Feel a little weepy tonight.
> Sometimes the past creeps up like a low cloud.
> I am sitting in the fog of my past and it is
> hard to see.
> Is it not astonishing that nothing matters more
> than the love of our parents, and that no thing
> so devastates as the lack of, loss of, or the
> misunderstanding of that love?
>
> We are glorious and perfect and worthy and
> yet we can sometimes be so tangled in a web
> of past emotional misadventures as to not
> know the truth that everyone else can see.
> The hurtful attention ties us up as much as
> the neglect. Both leave filaments of limitation
> across the beating of our hearts.
>
> It is so hard to be a child and at once, as an adult,
> we know how very hard it must be to be a parent.
> I have great compassion for those that raised me.
> They did their best. They did their best. They
> did not mean to hurt me, or to leave me empty.
> And I know it is my job now to fill up the dark spots.
> There is so much love in my world, and in yours.
> We have love around us enough to repair the damage,
> to fill the holes, to build the walls and to tear them
> down, so that freedom can be the expression of the
> truth that we are perfect, lovable, deserving, good and
> whole.
> It means the world to me that I can write to you from here.
> Do not return to me that trust.
> Pass it along to another.
>
>