Grief is not a funny thing
Written a year ago
17/6/2022 - early morning musings
This is heavy soul poetic psychology
It’s been almost 7 months now, since my dear old Daddy died
and I’m starting to feel free of the grief and confusions.
Yesterday, while down on the Water’s Edge, with thoughts flying fast through the open space of my mental environment, it occurred to me, 1 thought in the fast flowing stream, : that the best thing my Father has ever done for me, apart from the “life-giving” of my conception and birth – the best thing he has ever done for me is to die.
Grief is not a funny thing.
Grief is inexplicible, washing over in waves of overwhelming feelings.
Yesterday, I realised what the greif is and where the overwhelming “loss” comes from and goes to:
Our parents IMPRINT upon us.
From the moment of conception, through the whole of the incubation within the womb, to the laboring-birth process, of being a Being, being pushed along a cervical canal and squished OUT INTO The World.
Birth suffocates, as the lungs of a baby go into a seizure of breathlessness, and the Survival Instinct un-conscious forces air and oxygen into The Body.
A gasp and an unclogging of whatever it is that seals that vent.
Before that moment, there is no air to breathe, and the necessary oxygen come through the Mother’s bodily gift, through the umbilical cord.
Soon after that first gasp of desperation, that umbilical cord is severed.
The baby is cut-from The Mother.
There are unconscious body-mind-feeling processes going on in these moments of Time, as the needle hits the record, as the outer-film begins it’s time-line, as the Birth-Chart is Set.
Our Father eventually becomes a monster in the sleeping nightmares of child hood, whenever he must surely lose control of his imagined image of kind-provider, and breaks-down into a harsh and fear-ridden entity, screaming: “NO !!! ...” “don’t …” “stop…”
The Strategic Self mechanism is unconscious, yet, it rules The Sub-conscious main Frame of the film of perception referred to as “reality”, the construct we think of as collective and communal, the “body of unspoken Rules”
There’s a “hell” of a lot of fear getting passed around in this “Reality”, circulating like invisible blood in an invisible heart, that is in constant “survival mode”, suffering consistant “Heart attacks”
Dad died, and no body really noticed.
Least of all himself.
He died so young at heart.
He died as a small child.
His own Mother killed him.
His own Father didn’t even notice.
His own Father had died
before Father had even met
and married The Mother.
We die as children as live as sub-conscious “adults”
We all die young.
Killed by the evils of this world.
And left to live, in a shell-like husk of “humanity”
Frozen in fear, Heart ripped to pieces and divided into 8.
Pieces of 8 projected as “reality” in the film-script called Personality.
We project our person out to the world, like a fisher projects his rod, with a little worm dangling, wondering if anyone will “take the bait”
Some die at birth, such is Life.
Most bodies survive the birth.
Many are even Loved
and cherished and are well,
taken care-of and nourished
Photo: my mom, Rose Maria Woods <3