The Past

                               The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
                               Moves on: nor all they Piety nor Wit
                               Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
                               Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

                                                                      Omar Khayyam
                                                                      "The Rubiayat"

In telling the tale, I may have been less than respectful of my youthful self.  After all these years, it is still challenging not to view my younger self critically.  Putting up with obviously inappropriate behavior as long as I did can embarrass me still.  Today, as serendipity would have it, I came across these lines from "The Rubiayat."  To state it simply, the past is past.  It does evoke a desire to nurture a younger and more vulnerable me.

Just the other day, I went to the dentist.  The hygienist who worked on my teeth was a very petite and delicate woman.  She also exuded a frailty that left me feeling very protective and maternal toward her.  I spoke more quietly, more carefully, more thoughtfully so as not to damage this frail and beautiful bird of a woman.

As I lay with mouth wide open and my toes higher than my head, I had time to think about why I had this protective reaction toward an adult.  Maybe, I was being perceptive and picking up on her vulnerability.  It was also something more.  I was feeling frail and vulnerable that day.  Meeting her tapped into this vulnerability.  I felt protective of her because I felt protective of myself.

While ever cognizant of my limited intellect and perception, I am also very aware that I can credit my survival in the convent to my intelligence and perception.  Those were very crazy making years.  Of that I'm very sure.  A young, idealistic, naive me did what she had to do.  Thank God, I was clever enough to find ways to cope.  Those ways may not have always been very effective or mature but given the situation, I did the best I could.   I wish the same could be said for those in charge.  Their authority gave them a greater responsibility to care for those who had to answer to them.  They failed me miserably.  I can still feel angry about the injustice of it all.

I'd like to think it is possible to feel that anger, to protect a younger self, while trying to understand the whats and whys that would motivate others to act in ways that defy goodness.    I'll never know what was in their heads or hearts.  I only remember what was in mine through the hazy lens of time.  Still, I am the hero of my story.  The past serves me best when it conforms to this heroic telling.  Yet, even this heroic telling is just one story in a sea of many.  Objectivity and truth lie somewhere at the bottom of this sea.

This is not to say that I can not carry a part of the truth.  I can apply reason to discern what this story can give me today in the here and now.  If I can resurrect feelings of empathy for this young woman, this abused me while letting go of bitterness, I can free myself to act more wisely and with greater care for my present self.  Lately, I must admit being a bit hard on myself both in the present and in the past.  The vicissitudes of life were tossing me around while adrift on a stormy sea.  Weariness crawled inside me and took up residence in my soul.  Pieces of the past were wounding me anew.  I colluded with the wounding by being less than kind toward myself until a tiny stranger and an old friend, reminded me to take care.