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A little bit of hope.
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<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 752624" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>I don't know what to write. Because part of me feels like I am failing. And part of me feels like I'm growing stronger. How to reconcile these two things? I can't.</p><p></p><p>M and I went to the metro today for Yom Kippur, the most holy day in my faith. I am embarrassed to say that like always a 25 percent of our conversation even on this most sacred of days, was about J, my son (more so on the way there, than coming home.) Trying to figure out his motivations; wondering what he will do and not do; wondering how we will respond; wondering why this time of all of the times, he's following through with something. What changed?</p><p></p><p>Are we stronger? No, we decided. M's idea is that my son knows we are serious. I wonder if that is it.</p><p></p><p>Our situation together has become so attenuated, the path so narrow, that we have been left with no more choices, and consequently, my son, too, lacks choices. I am reading a good book. I like Louis L'Amour westerns. I am reading <u>Guns of the Timberlands</u>. The main character has a homestead, and he built his home right in the middle of the road, which is a canyon. A man who wants to invade his land and rob the timber cannot enter, except through his house, which has turrets from which to shoot, all who try to pass.</p><p></p><p>That's where we have arrived. Like the saying, "over my dead body." It's not that we got stronger. There's no force at all involved. In fact, we got weaker. There is no fighting. We've laid down our arms. We've prostrated ourselves, actually. We've surrendered. Maybe that's the word. But we haven't surrendered to my son. Our lives and our bodies and the road have become all the same thing. And in so doing, it seems my son might have (praise G-d) arrived in the same place.</p><p></p><p>I am not sure how to conclude this post. All of this day, this holiest of days, for me, was about letting go--of worries, of wants, goals, of time. We were at an urban farm with goats and chickens and beautiful plants, and beautiful music, and 300 people under canopies, in tents, most strangers, all together--with G-d.</p><p></p><p>Which I think is what I want to say in this post. What is different today, than yesterday, is letting go of the struggles. At least for today, I've laid down my arms and (I hope) I've surrendered to what is and to what will be. Which I think JP is the message of your post.</p><p></p><p>Up until right now I have thought that all of it was about what to do or not to do. And it's not. It's about return to the real power, and living there. I vow this year to come I will practice living from this place. Thank you, all of you, for your support.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 752624, member: 18958"] I don't know what to write. Because part of me feels like I am failing. And part of me feels like I'm growing stronger. How to reconcile these two things? I can't. M and I went to the metro today for Yom Kippur, the most holy day in my faith. I am embarrassed to say that like always a 25 percent of our conversation even on this most sacred of days, was about J, my son (more so on the way there, than coming home.) Trying to figure out his motivations; wondering what he will do and not do; wondering how we will respond; wondering why this time of all of the times, he's following through with something. What changed? Are we stronger? No, we decided. M's idea is that my son knows we are serious. I wonder if that is it. Our situation together has become so attenuated, the path so narrow, that we have been left with no more choices, and consequently, my son, too, lacks choices. I am reading a good book. I like Louis L'Amour westerns. I am reading [U]Guns of the Timberlands[/U]. The main character has a homestead, and he built his home right in the middle of the road, which is a canyon. A man who wants to invade his land and rob the timber cannot enter, except through his house, which has turrets from which to shoot, all who try to pass. That's where we have arrived. Like the saying, "over my dead body." It's not that we got stronger. There's no force at all involved. In fact, we got weaker. There is no fighting. We've laid down our arms. We've prostrated ourselves, actually. We've surrendered. Maybe that's the word. But we haven't surrendered to my son. Our lives and our bodies and the road have become all the same thing. And in so doing, it seems my son might have (praise G-d) arrived in the same place. I am not sure how to conclude this post. All of this day, this holiest of days, for me, was about letting go--of worries, of wants, goals, of time. We were at an urban farm with goats and chickens and beautiful plants, and beautiful music, and 300 people under canopies, in tents, most strangers, all together--with G-d. Which I think is what I want to say in this post. What is different today, than yesterday, is letting go of the struggles. At least for today, I've laid down my arms and (I hope) I've surrendered to what is and to what will be. Which I think JP is the message of your post. Up until right now I have thought that all of it was about what to do or not to do. And it's not. It's about return to the real power, and living there. I vow this year to come I will practice living from this place. Thank you, all of you, for your support. [/QUOTE]
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