What is It?

Translating the Metaphysical World of a Seemingly Innocuous Pronoun

It is no big deal. It is nothing to worry about.It is not worth getting upset about. Except it kind of is… because we usually write it off without acknowledging the nuanced complexities and deep referential realities that live inside it.

My twelve-year-old son says some random girl he doesn’t even know called him– weird?

I acknowledge that that really stinks. I assure him I understand. I explain that she is probably feeling insecure herself and projecting it on him. Or who knows, maybe she likes ‘weird’ and it was a compliment. Regardless, what she says has more to do with her than him anyway.

So, don’t worry about it.

Am I an idiot… I think. Seriously, what kind of a numskull thinks the psychological complexities of her inappropriate comment will be of any consolation whatsoever? But, I want him to be ok. I want to feel like there was resolution. Like this won’t be spinning around in his subconscious when he’s fifty years old.

Won’t be impacting his ability to break out of his shell, take a chance on himself, believe that people will be embrace him, see his magical inner light and want to be near it. I want to allow room for him to feel hurt, but I also want to him to learn to brush it off. Want him to have space to process but not so much it becomes bigger than it is.

And if I’m honest I’m scared of asking too many questions, of creating a indulging the sadness because…I fear I will lose track of whose sadness it is and what if, we get stuck there. What if it goes as deep as it does for me? So, I go to the bad wolf and the good wolf and the wolf you feed. I go with ‘don’t worry about it.’

 It makes sense.

As a logical explanation, itis sound. So why does itdo nothing to quell the rising storm of internal despair, the flood of inadequacy and crushing sense of resignation. Itends up making us feel dismissed or dismissive. But, it is tricky.

It does not come with clear-cut directions or a money-back guarantee. And in a culture that prides efficiency over exploration and productivity over possibility, it is a time-consuming proposition that promises nothing in the way of tangible results.

As a matter of fact, to the contrary. It is most likely to take us into uncharted territory that conflates the past with the present and dramatically impacts our odds of executing future plans in a timely fashion.

It is messy and murky and muddled.

Filled with mayhem and maelstrom and mystery.

What if, as his mother, I cannot help him feel whole and secure inside his magnificently unique and magically unusual soul? What if the fog of mayhem settles into too many of my own childhood corners and it becomes hard to see where I am, where he is, where we are.

What if the thicket of what I have failed to figure out begins to ensnare him with its sticky thorns? What if I don’t know how to help him? Fail to say or do that will be the thing it needs? What if I lose him to fear or insecurity or the tundra of the lost?

After ransacking my emotional toolkit, spinning through my rolodex of parenting strategies and making occasional stabs at just being ‘present’ I ultimately remember. No one knows. Life, at its very core is a big mystery.

And I have lost my love of mystery.

I’m okay with a good murder mystery or the seconds it takes to unwrap a gift.

But one involving cognitive dissonance? Or quantum spiritual distress? Or emotional fragmentation? Not so much. I prefer clarity. Certainty. A good old-fashioned plan.

But 2018 was has been filled with lots of signposts suggesting that perhaps it is time to let out some slack in the sail of my soul. Allow room for the wind to fill them full. Not be so terrified of capsizing and hitting rocks and worrying if everyone is wearing their life preservers.

Room to have fun. To feel the water and the wind and embrace the mystery of possibility.