Months ago, I wrote a blog called Have you forgotten how glorious you are?
When the idea for this blog occurred to me, the one you're looking at right now; I wondered if I already wrote this blog in the aforementioned blog from months ago.
But no, this one is different. This one goes further back.
Marcus and I have been working with and providing support to a dear friend who's been struggling with his physical and emotional health. We've been spending a lot of time with him. Almost all of our time, in fact, as when he's all alone, his symptoms seem to get worse.
We're searching for help for him, for more than we may be able to provide.
He's experienced some improvement, but all of his symptoms are not gone yet.
But he believes he's feeling better mainly because he has two compassionate people with him all the time. (I'm also teaching him how to sing and play guitar.) Marcus has modified his diet and that has helped too.
But he's not better yet. Closer, but not better.
But it occurred to me on one particular night when I woke up to help (as insomnia is one of his issues so we sometimes get up in the night to help him out), that the reason I can show up like this with loved ones is because my parents taught me how.
There's a possibility that this is intrinsic in me. That even if I were raised by wolves I'd still be compassionate, though I'd certainly have terrible table manners.
But somehow, I doubt it.
The reason I can be supportive, compassionate, loving and present with this friend, and with any of my loved ones, is because I learned it from both of my parents.
They are my first memory and example of compassion and love. And while my pool of people with whom I experience this has grown since I was a little girl, they'll always be the originals.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
You've taught me more than we'll ever know.
You've taught me more than we'll ever know.
