea of life being fair and balanced.

Maybe this is all just hot air floating serenely out my bum. But it’s a small thought that popped into mind while thinking about my beloved Henry and working on some pots. I write about it now because I’ve been told some fickle but well-intended comments about fate regarding how to heal from my Henry ordeal (the idea of that in itself is fickle!).

The idea leans on things that are “meant to be” – something you should never, EVER say to someone who has lost their child. Or that it was God’s, or some other higher being’s will, or that God or whoever needed their angel back. Talk about hot air being blown out a bum.

I’m starting to believe more and more in the idea of chaos. The universe is overwhelmingly enormous. We’re just tiny little monkeys bumbling on a small blue marble around one relatively small sun in a galaxy which we understand pinpricks about. It’s so bizarre that we’re even here, and miraculous that anyone’s life should be free from strife. So why should my life hold enough importance that the universe, or God, or whoever, will conspire to make sure my life is fair and balanced, and that I follow a clear, fated path that I’m meant to follow?

But I’m probably wrong. I’m just a silly little monkey on a blue marble with a limited world-view and understanding of how life works, trying to occupy my time between now and when my body stops working, and thinking of my little boy whose body stopped working before he could use it much or think about stuff like this, too.


Days are passing

It’s so funny how time continues on. The idea that time heals. We progress as a species (or not), learn and grow over time. One thing separating us from the lives of people thousands of years ago is time. We could have been born then (maybe we were), but we’re here now, at this time.

You’re born small, and over time, you eventually turn into an adult. Friends and family move, die, change, and you miss every single one of them desperately, but you just get used to that change in your life over time. Your child dies, and over time, our wounds feel less raw (doesn’t mean they are less raw, though). Time is a blessing, and a jerk. Time is bringing me farther away from my time with Henry, but closer to the day when we’ll meet again.