July 9th, 2012
We don’t get to choose our parents.
What of our parents? We long for that untrammeled love we think exists somewhere. The love we don’t want is the love of God. The love of God is hideous, deformed, it is all punishment, and not enough of it is absolute, the love of God gave Beethoven the music of the wilderness and then made him deaf.
We saw Copying Beehtoven which non Beethoven lovers do not understand. Do not get that it’s all about the music. Ed Harris in a dream of the Ninth Symphony. And Diane Kruger entering the music like you enter water or air, easily and fluid as if we were made of air and water too.
I used to look for other parents who I hoped would adopt me. This other father and mother would be transfixed in the same way that I saw parents being as they would bend over their little ones transfixed by their smallest movements as if they were little angels. They would touch their angel wings, and imagine their children’s smallest idiosyncrasies to be the antics of a child of God. I wanted to have those parents. The ones who would love me forever. With such intensity that I vibrated with it. That it filled my little halls and windows.
I live in a house full of light and green. The doors are often open letting in more light. There are chickens, birds, a wild humming, a throbbing as if the place is haunted by woodwinds. We play music and it wild through the bougainvillea, the palms, the morning rushes in around the leaves and satiny air as if all of us in the house were made of sound.
But my father and mother have never seen my house or my children and never will.
Once I passed 30 or so, I stopped waiting for those biological parents to show up, and then I stopped waiting for new parents to show up. You have to stop waiting for the other parents.
And when you finish. Finish… You have to be the other parents. For yourself. The boldest of us thinks we can take care of ourselves in adversity.
There is no end of the story. No beginning of the next. All stories become all other stories. One movement of music runs into another. One parent leaves and you rise to parent yourself. To understand that you don’t need a parent to dote or praise, to engineer you, to ignore or scold, to look down or look up.
In the framework of creative work, parenting is outside because it always is interpreted as approval or disapproval. Up or down. You want to walk in your own light. Unconcerned with the outside. The parent is the ultimate outside approval for which we wait.
We must not wait.